The single greatest lesson the garden teaches is that our relationship to the planet need not be zero-sum, and that as long as the sun still shines and people still can plan and plant, think and do, we can, if we bother to try, find ways to provide for ourselves without diminishing the world.
Don't eat anything your great-grandmother wouldn't recognize as food.
The garden suggests there might be a place where we can meet nature halfway.
Tree planting is always a utopian enterprise, it seems to me, a wager on a future the planter doesn't necessarily expect to witness.
It has become much harder, in the past century, to tell where the garden leaves off and pure nature begins.
Up until Prohibition, an apple grown in America was far less likely to be eaten than to wind up in a barrel of cider. (“Hard” cider is a twentieth-century term, redundant before then since virtually all cider was hard until modern refrigeration allowed people to keep sweet cider sweet.)
But that's the challenge - to change the system more than it changes you.
My native tense is future conditional, a low simmer of unspecified worry being the usual condition.