A Gaian Table Grace

Sometime in 2011, my family formulated these lines as our table grace, a sort of prayer to say before meals.

It didn’t happen all at once. It was a collaborative effort that went through several iterations over some days and weeks. We all contributed to the process, my wife and I and even our daughter who was only three years old at the time. Eventually it gelled and stabilized into a set formula, and we have recited these words before most every dinner ever since.

It’s not a triumph of originality or poetic expression, merely our variant on countless other formulations recited at family tables around the world. We cobbled it together from things we’d heard and internalized, sentiments too old and too common to be traced back to a point of origin and properly cited.

I love it. I love even more that we say it.

I make a point to set aside time daily for meditation and contemplation and other forms of spiritual practice; my wife and daughter do not, as a rule, which leads me to think of this contemplative moment at dinner as all the more important. I’ve done what I can to protect it, to bring out the sacred quality of it. On many days, it’s the only time the three of us sit down together and talk with each other. Of course, sharing food together is a reminder of our common humanity. The table grace serves as a marker that we are entering a period of special importance, be it ever so brief.

And frankly I’m amazed that we say it at all. I’ve tried to get my family to invest themselves in other rituals large and small, and those efforts have been largely unsuccessful. The table grace is the only thing that’s stuck.

Saying the words together inculcates a sense of shared values, or so I hope, reminding us of a few basic but profound principles. We’re expressing our gratitude for the abundance of Gaia. We’re recognizing our participation in the web of life. We’re respecting not only the labor of the family members in the kitchen, but also of all the other humans involved in our agricultural economy. We’re recognizing our relative privilege in a world where hunger and inequity are still very real, and we extend our awareness to the more-than-human world.

That final line may be the most innovative part, but it seems to dangle awkwardly. It began as just three words: “even the animals.” My wife added that, I think, and I heartily endorse the sentiment. A smart-alecky dinner guest asked us, “What about the plants?” So we expanded it. It’s a little ungainly, but who cares? Earnestness trumps eloquence.

I’ve never put it into writing until now, but a rough calculation indicates we’ve said these words four or five thousand times at this point. That’s certainly enough to learn something by heart. It easily becomes a rote recitation. The words fly off the tongue without thought or meaning. I’ve noticed that my daughter, in particular, has rattled them off more and more quickly as she’s grown through her teenage years. Perhaps she’s vaguely embarrassed. More likely she’s just hungry. I remind her, sometimes, that it’s not a race.

Please don’t get the idea that any of us are serious and solemn. We usually say our table grace with a lightness, even a silliness to it. We don’t even say all the words together half the time. We chime in on different parts as the mood strikes us. When there’s only two of us for dinner, we abbreviate: “Thank you Mother Earth” seems adequate. When we have guests over, they’re usually disarmed and charmed by our little custom.

I was raised in a Lutheran family where the “common table prayer” was said before most meals, especially dinner. “Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest, and let these gifts to us be blessed. Amen.” I suppose that’s why I felt the value of the practice. I describe our table grace as “a sort of prayer.” I am careful with my words. Prayer is typically understood in our culture as a conversation with God. Our table grace is addressed to Mother Earth. I don’t think of Gaia as some kind of distinct sentient entity who listens in on human conversations. Rather, it is our own very human ears that hear these words and may be reminded of their meaning. We are our own audience. Then again, we are part of Gaia too, so perhaps we are Gaia affirming herself. Perhaps it is a prayer after all.

Then again, I prefer the term grace. This word also has significant theological connotations, but it carries numerous meanings, including the specific meaning of words said before a meal as an expression of gratitude. In fact, the words gratitude and grace share a common root, deriving from the Latin gratia, meaning thanks. It’s the same root that gives us grazie in Italian and gracias in Spanish. Giving voice to gratitude is a profound and necessary practice. Our little grace eventually inspired me to write the Gaian hymn, “Thank You Mother Earth.”

Thank you Mother Earth for the food that gives us life
the water that gives us life, the air that gives us life

Refrain:
Thank you Mother Earth, Mother of Life, Mother of Justice
Thank you Mother Earth, O Great Gaia, Mother of All

I’ve gotten large groups of people singing those words at the fall equinox, a seasonal moment that naturally carries associations of gratitude. I’d love to get my family singing it as well, but trust me when I say they’re not interested. Our table grace will have to suffice. For that, I am grateful.

Our daughter is eighteen now, getting ready to head off to college. I notice she doesn’t always rush through the grace quite so quickly. Recently we talked about how that final line had expanded to include the plants some fifteen years ago. I confessed that I felt bad about leaving out the fungi. Her rejoinder: “And what about the bacteria?” Lynn Margulis would be proud.