Chronicle of Consciousness, Cleansing of Karma, the New Life, the Farms ot Love

 

Sometimes I feel that the whole world is a single breathing body, an immense skin vibrating between silence and calling. The human realm, the animal realm, the plant realm — three forms of consciousness, three breaths interwoven in one unified pulse. If you listen deeply, you can hear how the sap of the trees moves in rhythm with our blood, how the breath of animals enters us like a prayer. We are not separate, we never have been. We have only forgotten how to listen.

And when illness appears — in the body, in nature, in society — it does not come as an enemy, but as a signal to awaken. Illness is not a mistake, but a letter from the center to the periphery. Cleansing always begins from the inside out, just as confession begins in the silence before words. The symptom is the crying skin of the world, begging us to stop, to see, to become aware. And when we — with all our intellectual arrogance — try to suppress the symptom, we silence the mouth of Truth itself.

I think of this when I see us burning forests to place solar panels upon their ashes. We say we are saving the planet, but what we are really doing is crucifying it again — this time with a clear conscience. What is this, if not a deep rupture between idea and heart? What is this, if not neurosis — that psychoanalytic conflict between the Superego of “ecological thought” and the Id of consumerist desire? We choose to be good in the name of Evil, simply because we have forgotten how to be sincere.

Instead of healing the root, we cut the branch and place a bandage on the trunk. I see fertile lands covered with glass and metal, fields turning into silent mirrors that no longer give birth, but only reflect. And in that reflection, I see our own image — sterile, ideological, self-absorbed. And yet, somewhere deep within, there is the pain of a soul that has lost its organic essence.

On the other side — the animals, our brothers, who silently carry our shadow. In the name of “healthcare” we slaughter them, in the name of “regulations,” in the name of “protection.” How often our fears disguise themselves in scientific logic so they can kill in peace? We say we are protecting humanity, yet we are destroying its reflections. Animals are not the others — they are our own psychic contents made visible, our instincts, our myths, our lost innocence.

When we kill the healthy animal in the name of hygiene, we kill the healthy impulse within ourselves. This is karma — not as punishment, but as a mirror — the psychoanalytic repetition in which the same scene plays out until we become aware of the script. We repress the symptom — meat-eating, violence, fear — but every repression returns, transformed, deeper, darker. We try to cleanse the miasma of the past by creating a new one — more intelligent, more technological, but just as destructive.

In every laboratory where artificial meat grows, I hear a muffled echo from the collective unconscious: the desire to transcend matter without bowing before it. To be gods, but without love. The cultivation of stem cells in bioreactors is alchemy without a soul, a sacred act without prayer. There is something profoundly perverse in it — the attempt to recreate life after we have killed its source. It is the new version of an old myth — creation without love. And the result will be the same: disease, withdrawal of life force, disintegration from within.

Sometimes I think that the universe has its own psychoanalyst — time. It observes, listens, does not interrupt. And when we return again and again to the same patterns of destruction, it merely encourages us through silence. It gives us the opportunity to look within. For everything we kill outside has already been killed inside us. The forests we burn are our burned-out neurons; the animals we slaughter are our suffocated instincts; the earth we concrete over is the womb of the unconscious that we have abandoned.

Man is an organ of the Earth, as the liver is an organ of the body. When an organ is ill, the whole body tries to save it, even at the cost of other processes. This is the biological metaphor of spiritual truth: everything is connected, everything responds to everything else. Therefore, the purification of the world must begin from the center — from awareness, from the heart cell of humanity. We cannot heal one organ by destroying another. We cannot heal through violence, nor save through fear.

I think of love — not sentimental love, but love as supreme intelligence, as cosmic order. Love that understands that every level of life has its own function, its own frequency, and that harmony is not achieved through exclusion, but through inclusion. If karma is not cleansed with love, it is not purification, but covering up. The illness will return because we have not listened to it — we have silenced it.

Sometimes I imagine the world as a vast organism striving to restore its balance. Humanity’s inflammation is part of this process. Anger, madness, hybrid foods, sterile utopias — all are symptoms of cleansing, of the movement from the center toward the periphery. When pathology surfaces, it is not the end but a chance for renewal. Perhaps the pain we now experience as a civilization is a healing crisis.

