Pachamama and Perusino talk about too much, too fast, and the consequences
Pachamama is sitting in the backyard of a supermarket, where doors open only for delivery vans and no one likes to linger. The place looks like a forgotten corner, even though decisions land here every day. A wall keeps it hidden from the street, and that's precisely what makes the backyard so practical. Part of the truth remains invisible if no one goes around the corner.
The yard smells of wet cardboard. Of cold air from the refrigeration units and sweet fruit that could still be eaten. Large bins stand close together, and several lids are askew because they're overflowing. Between foils and crates lie bread, yogurt cups, and apples with small bruises. Some of it still looks fresh, as if it just fell off the shelf, but without a place in the display.
In such a moment, a child first sees the food, then the question. Adults often first see rules, shifts, delivery lists, and reasons that sound polished. The Earth Goddess is not interested in excuses because excuses don't fill stomachs or let fields rest. Perusino notices this immediately, because his questions are not polished but direct, just like children's questions.
Perusino stands in front of the bins, hands in his pockets, because the concrete feels cold. Flies draw small circles as if on a schedule. Next to an overturned vegetable crate sits a woman who looks so calm as if she has belonged to this place since people started making decisions too quickly. Her clothing doesn't stand out, and that's exactly what makes her noticeable. Earth clings to her fingers as if she had just touched something that wants to grow. Her gaze remains clear, as if this backyard were just a page in a book that many people prefer to keep closed.
Perusino: Why does all this end up here, even though it still looks good?
Pachamama: They call it sorting. Rules are part of it, and these rules love selling more than hunger, even though hunger is the reason why food is important at all.
Perusino: It's supposed to be order, but to me, order doesn't look like throwing away, but like keeping.
Pachamama: Order here applies to shelves and processes, while cycles get no space, because cycles take time, and time often looks like a mistake in reports.
A gust of wind lifts a foil, revealing strawberries underneath. One corner is mushy, the rest remains red and firm. A box next to it is still closed, as if someone decided that appearance is more important than content.
Perusino: Adults always say everything will get better later, because technology will come and recycling will come and new ideas will come.
Pachamama: Later is a convenient word, and it becomes a storage room in the mind, even though time is not a storage room, and an apple won't become fresh again just because someone wishes it would.
Perusino: Anger must consume you when you see this, or do you remain indifferent?
Pachamama: Anger doesn't accelerate anything, and awareness changes more, because it stops actions early, before habit turns into harm.
A bin lid closes, then slides open again and stays askew, as if even the bin objects. A bird briefly lands on the rim, looks into the depth, and flies away again, as if even for him it's too much.
Perusino: Consequences come to mind, but consequences sound like punishment, and punishment sounds evil.
Pachamama: Punishments come from above, consequences come from themselves, and consequences are not evil, but honest, because they show what happens when moderation is lacking.
Liquid drips from a bin and leaves a trail across the asphalt. A gully swallows the trail, as if that too is just waste. A box of lettuce stands next to it, still crisp, just a little dark at the edges of the leaves.
Perusino: Growth is considered good everywhere, and for children it even means being happy when you grow bigger.
Pachamama: Growth is not the problem, but moderation, because moderation makes growth healthy, and without moderation, bigger eventually becomes too much.
Perusino: Many are afraid of stagnation, because stagnation sounds like losing.
Pachamama: Pauses keep things alive, and without a break, a system collapses, even if it seemed perfect before, just like a person without sleep stays awake, but not clear.
Perusino: Machines can help, because machines calculate and plan.
Pachamama: Machines calculate well, life waits differently, and waiting is not a mistake, but a part of maturity, like a cake that remains raw inside if cut too quickly.
Perusino's gaze wanders over the bins again. Inside the store, the same products are neatly arranged in rows, and outside they lie like a second version of the same world, but without a price tag and without pride. The yard suddenly feels like a mirror that no one wants to hang up front. A set of keys rattles somewhere behind a door, and footsteps quickly recede, as if someone is afraid of questions.
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Perusino: A child should remember one image, and which image is it here?
Pachamama: A full container behind a clean facade, so a child understands that cleanliness is sometimes just a curtain, and that the truth often lies in the back.
Perusino: A sentence should help when someone says it's normal and can't be changed, and such a sentence should also resonate with adults.
Pachamama: Normal is only what one gets used to, and habituation is no excuse. A decision remains possible nonetheless, every day, with every box, with every glance away or toward it.
Perusino: A decision sounds big, but I am small, and small people are often overlooked.
Pachamama: Size doesn't decide, attention decides, and a small question can be bigger than a big plan, because a question can be a stop sign in the mind.
Perusino: What question fits this place without sounding like a lecture?
Pachamama: One question is: Why is this lying out here, even though it could still be food? A second question is: Who decided that too much is allowed? A third question is: Who pays the price when food ends up in the trash?
Perusino: Adults pay money, but what else do you mean by price?
Pachamama: A price is also soil, water, labor, and time. An apple needs sun, rain, hands, and routes, and an apple in the trash creates a gap from all of that, which no one sees on the receipt.
Perusino: I still need a statement, one to remember, otherwise everyone will just look away again.
Pachamama: A statement fits here because this place is honest. Whoever wants more must first recognize enough, otherwise wealth becomes waste and waste becomes future, and responsibility begins not with grand speeches, but with small decisions that no one applauds.
A moment of silence hangs between the concrete walls. Perusino no longer just looks into the bins, but also at his own shoes, as if the soles suddenly tell a story. A yogurt cup lies there, still sealed, and the expiry date seems like a tiny number that decides everything. A thought sticks in his mind, because it sounds simple and yet is difficult. Enough suddenly doesn't seem boring, but like a goal.
A sentence from the conversation resonates, because it comes without a threat and yet hits home. Pachamama calls habit no excuse, and precisely this point is easy for children to understand. A habit can feel normal, even though it's wrong, and that's exactly why asking questions helps. Asking questions makes one pause briefly before simply walking on.
A glance at the bins also shows that backyards are rarely just backyards. Part of the system likes to hide, because hiding feels easier than change. Pachamama therefore stands not only for Earth, but also for what happens beneath the surface when too much and too fast become the norm. Soil gets tired, water gets dirtier, air gets heavier, and in the end, food becomes scarcer, even though there was so much before.
A child can do more at this point than many adults expect. A question at the kitchen table can be enough for someone to look differently during the next shopping trip. A portion that is actually eaten can be more important than a portion that just looks good. Leftovers in the fridge can be a plan, not a flaw. Pachamama demands not perfection, but attention, because attention is the beginning of moderation.
A final image remains, because it's easy to remember. The front entrance shows order and selection, and the backyard shows the price. Pachamama sits right there, so no one can say they didn't see it. Perusino doesn't take away a magic spell in the end, but a sentence that fits into every pocket: Recognizing enough protects more than possessing more.