The first time the concept of sacrifing one life for another really penetrated my brain, was in the late sixties.  I was married to an artist and we were living the hippie life of little work, less money, no meat in our diet.  Both, thin as rails, huge heads of hair, only enough covering to keep us publicly decent, we rode bikes all over New York.  One afternoon we ended up in Union Square on a park bench next to an old man.  He was open and curious, and wanted nothing more than to talk.  We, on the other hand, were scared reclusive children, needing validation for our choices.  Somehow, we got on the subject of what we ate, probably because it defined us.  We were proud and vain to not eat animals.  And the old man said, ‘What’s the difference between killing a stalk of broccoli and taking the life of an animal?  Lives are sacrified for the betterment of others all the time.  That’s what it takes to thrive.’