Through food, remember nature in this concrete jungle

As a nursing major, I’m taught to see dirt as a source of infectious disease–something to be sterilized out of wounds, washed out of bedding, or scrubbed out of hands.  That said, I’m also a firm believer in ending any day that I can with grass stains on my jeans, calluses on my hands, and a little bit of the earth under my fingernails.

As a student, I’m also aware that silence can seem unproductive or boring. I love music and good conversation, and I appreciate that many of our social interactions at this point in our lives involve quite a bit of noise and excitement, often a suitable expression of the vigor and vehemence with which we as young adults interact with our world. However, I feel that in our bustling lives we often miss out on precious lessons that silence and introspection can teach us.

I come from Walla Walla, near the Cascade Mountains in Washington State, and every time I find myself back at Georgetown, I experience an abruptly disorienting culture shock. In the wake of a couple of minor crises after my first year in D.C., it took a while to get used to living in a city and appreciating all that urbanity has to offer. Nowhere else do so many parts of the world come together and interact with one another with synergy and cooperation quite like in big cities. After being in the city for over two years, I’m extremely appreciative of the opportunities that Georgetown and the D.C. community provide me. But now that I have opened my mind to let the city teach me, I’m ready to teach D.C. a thing or two myself.

The feats of civilization and modern technology continue to astound me, but far too often we let buildings, computers, and concrete confine and define us. Our sustenance continues come from the earth, but we have effectively distanced ourselves from its life-giving origins. We live cleaned, preened, and comfortable in our temperature-controlled city, and yet we continue (whether we realize it or not) to derive our subsistence from the very thing we are so efficiently cutting out.

Yet with the convenience and coziness that our city provides, our food is harvested from the supermarket, in all of its individually packaged glory. In this sterilized smorgasbord we forget that everything sitting on those clean shelves was once plant or animal. Every neatly placed item, no matter how many chemicals and preservatives have since been added to it, was once picked or watered or fed by a human hand.

I am not suggesting that we tear down Regents and replace it with a pasture full of cows, pigs, and vegetables to feed ourselves. I am neither ignorant nor idealistic enough to assume that would ever happen. But rather, despite our best efforts to distance ourselves from its source, the inconveniently dirty and unpredictable earth is still our source of life and energy.

Sit outside on a sunny day and don’t worry about getting your butt dirty. Go for a run in Dumbarton Oaks Park and lie in the grass and listen to the bugs and the birds.  Work or play outside and sweat—which is the way we used to cool our bodies before God gave us air conditioning. Every once in a while, remove some of the barriers we have set up and live just a little more connected to the earth that continues to nourish us.

I admire the efforts of many Georgetown students at sustainability and environmental awareness; recycling, purchasing organic or fair-trade food, and conserving energy are all amazing ways that I see so many students giving back to the world and teaching one another to take care of the origin of our resources.

The reconnection with nature that I am suggesting must accompany all of these practical efforts. Even in the city, we must seek out and appreciate nature. We must take a moment to live in it and respect it. Start a garden when you graduate, and find a local farmer so you can buy your meat from chickens and cows you’ve seen grazing in an open field. But for now, get dirty every once in a while and listen to the beautiful sounds of silence.