Maybe a person's time would be as well spent raising food as

Host: The morning began with the low hum of machines and the smell of soil just after rain. Beyond the factory gates, the fields stretched open, wet with dew, streaked with the faint steam of early sunlight. A group of workers bent low over the ground, their hands dark with earth, their breath rising in soft clouds of effort and humility.

Jack stood at the edge of it all — a man out of place in a suit, his shoes sinking slightly into the mud. Jeeny knelt in the garden bed, her hair tied back, her hands deep in the soil. She looked up when she heard him, her eyes calm, reflective, like still water that had seen too much motion.

Host: The sun hung low, warm, and honest — the kind of light that reveals more than it hides. The air carried both the scent of growth and the faint echo of machines idling somewhere behind them.

Jeeny: “I thought you’d still be in the city, Jack. Making numbers grow.”

Jack: “They grow faster than anything else these days. Especially when you’re not watching them.”

Jeeny: “That’s the problem.”

Host: She smiled faintly and went back to her work, pressing a small seedling into the ground. The earth received it quietly, like an old friend.

Jack: “You left a good job for this? Dirt and back pain?”

Jeeny: “Maybe a person’s time would be as well spent raising food as raising money to buy food.”

Jack: “That’s Frank Clark, right? A man who never had to worry about the price of seeds, probably.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. A man who understood the price of distance. The more we earn, the further we get from what we live for.”

Host: The breeze stirred. A plastic bag floated across the field, caught for a moment in the fence, then drifted away — a symbol of something modern, misplaced.

Jack: “That’s romantic, Jeeny. But money isn’t evil. It’s survival. You think people in cities can just walk into a field and start planting?”

Jeeny: “They used to. Before convenience became their religion.”

Jack: “Convenience is progress.”

Jeeny: “Progress is supposed to serve us, not replace us.”

Host: The words settled between them, heavy as soil. Jack looked out over the field — lines of green barely breaking through the dark earth, each one a quiet defiance against his world of screens and ledgers.

Jack: “You think farming is going to fix the world? The world runs on economy, Jeeny. On trade. On movement. You stop that, everything collapses.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The world runs on nourishment. Food. Water. Breath. The rest is just negotiation.”

Host: Jack laughed, short and sharp, the sound almost bitter.

Jack: “You talk like money isn’t real. Try telling that to the man whose crops fail. Or the woman who can’t sell her produce because the market’s flooded. Food doesn’t guarantee dignity anymore — capital does.”

Jeeny: “Then we’ve failed at being human. When something as sacred as food becomes a luxury, we’ve built a world that’s starving by design.”

Host: Jeeny stood, brushing the dirt from her hands, her eyes fixed on Jack — not angry, not pleading, just steady.

Jeeny: “Tell me, Jack. What’s your money fed lately?”

Jack: “People. Jobs. Growth.”

Jeeny: “Numbers.”

Jack: “You make it sound soulless.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it?”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying with it the faint sound of a tractor in the distance, and something else — a church bell, perhaps, or the echo of a market stall being opened far away.

Jack: “You know, you always make me feel like I’m part of the problem.”

Jeeny: “We all are. But knowing it is the beginning of change.”

Jack: “And you think planting a few tomatoes is going to change the system?”

Jeeny: “It already has. Every seed in the ground is a protest against dependence. Every root that grows says, ‘I can feed myself.’”

Host: Jack’s eyes narrowed. There was something like nostalgia in them — or regret. The kind that hides beneath sarcasm.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my father used to take me to the countryside every summer. He’d say, ‘Look at that, Jack. Everything we need comes from there.’ I didn’t understand it then. I thought he was just romanticizing poverty.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think he was trying to save me from it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he was trying to save you from yourself.”

Host: The sunlight broke through the clouds, a sharp beam hitting the field, turning the tiny sprouts into glints of green fire.

Jack: “You think this life gives you freedom. But you depend on the weather, the soil, chance. You’re not in control.”

Jeeny: “Neither are you, Jack. You depend on markets, investors, trends. The difference is, when my system fails, I can still eat.”

Host: Her words struck with gentle precision — not cruel, but impossible to ignore. Jack ran his hand through his hair, a weary gesture that revealed more exhaustion than he meant to show.

Jack: “You always had this way of making simplicity sound like wisdom.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because it is. The world got too complicated chasing comfort.”

Jack: “And what’s your alternative? A return to the fields? Everyone growing carrots on their balconies?”

Jeeny: “Why not? If it teaches them what food really costs.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely now, leaving behind a bright smell of earth and hope. A small child ran past them, barefoot, holding a bunch of onions freshly pulled from the ground, laughing as if the whole world fit in his hands.

Jack watched him go, then spoke softly.

Jack: “You ever think we’re just pretending to have control? That maybe money, food — it’s all the same illusion of safety?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But the difference is, the earth never lies to you. You plant, you wait, you tend, and if you’re lucky, you harvest. There’s honesty in that. Money never tells you what it really costs.”

Jack: “And food does?”

Jeeny: “Every time. You can taste the time, the weather, the hands that grew it. You can’t taste a paycheck.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened, his voice quieter now.

Jack: “You really think we’d be better off if we all went back to the soil?”

Jeeny: “Not back. Forward — but wiser. A future where we remember the roots of what sustains us.”

Jack: “And if I can’t do that?”

Jeeny: “Then at least stop pretending the world is fed by numbers.”

Host: The field shimmered now under the rising sun. The city skyline loomed in the far distance — tall, sterile, silver against the green, like a reminder of the choice every generation faces.

Jack looked toward it, then back at Jeeny, then down at his hands. Slowly, he crouched beside her and touched the soil.

Jack: “It’s warmer than I expected.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it’s alive.”

Host: For the first time, Jack smiled — small, tired, but real.

Jack: “Maybe a person’s time would be as well spent raising food as raising money to buy food.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the first honest thing you’ve said all morning.”

Host: The sun rose higher. Birds began to call. The factory behind them stood silent — its machines asleep, its purpose uncertain. But out in the field, something pure had begun again: the slow, stubborn act of creation.

Jack stood beside Jeeny now, hands dirty, suit forgotten, both of them watching the green shoots push through the earth.

Host: In that quiet, fertile moment, they understood — the world doesn’t need more wealth. It needs more growers. More hands willing to touch what feeds them.

And as the light spilled across the fields, turning the soil to gold, it felt — just for a heartbeat — as though they were both, finally, planting something that might last.