I feel a distaste for hunting, first because of a kind of

Host: The forest was old — older than the town that slept beyond its edge, older than the road that had cut its way through its heart. It breathed in mist, in silence, in the soft music of water dripping from pine needles. A thousand unseen lives stirred beneath the canopy, moving in their own quiet rhythm — a living cathedral without stone or sermon.

At the edge of a clearing, a campfire burned low, its flames whispering orange against the cold blue dark. Jack sat beside it, the rifle laid across his knees, its metal gleaming in the half-light. Across from him, Jeeny crouched near the fire, her hands outstretched to the warmth, her eyes alive with reflection — half sorrow, half wonder.

The world smelled of smoke, earth, and the faint sweetness of wet leaves. The forest was breathing, and they were intruders inside its lungs.

Jeeny: (softly) “Pierre Teilhard de Chardin once said, ‘I feel a distaste for hunting, first because of a kind of Buddhist respect for the unity and sacredness of all life, and also because the pursuit of a hare or chamois strikes me as a kind of “escape of energy,” that is, the expenditure of our effort in an illusory end, one devoid of profit.’”

Jack: (half-smiling, poking the fire with a stick) “Ah, the philosopher-priest. Leave it to him to find metaphysics in a hare.”

Jeeny: “It’s not the hare he’s questioning. It’s the hunger that hunts when it doesn’t need to.”

Jack: “You say that as if it’s wrong to act on instinct.”

Jeeny: “No. I say it’s dangerous when instinct forgets reverence.”

Host: The firelight flickered, throwing shadows across Jack’s face — carving him in sharp angles, half beast, half believer. Beyond the clearing, a lone owl called out, the sound like a question asked to the void.

Jack: “You think he’d judge me for being out here?”

Jeeny: “Not judge. Just ask what you’re chasing — the hare, or yourself.”

Jack: “Sometimes it’s the same thing.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what he meant — the illusion of pursuit. You can spend a lifetime chasing movement and call it purpose.”

Jack: (looking into the trees) “You sound like you’ve given up on the chase altogether.”

Jeeny: “Not at all. I just think the chase should lead us closer to meaning, not further away from it.”

Host: The fire cracked, sending a small spray of embers into the air. They rose for a moment — tiny red stars — before vanishing into the dark. Jack watched them go, his expression unreadable, caught between guilt and defiance.

Jack: “Teilhard was a mystic. He could afford to see everything as sacred. But what about those of us who live in the world that bleeds? The one where survival means taking something else’s breath?”

Jeeny: “He lived in that world too, Jack. He saw death as part of life — but he wanted us to see that killing without necessity was a wound to the soul, not just to the world.”

Jack: “You think I don’t know that?”

Jeeny: “I think you’ve learned to bury it. To turn reverence into routine.”

Host: A long silence fell between them. The forest listened. The wind shifted — soft, deliberate, carrying with it the faint rustle of something unseen moving through the underbrush.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, the first time I killed a deer, I couldn’t eat it. I thought I’d feel power. All I felt was… silence. Not peace — just silence. Like the forest was holding its breath, waiting to see if I’d understand what I’d done.”

Jeeny: “And did you?”

Jack: “Not then. But I think Teilhard would say that was the beginning of it — that moment of distaste.”

Jeeny: “Because distaste isn’t disgust. It’s recognition. The soul pulling away from something it knows is beneath its design.”

Jack: “You make it sound like conscience is evolution.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe compassion is the next stage — the one we keep resisting.”

Host: The fire dimmed, its light softening into amber. The night had thickened, and the trees stood like tall silhouettes — silent witnesses to a confession as old as the hunt itself.

Jack: “He talked about energy — that the chase wastes it on illusion. But isn’t the illusion part of what keeps us alive? The need to act, to conquer, to test the edge?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But energy without purpose is just motion. Teilhard was asking us to evolve from instinct into intention.”

Jack: “And if intention kills the fire that keeps us moving?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we learn to burn differently — quieter, cleaner, without turning everything we touch to ash.”

Host: Jack’s fingers brushed the barrel of the rifle absently, the metal cold even near the fire. Jeeny’s gaze followed the gesture — not judgmental, but heavy with empathy, like someone watching a friend cradle a wound instead of a weapon.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think reverence is just fear dressed in poetry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. But fear can be holy if it keeps you from destroying what you can’t replace.”

Jack: “And what if what I can’t replace is myself?”

Jeeny: “Then you learn that preservation isn’t the same as survival.”

Jack: “You talk like you’ve outgrown the human appetite.”

Jeeny: “No. I just learned to question what it’s really hungry for.”

Host: The wind swept through the clearing again, making the fire dance. For a brief moment, the flames illuminated the woods — the trunks, the undergrowth, the faint outline of an animal moving somewhere far off, alive, unbothered, free.

Jack: “Teilhard believed everything was sacred — that matter itself was divine. That’s hard to hold onto when you’re standing in the mud with blood on your hands.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly when it matters most. The divine isn’t a reward, Jack — it’s a responsibility. Reverence isn’t about purity. It’s about awareness. Knowing that even when we take, we owe.”

Jack: “Owe what?”

Jeeny: “Respect. Restraint. Gratitude. Maybe even apology.”

Host: Jack fell silent. He looked into the fire, into the dancing shapes that flickered like memories — animals, faces, regrets. Jeeny stood slowly, brushing ash from her hands. Her voice softened, low and steady, carrying the cadence of something older than speech.

Jeeny: “Teilhard’s distaste wasn’t for the hunt itself — it was for forgetting what the hunt means. We chase, we kill, we feed, and we forget the cost. That’s what he called illusion — the blindness of power.”

Jack: “And the cure?”

Jeeny: “To remember that life, every form of it, is part of one unbroken fabric — and that tearing it always tears us too.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “You really think reverence could change the world?”

Jeeny: “It already does. Quietly. Every time someone chooses awe over appetite.”

Host: The fire burned lower now, its glow fading into embers. The forest pressed closer, its stillness deepening until even the wind seemed to kneel.

Jack reached for the rifle, hesitated — then laid it gently aside. The act was small, almost invisible, but it echoed louder than any shot.

Jack: “Maybe the illusion wasn’t in the chase. Maybe it was thinking victory meant anything at all.”

Jeeny: “Now you’re starting to understand him.”

Jack: “Understanding doesn’t undo the damage.”

Jeeny: “No. But it keeps you from repeating it.”

Host: The first light of dawn began to touch the treetops, soft and gold, turning the mist into silk. Jeeny turned toward the sunrise, her expression peaceful, almost prayerful. Jack watched her — the rifle forgotten, the silence finally pure.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Teilhard saw the world as divine matter — every stone, every creature, every heartbeat connected. To harm one is to bruise the whole. But to respect it…” (she paused, looking toward the horizon) “…to respect it is to participate in creation itself.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “So reverence is the real evolution.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The moment we stop hunting what we can’t eat, and start protecting what we can’t live without.”

Host: The sun rose higher, melting the mist into light. The forest awakened — birds calling, branches sighing, life returning to motion. And there, in the clearing, two figures stood — small, imperfect, human — yet, for a fleeting moment, part of something whole.

As the scene faded, Jeeny’s voice lingered, soft as prayer, clear as conscience:

“Respect isn’t abstaining from the hunt. It’s remembering that every living thing, even the smallest, was never ours to claim — only ours to honor.”

Host: And the light broke fully then — warm, unjudging — spilling through the trees like forgiveness.