Now I ask you, lady, not as though I were writing you a new commandment, but one which we have had from the beginning, that we love one another.
2 John 1:6
“Philosophy,” quoth Gottlieb, “is like pornography. You deal with lots of unrealistic fantasy situations.”
Silence in the class. Pens scratch.
“That was a joke.” Slightly aggrieved.
“You know that’s not real don’t you? Nobody has that much fun.”
Next up: a quote.
In the great wall of global warming, I’ve got my own little brick with my name on it.
Genuine Gottlieb again. Next, a question, but you are required to suspend your disbelief while considering it. So:
If you were the last person on earth, you were going to die in three hours, and you had before you a button that if you pressed it would destroy all life on the planet, would you press the button?
Why or why not? Would you try to stop somebody else from pressing the button? Would you kill somebody else to stop them from pressing the button?
Finally, the miracle. Those of you who disbelieve this type of thing will call it sheer lucky chance, but I know better. The story:
I spent an hour with the tree at 23 Trowbridge Road today, writing in my plant journal thoughts about philosophy, God, the environment, and the weather. I have done this a few times now, having spent perhaps five hours total with the tree, and am starting to fill the little journal up with words and photos I take each time I go. You can see some of them here. As a result, I have become rather attached to the journal.
After my tree time, I went to Price Chopper. There I put my journal in a red hand-basket along with lettuce, parmesan cheese, turkey breast, and bread. I bought the food and left. The walk home took the usual time and I thought of nothing particularly. Certainly not that I only had one thing in my hand, and that was the Price Chopper bag.
I only realized my loss when I went to print out the photos to paste in at the entry I made today. I knew instantly I had left the book in the bottom of the red basket, and I immediately called Price Chopper. No word. Hopeless but needing to act, I waffled and eventually decided to take up the offer of a ride back to Price Chopper. I felt very depressed because I had put so much time into the book: not only writing and thinking, but also taking photos, printing them out, pasting them in. I intend to keep it for quite some time, my first environmental notes.
We walked into the store. I glanced in a desultory manner at the two piles of red baskets next to the door. There, in the top basket of the right-hand pile, sat my journal. We spent less than 30 seconds in Price Chopper rescuing my work. Now tell me that is not a miracle.
So God looks out for us, even when we least expect it. That sounds trite, but my relief at recovering the book makes up for that.
Now you can answer the question: Would you press the button? Why or why not?