Were I unable to forage for myself in the wilderness, I would follow the example of St Francis who had food deliveries flown-in by the birds to whom he preached, rather like a beatific version of Blue Apron or Hello Fresh.
I'm not sure I would risk proselytizing to my feathered friends, however. My exegesis of the divine message is somewhat vague and prone to sophistical conflations with the fantasies of Hermes Trismegistus, concluding with a garbled description of Plato's cave filled with mid-century modern furniture. Such pontifications might satisfy simple sparrows but not the cynical ravens or streetwise pigeons. In fact, I'm slightly worried the more dogmatic birds might sacrifice me to some tree-top avian deity instead of feeding me. So perhaps I would be wise to pack a lunch before venturing into the middle of nowhere, instead of relying on magical thinking.
Of course, everyone lives by magical thinking to some extent these days, except most people call it "hope." So hopefully you've equipped yourself with a decent magic wand, the clearest of crystal balls, and an attractively billowing cape of stars and moons. You need to look the part and have the right tools,after all, just as in any other area of daily life. In these dark times, you want to be an Renaissance sage surrounded by weighty alchemical tomes and marble statues of Sophia, not wild-haired primitive man painting his genitals yellow and dancing around a totem carved from the biggest gourd he can find.
Alas, it seems most people dwell in the mud and straw huts of Papua New Guinea. Mind you, at least those aboriginal types know how to forage for their own food. I'll give them that. Which means they'll be eating dinner while I'm still starving in my tower trying to transmute base protein into filet mignon gold.
Afterword: gosh, this post did not go where I thought it would when I wrote that first line.