A life that allows us to reunite with mother earth and offer her products to Krishna favors our spiritual growth.
Srila Prabhupada writes, “Whatever is taken from the earth—either from the mines, from the surface of the globe, or from the atmosphere—should always be considered the property of the Supreme Personality of Godhead and should be used for Yajna, Lord Vishnu. As soon as the process of yajna [sacrifice] is stopped, the earth will withhold all productions—vegetables, trees, plants, fruits, flowers, other agricultural products, and minerals. As confirmed in Bhagavad-gita, the process of yajna was instituted from the beginning of creation. By the regular performance of yajna, the equal distribution of wealth, and the restriction of sense gratification, the entire world will be made peaceful and prosperous. (Srimad-Bhagavatam 4.18.13, Purport)
The earth planet, along with its atmosphere, comprises all five of Krishna’s material energies, the primary elements: earth, water, fire, air, and ether (space). It is a priceless asset given to us by Krishna.
Mother earth is to be honored as a display of God’s energies, and as Krishna is beautiful, so the earth is also inherently beautiful.
For devotees living on farm communities established under the guidance of Srila Prabhupada, our task and pleasure is to serve the earth so that she is kept not only beautiful but also healthy, protected, and productive. Toward this end, in Saranagati Village, British Columbia—where my family and I live—a good number of us have gardens. When I established mine I was obliged to clear and level the land, thus giving our small parcel a more tamed beauty (as opposed to a wild beauty), and I fenced it in to protect it. My garden, although modest, keeps me grounded, in touch with the earth, and through empathy with its goings-on, regularly reminded of my vulnerability. It also keeps me and my family in the ecological loop: In our home, nothing organic is thrown in the trash—it all goes into our compost pile, along with manure, then into the garden, where we’re rewarded with dark, crumbly, rich soil.
An added and unexpected benefit to this garden is the untold gratification we get from simply looking out our living room and dining room windows to see our fruit trees—in spring, so laden with white flowers they look snowed-on—and our lush vegetables. There is a certain dignity, a certain ineffable rightness to this view and to the roots we have set down in this remote corner of the earth.
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