toomanyzucchini

The Zucchini Obeys

The zucchini exhales. Spores fume at the setting moon in lobes of equal mass. Seed sifts down.

The zucchini endures. Sun with rain as apportioned, hoarding energy in the color green.

The zucchini betrays. Full flower falls, withers with weeds.

The zucchini obeys. No introspection. Only regeneration.

The New Religion

Terrorism fueled by militant Islamic fundamentalism is met in my corner of the world by a detached coolness that doesn't seem altogether fitting. The fanaticism of our supposed enemies, however misguided, has me plumbing my deep water for a similar current. In the face of such absolute devotion I feel ill-equipped to fire back with my own silver bullets. My religion - benevolent, occasional - offers no response, aside from the questionable value of prayers offered for the souls of the killers. I am, in essence, naked. An easy target.

In search of a spiritual coat of armor, I've been wading through a book by a precocious Harvard grad named Jed Purdy. "Being America: Liberty, Commerce and Violence in an American World" is alternately panned and praised by Mr. Purdy's fellow social critics for its overreaching, often condescending examination of American power and prestige in a world that is at once drawn to and repelled by us. Amid the flotsam I've latched on to a recurring theme that has kept me afloat in the book and elsewhere: Americans have a near-religious belief in the inherent value of personal freedom that makes us dogged universalists. As such, we can't understand why everyone doesn't choose the good life we've been so graciously handed. Although American interests are suspect in many corners of the world, it's Purdy's belief that the ideals on which our nation was founded likely offer the last, best hope for a future in which freedom is a value recognized around the world. This, more than the cross and Bible, is my comfort. It's also the faith that puts me on level ground (if not a tad higher) with the facists who have hijacked their religion.

So it was with reverence and awe that I stood before the original Declaration of Independence last week in the National Archives. My nose pressed to the glass, I could barely make out the famously loopy script that set the world on a new path. My trip to D.C., ostensibly to chaperone five high school juniors who won an essay contest sponsored by my company, took on the significance of a pilgrimmage. Our national identity, muted expressions of which abound in everyday life, is writ large in Washington in marble and granite. For the faithful, there is weighty affirmation of our shared ideals at every corner. If you can suffer the throngs of your fellow countrymen, you can find strength in the place. I brought it back with me, in case I ever need it.