Blog consolidation: I write other blogs with some interesting posts that fit this blog's themes. In the interest of simplifying my life and providing better and more consistent to my readers. I'm combining all my blogs here. This and the prior few posts are oldies but goodies from my other sites.
Another day older and deeper in debt. "Tennessee" Earnie Ford would probably agree with an article I just read in the US News and World Report about a study of how losing your job, having your job security threatened, or even having a secure but bad job can increase your stress and consequently decrease your lifespan. Kind of ties in with my prior post. Here's the link:
http://health.usnews.com/articles/health/2009/02/20/is-your-job-killing-you-how-work-influences-longevity.html
Fortunately, I'm self-employed, and writing blog posts while in my PJs is more or less my job. I think I'm covered in the low-stress department, as long as I can keep paying my bills and avoid working in coal mines.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Dancing the Night (and My Health) Away
Blog consolidation: I write other blogs with some interesting posts that fit this blog's themes. In the interest of simplifying my life and providing better and more consistent to my readers. I'm combining all my blogs here. This and the next post are oldies but goodies from my other sites.
Last weekend, I had friends in town, and we ended up staying up late Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. We had a lot of fun, but it also ran down my batteries quite a bit. Add that to my already stressed out state, and, natch, I came down with a cold this week. I chalk this up as more anecdotal evidence supporting my theory that both stress and insufficient sleep weaken the immune system and, thus, age us faster. In my case, a pathogen flourished. In fact, I can look back at every single cold or flu I've had in the past several years and see that they were all preceded by extra stress, overworking and burnout, lack of exercise, less nutritious diet, and/or missed sleep.
Incidentally, I've found that the best cure for the common cold is taking a couple days off from work, getting lots of sleep, and drinking prodigious amounts of orange juice. It seems that maintaining optimal health isn't such a mystery after all. Why is it that we so often neglect to do the simple things that we know will keep us healthy? I think that's the basis of my longevity experiment and this whole blog--that optimal health and longevity are very simple, straightforward, and easy to attain. We just have to turn a few well-known but oft-ignored precepts into permanent habits through conscious and willful action. Well, that's the theory anyway. We'll see how it goes.
Last weekend, I had friends in town, and we ended up staying up late Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. We had a lot of fun, but it also ran down my batteries quite a bit. Add that to my already stressed out state, and, natch, I came down with a cold this week. I chalk this up as more anecdotal evidence supporting my theory that both stress and insufficient sleep weaken the immune system and, thus, age us faster. In my case, a pathogen flourished. In fact, I can look back at every single cold or flu I've had in the past several years and see that they were all preceded by extra stress, overworking and burnout, lack of exercise, less nutritious diet, and/or missed sleep.
Incidentally, I've found that the best cure for the common cold is taking a couple days off from work, getting lots of sleep, and drinking prodigious amounts of orange juice. It seems that maintaining optimal health isn't such a mystery after all. Why is it that we so often neglect to do the simple things that we know will keep us healthy? I think that's the basis of my longevity experiment and this whole blog--that optimal health and longevity are very simple, straightforward, and easy to attain. We just have to turn a few well-known but oft-ignored precepts into permanent habits through conscious and willful action. Well, that's the theory anyway. We'll see how it goes.
Balls, Bones, and Bullets
Blog consolidation: I write other blogs with some interesting posts that fit this blog's themes. In the interest of simplifying my life and providing better and more consistent to my readers. I'm combining all my blogs here. This and the next couple posts are oldies but goodies from my other sites.
Last night, I had two really disturbing dreams. In the first, I dreamt that I was diagnosed with testicular cancer and leukemia. A double whammy. I had to make the decision as to whether I would start chemo right away or wait a month or two and give all my alternative health methodologies and theories a try. You know, walk the walk and all that. Then I woke up and had to pee.
I went back to bed and promptly had another dream where I was in an Old West Hatfield-and-McCoy type of feud, though I didn't particularly want to be on either side. We ended up in a big shootout, and my side retreated to an old cabin. Then we ran out of bullets and realized that the guys outside shooting at us would soon realize this and come in and shoot us, or else just set the cabin on fire and burn us out. Then I woke up to pee again. Saved by the bladder twice in one night. Guess that's another upside to being so well hydrated.
