Snow White didn’t die because of the poisened apple given to her by the nasty witch. She just went into a very deep sleep. A sleep from which she could not wake, unless found & kissed by the handsome prince.
I wonder who will be our handsome prince?
Last night I almost died.
It wasn’t the first time.
And, just like snow white, I did not go looking for this near death experience.
I’m being killed by what should be sustaining me.
It sounds melodramatic.
Chances are you’re being killed as well.
There is something wrong with our food.
My body objects vehemantly.
Yours might be quietly taking the punch, absorbing the poisons, but we can absorb only so much.
Ask Birke Baehr, he’s an 11-year-old. He knows whats-up. And his closing line sums it up pretty well: ‘we can either pay the farmer or pay the docter!’
Or perhaps the undertaker?
I remember when I was five years old I became terribly ill. Eventually the doctors said it was the preservatives in processed meat, causing my illness.
Hormones to increase the ammount of milk or meat produced by a single animal.
If only we could find farmers who were brave enough to throw cuation to the wind & give-up on greed.
I recovered from my toddler-ailments. Seldom eating viennas or polony.
In 2001 at the age of thirty my body informed me it wasn’t only processed meats which was killing me. It was food. Most of what we bought off the shelf, thinking it would feed us.
I wrote about it in People Talk Magazine, connecting this phenomenon to other areas in our life in which we are being lied to.
We are being lied to.
Greedy people who want to turn the highest possible profit, are feeding us poison, slowly and intentionaly killing us, without thinking about it once.
We source our vegetables through ‘Organic Footprints’ a forward thinking businessman who realized ‘organic food’ is difficult to come by & started sourcing organic vegetables from the area & delivering to your home.
We buy our dairy products from Bushy Park Farm Dairy. They don’t pump their cows full of hormones so that they may produce more milk per cow. And they don’t inject them with antibiotics, so that they may be unnaturally healthy. They let their cows graze on organic fields and produce rBST-free milk, yoghurt, ice-cream and cream.
Zuko bakes our bread. With stone-ground flour. Flour not spraid with 1000 poisons to kill any and every bug which might get into it in the industrial baking process.
We make our own pasta. Fresh, with organic eggs from chickens which did not eat genetically modified feed.
We try to get organic meat.
But somehow, someone must be lying to us.
The poison still got me.
Last night my body told me so.
It was just before one in the morning. I woke in extreme discomfort. On every inch of my skin itchy yucky boils popped up. Every inch.
That was what I could see.
My chest felt tight with numbing pain. I was short of breath. This was the worst objection yet. The boils must have popped up on the surface of my organs as well. Inside. Where no one can see. ‘Don’t let my die. Not this way’, I whispered my silent prayer.
Zuko gave me strong anti-allergens. We smeared pale pink camomile lotion on my legs and arms and stomach and back and shoulders and feet and buttocks.
I breathed slowly.
I breathed deep.
My bowels moved.
More aware of my perishability than I’ve been in a long long time.
More aware of the very thing line between life and death.
‘I want to see my children become adults.’
‘I want to see them ‘be’. More. Whole.’
Three hours later the boils started fading.
At nine this morning I awoke.
My mouth dry.
A bitter taste.
My hands still red.
My joints painful.
I live to see another day.
But how will I live.
How will I know the apple I bite, the succulent steak I savour, the slice of cheese I eat – how will I know this is not the death of me?
How have we come to this place?
This scary place in which the witch extends her hand, a beautiful apple her gift, and we take it willingly and kill ourselves?
And our children?
I wonder about my next meal.
I wonder how I’ll be able to nourish my children.
I work hard.
I earn the money I need to take care of them.
To clothe them.
To feed them.
But this is not enough anymore.
Not in this world.
Not in this place we’ve created.
‘May this food be nourishing,’ I pray. ‘We’ve tried to find unpoisened, unmodified, hormone-free, antiobiotic-free, nourishing food. Our efforts are not enough. May this food actually feed us.’
This is now my prayer as we sit down to eat.
For, if not for a miracle, if not for Devine intervention, we will surely die.
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