When we recognise the virtues, the talent, the beauty of Mother

Host: The morning was drenched in gold. The sunlight filtered through the mist that clung to the valley, making the air shimmer as if the world itself were breathing. The river nearby murmured softly, winding between rocks and reeds, carrying the faint song of distant birds.

Jack stood on a hill, his hands in his coat pockets, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His grey eyes scanned the horizon, not with awe, but with the distant indifference of someone who’d seen too much to be moved easily.

Jeeny knelt by a patch of wildflowers, her fingers brushing their delicate petals as if in prayer. The wind lifted her hair, dark strands glinting in the light, and her face glowed with quiet reverence.

Host: It was the kind of morning that made even silence seem sacred. And yet, between them — two souls, one grounded in logic, the other lifted by feeling — there was tension, subtle but alive.

Jeeny: “Thich Nhat Hanh once said, ‘When we recognise the virtues, the talent, the beauty of Mother Earth, something is born in us — some kind of connection. Love is born.’”

Host: She said it softly, her voice almost lost to the whispering wind, but Jack heard every word. He didn’t turn to look at her.

Jack: “Love is born,” he repeated flatly. “Sounds poetic. But love doesn’t feed anyone, Jeeny. It doesn’t stop the glaciers from melting.”

Jeeny: “That’s where you’re wrong. Love changes everything. The moment you love something, you protect it. That’s what he meant.”

Jack: “Tell that to the oil companies. Or the governments that keep signing climate pledges and breaking them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they don’t love the Earth enough to listen to her.”

Host: A pause settled between them, heavy as the morning mist. Jack’s breath clouded in the cold air.

Jack: “You talk about the Earth like she’s a person.”

Jeeny: “She is. She feeds us, shelters us, heals us — and we treat her like a resource.”

Jack: “Because she is a resource. That’s the truth, Jeeny. People survive on what they take. Always have.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why we’re dying inside, Jack. Because we’ve forgotten how to give back.”

Host: Her eyes glistened — not with tears, but with the sharp clarity of conviction. Jack laughed, low and bitter.

Jack: “You think love can save the planet? People don’t care enough to recycle, and you expect them to be spiritually reborn?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because they won’t change for statistics. They’ll only change for love.”

Jack: “Love’s not a strategy. It’s a luxury. Try telling a factory worker who’s just lost his job that he should ‘connect with the Earth.’ He’ll connect his fist to your face.”

Jeeny: “No one said it’s easy. But without that connection, what’s left of us? Machines? Consumers?”

Jack: “Survivors.”

Jeeny: “No — prisoners.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying the smell of wet soil and pine. The leaves rustled like a thousand whispers. Jeeny stood, brushing the dirt from her hands, her gaze fixed on the horizon.

Jeeny: “You know, I read about a forest in Japan — the Aokigahara. People go there to die because they feel the world has no place for them. Isn’t it strange that the same Earth that gives us life also becomes the last place we seek peace? Maybe if we learned to love her again, people wouldn’t need to disappear into her.”

Host: Jack’s expression softened, just slightly — like a crack appearing in stone. He exhaled smoke into the air, watching it vanish.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. Love the Earth, save the world.”

Jeeny: “It is simple. We just complicate it with greed.”

Jack: “Greed’s human nature.”

Jeeny: “No. Fear is. Greed is what fear becomes when it’s desperate.”

Host: Her words sank deep, slow as roots. Jack turned to look at her then — really look. She stood with her face to the wind, her eyes closed, the faintest smile of serenity on her lips.

Jack: “You always sound like you’re quoting some old monk in a cave.”

Jeeny: “Thich Nhat Hanh lived in exile for decades, Jack. He saw war, destruction, suffering — and still, he chose to speak of love. Maybe he understood something we’ve forgotten.”

Jack: “You’re saying he saw beauty in chaos.”

Jeeny: “No. He saw beauty despite chaos. That’s what makes love real.”

Host: A bird soared overhead, cutting a bright path through the sky. Jack watched it in silence, his eyes following its flight until it vanished into the trees.

Jack: “You ever wonder if the Earth even notices us? We talk about ‘Mother Nature’ like she’s fragile, but she’s survived everything — ice ages, meteors, extinction. Maybe we’re just another noise she’ll eventually silence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But if we’re noise, we can still choose the song we sing.”

Jack: “And you think that song is love.”

Jeeny: “What else could it be?”

Host: The sunlight grew stronger now, spilling over the hillside like liquid fire. The mist began to lift, revealing a stretch of green valley below — vast, alive, breathing.

Jack: “You talk like the Earth needs us to love her.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We need to love her — or we stop being human.”

Jack: “You mean moral.”

Jeeny: “No. Human. The part of us that feels wonder, awe, gratitude — that’s what connects us to life. Without that, we’re just clever animals burning our own home.”

Host: Jack’s eyes fell to the ground, to the crushed cigarette butt half-buried in the grass. He picked it up, turned it over in his fingers, then tucked it into his pocket. A small act. A quiet surrender.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we’ve been acting like landlords instead of children.”

Jeeny: “And she’s been patient — too patient.”

Jack: “So what now? You expect everyone to walk barefoot through forests and whisper apologies to trees?”

Jeeny: “No. Just to notice. To see her beauty again. That’s where love begins.”

Host: Her voice softened, and something in Jack’s chest shifted — not guilt, not quite, but remembrance. A memory of summers barefoot by rivers, of soil between fingers, of a boy who once thought the world was infinite.

Jack: “You know, I used to sit under an oak tree near my grandfather’s farm. I’d talk to it like it could hear me. Thought it was stupid later. Maybe I was just smart too soon.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You were still listening then.”

Host: The river sang louder now, as if responding. The light turned warm, wrapping them both in gold. The world felt vast, yet intimately near — like a heart beating underfoot.

Jack: “So you think recognizing her beauty brings love.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Love that makes us humble. Love that makes us act.”

Jack: “And what if it’s too late?”

Jeeny: “Then at least we’ll die remembering we were once part of something beautiful.”

Host: The wind swept across the hilltop, carrying away the last of the mist. For the first time that morning, Jack smiled — small, fragile, but true.

Jack: “You win, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about winning, Jack. It’s about waking.”

Host: The sun rose higher. The earth beneath their feet glowed with dew, alive, pulsing with quiet power. Two figures stood side by side — a skeptic and a believer — both suddenly aware that they were breathing the same sacred air.

Jeeny bent down, picked up a fallen leaf, and placed it gently in Jack’s hand.

Jeeny: “She’s still speaking, you know. You just have to listen.”

Host: He held the leaf, its veins tracing a pattern like the lines of a palm, ancient and deliberate. His eyes softened as he looked at it — not as an object, but as something living.

Jack: “Maybe love really is born when you recognize beauty.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Love is recognition.”

Host: And as the light poured over them, the world seemed to breathe — a single, boundless inhale of connection. The river, the sky, the wind, the two hearts standing in stillness — all one, for a fleeting, eternal moment.

And in that moment, something wordless indeed was born.