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Quote by Joel Salatin

“When the farmer bores the tap hole into the trunk, the tree sends sap to heal the wound. Sure enough, by the next spring, only an extremely observant and knowledgeable person can find the old tap scars. When the wind blows, the tree senses that a branch might break. A broken branch is a much more serious wound than a little clean tap hole in the trunk. Therefore, the tree withholds the sap from the tap hole in case it needs to rush a bunch of sap to a broken limb somewhere. Once the wind subsides, the sap starts flowing again through the little tap hole. Sentient beings, anyone? You bet. Fearfully and wonderfully made.”

Quote by Joel Salatin

Book:The Marvelous Pigness of Pigs: Respecting and Caring for All God's Creation
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The Marvelous Pigness of Pigs: Respecting and Caring for All God's Creation

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Joel Salatin
Joel Salatin

Joel Salatin is an American farmer known for his sustainable agricultural practices and advocacy for organic farming. Born on February 24, 1957, he runs Polyface Farm, a multifunctional agricultural enterprise in Virginia that is renowned for its self-sufficient and eco-friendly production of meats, dairy products, and eggs. more

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Book:They Loved in 2075!
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“I was educated at Cambridge. How admirable is the Western method of submitting all theory to scrupulous experimental verification! That empirical procedure has gone hand in hand with the gift for introspection which is my Eastern heritage. Together they have enabled me to sunder the silences of natural realms long uncommunicative. The telltale charts of my crescograph2 are evidence for the most skeptical that plants have a sensitive nervous system and a varied emotional life. Love, hate, joy, fear, pleasure, pain, excitability, stupor, and countless appropriate responses to stimuli are as universal in plants as in animals. - Jagadis Chandra Bose”

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Book:Autobiography of a Yogi
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“I thought you hated them,” Nine Hibiscus said, dryly. “Was all of that complaining about ecosystem disruption for show, then?” Twenty Cicada looked up at her, and dismissed most of his work holos with the hand that wasn’t petting the small void on his knee. “I do hate them,” he said, smiling. “But this one likes me, and what am I going to do with the things, space them? It’s not their fault they exist.” She came to sit next to him, knee to knee. There always seemed to be more oxygen in one of Twenty Cicada’s garden rooms. (Not seemed: there was. Plant respiration. She’d checked the readouts once. It was a fractional difference, but real.) The Kauraanian pet lifted its head and opened yellow eyes. It made a noise like a badly tuned stringed instrument, stood, paced in a tight circle on Twenty Cicada’s lap, and settled down again. “I didn’t think you’d space them, Swarm,” she said. “But this is cuddling.” “It yowls if I don’t,” Twenty Cicada said, perfectly bland, and Nine Hibiscus laughed.”

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Book:A Desolation Called Peace
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