And yet, fear remains — the fear that we will destroy everything before realizing what we are trying to heal. I see people speaking of a future without animals, of food without life, of nature under glass. And I feel, deeply and archetypally, the sadness of that — to wish to save the world by erasing it from the face of the Earth. This is the supreme irony of modern spirituality: we want to become pure by removing the impure, instead of embracing it.

I believe that true transformation comes through acceptance, not through annihilation. To replace meat with plant wisdom — yes, that makes sense, if it is done with awareness, with respect for the animal, not as punishment, but as an act of reverence for its spirit. Vegetarianism should not be ideology, but a form of compassion. Every meal is a sacrament. Every act of eating is a sacred communion with life.

And if today we have the tools, the technologies, the knowledge to draw protein from seed, vitamin from grass, energy from sunlight — let us do it without cutting the root of being. Let us create not copies, but continuations. Not substitutes, but living connections between worlds.

Perhaps our true task is to learn to hear again. To hear how the world breathes through us, how its pain passes through our cells, how every form of life is part of our own heart. And when next we decide to “save” nature, let us ask — from whom are we saving it, if not from ourselves?

At the end of this day, as I write these lines, I feel a strange mixture of sorrow and gratitude. Sorrow — for what we have destroyed. Gratitude — for what still can awaken within us. The world is ill, yes. But illness is only a doorway to consciousness.

And perhaps, if we allow ourselves not to flee from the symptom, but to embrace it with quiet tenderness, the Earth itself will begin to breathe more freely.

“Farms of Love” — is not merely an idea for a new kind of agriculture, but a return to our lost ability to live in affection with other beings. It is an ethics of tenderness embodied in matter. An economy of the soul that measures value not in liters or kilograms, but in the purity of relationship.

Imagine — land upon which one walks barefoot, with reverence. Not a farm, but a sanctuary of life. There, animals are not resources but companions. They have names, space, time, love. We do not use them — we coexist. They give us milk, wool, eggs — not because they are obliged, but because we live in a circle of mutuality. A gift, not a transaction.

In the “Farms of Love,” there is no industry, there is rhythm. The cycle of life is not accelerated or regulated — it is respected. The cow gives birth when her time comes. The goat gives milk according to the season. The hen lays eggs when nature calls her. This naturalness is a form of prayer — slow, honest, heartfelt.

Perhaps in this way we can restore the dignity of food. To remember that milk does not come from a carton, but from a living being that breathes and loves. That wool is not texture, but the warmth of another heart. That the egg is a sun born from the body of a bird, not merely a nutritional product.

This is a new spiritual ecology — not mere sustainability, but mutual transformation. For when humans begin to live with animals in this way, something within them is purified. Aggression fades, anxiety softens, the need to dominate disappears. What remains is the gentleness of presence, the quietness of trust.

Such a farm can also be a school — for children, for adults, for lost souls. To meet an animal that looks at you without fear is a psychotherapy no system can produce. Psychoanalysis would say: this is a meeting with the unintegrated within us — with innocence, with the archetype of pure being.

The Farms of Love can become living laboratories of compassion — places where science, spirituality, and ethics join hands. Where milk is drawn with gratitude, not exploitation; where every liter is a prayer, not a profit. And when the animal grows old, when its breath begins to thin, we do not destroy it — we send it off with a song, with a tear, with silence. Its grave becomes part of the garden. The earth receives it, and flowers grow from it. This is the true cycle — life that does not end, but transforms.

Imagine the kind of people who will be born in a world where a child sees death as part of beauty, not as violence. Where it learns to thank the cow for the milk, the sheep for the wool, the hen for the egg — and never forget that these are living beings, not functions.

Such farms could become the new spiritual infrastructure of humanity — a bridge between the old and the future. Places where the Earth heals not through technology, but through the return of sensitivity.

Yes, there will be skeptics — they will say this is utopia. But every true change begins as a utopia, as a quiet dream in the heart of a human who can no longer kill. We simply have to begin somewhere — with one small farm, a few animals, a handful of people willing to love instead of exploit.

Thus, without slogans and without revolutions, the new civilization will begin — a civilization of tenderness. In it, there will be no place for industrial meat, because there will be no need for killing. There will be milk from gratitude, wool from care, eggs from trust. There will be connection.

And perhaps then the Earth itself will sigh with relief.
It will feel that humanity has once again become not a master, but a co-creator.
And that blood no longer flows — because love has become the law.