If we do not permit the earth to produce beauty and joy, it will

Host: The sky was a bruise — deep purple shading into gold, the horizon trembling under the weight of a coming storm. The earth stretched wide and silent, a once-green field now cracked, brittle, thirsty for rain.

The wind moved through the dead grass with a sound like whispering ghosts. A solitary farmhouse stood in the distance, its roof sagging, its windows blind with dust.

Jack and Jeeny walked along the fenceline, the evening light sliding over their faces — his tired, her hopeful, both carrying the weight of a world that had forgotten how to listen.

Between them, a line from an old book hung in the air, heavy as prophecy:
“If we do not permit the earth to produce beauty and joy, it will in the end not produce food, either.” — Joseph Wood Krutch.

Jack: “Poetic, sure. But the earth doesn’t care about beauty. It only cares about balance. You take, it gives. You take too much, it stops giving.”

Jeeny: “That’s what he meant, Jack. Beauty is balance. Joy is part of the cycle. When we stop seeing the earth as sacred, we stop feeding it the one thing it truly needs — reverence.”

Host: The wind rose, carrying the faint smell of dust and smoke, the taste of a harvest that never came. Jack paused, his boots crunching against the dry soil. He looked down, kicked at a withered stem.

Jack: “You sound like a priest. Reverence doesn’t grow crops.”

Jeeny: “No, but greed kills them. We’ve mechanized everything — soil, seed, even the seasons. We’ve forgotten that farming was once an act of faith.”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t fill silos. Technology does.”

Jeeny: “And yet here we are — surrounded by technology, and the fields are empty.”

Host: A crow screamed overhead, a black streak against the orange sky, its cry sharp as a warning. Jack watched it disappear, then sighed, his face hard, his eyes tired.

Jack: “You think planting flowers will fix that?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not flowers. But maybe remembering why we plant anything at all. We used to sow with gratitude, not just efficiency. We used to sing to the soil.”

Jack: “Songs don’t stop droughts, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. But arrogance starts them.”

Host: The air shifted — the first drops of rain beginning to fall, softly, hesitantly, like a child knocking on a locked door. Jeeny lifted her face, eyes closed, lips parting in quiet reverence.

Jeeny: “Do you hear that, Jack? That’s grace. Even now, it still tries.”

Jack: “You talk about the earth like it’s alive.”

Jeeny: “It is alive. We just stopped treating it like it matters.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing dirt.”

Jeeny: “You’re sterilizing wonder.”

Host: The rain deepened, darkening the earth, drawing out scent — the raw perfume of life returning. Jack watched the drops sink into the cracks, vanishing, as if the land were drinking its own tears.

Jack: “So what? You want us to worship the dirt? Write poems to cornfields?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Why not? Every meal begins in a miracle. But we treat it like manufacturing. That’s why the land’s dying — not from lack of water, but from lack of wonder.”

Host: A flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating her face — wet, defiant, alive. Jack’s expression softened, the sarcasm slipping, replaced by something quieter: memory.

Jack: “My father used to say grace before every meal. Even when the crops failed, he’d still thank the soil. I thought it was superstition.”

Jeeny: “It wasn’t. It was a relationship.”

Jack: “And what did it get him? Bankruptcy. A tombstone on a field that won’t grow weeds.”

Jeeny: “It got him meaning. And maybe meaning is the one thing the earth still understands.”

Host: The rain grew stronger, beating against the dust until it began to darken, soften, breathe again. The smell of wet soil rose, thick and sweet, filling the air like an old hymn returning after silence.

Jeeny knelt, her hand pressing into the mud, feeling the pulse of it. Jack watched, his brow furrowing, a shadow of longing passing through his eyes.

Jeeny: “It’s still here, Jack. Beneath everything we’ve done to it, it still wants to live.”

Jack: “And if it stops?”

Jeeny: “Then so do we.”

Host: The wind shifted, the storm clouds parting, the moon emerging, pale and watchful. The field, moments ago a wasteland, now gleamed in the rainlight — still wounded, but no longer silent.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? I used to think beauty was luxury — something we add to life when we can afford it. But maybe it’s the foundation.”

Jeeny: “It is. Beauty is how the earth breathes. Joy is how it regenerates.”

Jack: “And food?”

Jeeny: “Food is its love made visible.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick, sacred. Jack looked down at his hands, covered in wet soil, the mud cold but alive. For the first time in years, he didn’t wipe them clean. He just stared, as though seeing his own heartbeat there.

Jack: “Maybe we’ve been starving in more ways than one.”

Jeeny: “Yes. We’ve been hungry for awe.”

Host: A breeze swept through, lifting the rain’s scent into the night. The crickets began to sing, the land humming softly as if remembering itself.

Jeeny stood, looking toward the horizon, where the storm had left behind a thin line of light.

Jeeny: “If we want the earth to feed us again, Jack, we have to feed it beauty.”

Jack: “And joy.”

Jeeny: “And humility.”

Host: The rain slowed, becoming a mist, glowing in the moonlight like the breath of the earth itself.

Jack and Jeeny stood together, hands muddy, faces wet, watching the first new shoots push through the softened ground — small, fragile, defiant.

And as the night deepened, the earth exhaled, alive again, forgiven — for in its beauty, it had remembered how to feed.