I really got to thinking about this today, especially in light of Wednesday's financial death probe. Two consecutive dreams in which I was effectively handed a death sentence...what is my id trying to tell me here? Maybe I really should try to work that one out. Get out the Martha Beck books or something. Or maybe it was just something I ate.
Last night, I had two really disturbing dreams. In the first, I dreamt that I was diagnosed with testicular cancer and leukemia. A double whammy. I had to make the decision as to whether I would start chemo right away or wait a month or two and give all my alternative health methodologies and theories a try. You know, walk the walk and all that. Then I woke up and had to pee.
I went back to bed and promptly had another dream where I was in an Old West Hatfield-and-McCoy type of feud, though I didn't particularly want to be on either side. We ended up in a big shootout, and my side retreated to an old cabin. Then we ran out of bullets and realized that the guys outside shooting at us would soon realize this and come in and shoot us, or else just set the cabin on fire and burn us out. Then I woke up to pee again. Saved by the bladder twice in one night. Guess that's another upside to being so well hydrated.
I really got to thinking about this today, especially in light of Wednesday's financial death probe. Two consecutive dreams in which I was effectively handed a death sentence...what is my id trying to tell me here? Maybe I really should try to work that one out. Get out the Martha Beck books or something. Or maybe it was just something I ate.
Fake Heart Attack, The Puppy Channel, & The World's Smartest Fortune Cookie
Blog consolidation: I write other blogs with some interesting posts that fit this blog's themes. In the interest of simplifying my life and providing better and more consistent to my readers. I'm combining all my blogs here. This and the next few posts are oldies but goodies from my other sites.
I almost died on Wednesday. Well, not completely died, as in all the way dead, but I did get really worried that maybe I was about to die. I told you in the first post that I'd share some colossal failures, so here's the story.
On Wednesday, I had my meeting of creditors (i.e. court date) for my bankruptcy that I filed in January (long story for another day, but the short version is that I had a mortgage, real estate, and development company that crashed and burned big time recently). My attorney thought it would be an open and shut case with a five minute proceeding. Not so much. An attorney for one of my creditors showed up and proceeded to grill me for the better part of a half an hour. He tried to cast doubt on my character, which appeared to work on the trustee (i.e. the judge-like lady who runs the show for a bankruptcy proceeding), at least for awhile anyway. She started probing a lot deeper into my case too, and decided "we'll just have to research these things a bit more" instead of closing the file. In the end, they both seemed to realize that I had done nothing wrong other than failing my real estate and finance businesses in a very bad market. Nonetheless, I was on the hot seat, in front of a roomful of maybe 50 or 75 strangers, answering very difficult questions for well over a half hour. Given that I pride myself on my integrity and usually aim to please to a fault, this was extra uncomfortable for me.
This story is pertinent to my health and thus, this blog, because while I was being questioned, my heartbeat started doing baaaaaad things, man. Very bad things. It skipped lots of beats. It sped way up. It fluttered. It grew weak. It pounded furiously. The lubs separated from the dubs, sometimes skipping the dubs altogether. I could actually feel and hear all this beating and not-beating as I sat up there in my uncomfortable little chair. Oddly, it occurred to me while I was defending myself up there, that my heartbeat reminded me of the drums in a math rock band. Which is not a good thing, even though I do like math rock.
The scary part is that it didn't return to normal after I left court. I went home, put on PJs, lay down on the couch in the dark, and tried to calm my mind. Several hours went by, and I thought perhaps I was dying. My dad died of a heart attack at 55. My grandpa at 62. A great uncle at 48. I have a big barrel chest like they did. It's not totally unheard of for someone to have a heart attack at 32, especially not for someone with my family history. Thoughts of dying superseded my thoughts of bankruptcy court, which was a dubious silver lining at best. In fact, I even briefly wondered if I had sealed my ironic early death fate by starting a blog devoted to longevity.
After awhile, it occurred to me that maybe I should drive to the emergency room. But that would most certainly cost me a lot of money, insurance coverage notwithstanding, and it's not like I've got big piles of extra cash lying around. I just filed bankruptcy, remember? So I decided on the next best thing: I called my friend Kendall. Kendall is a 23 year old nurse who had heart surgery last year due to an irregular heartbeat. I figured she'd know what to do.
And she did. Once she found out that I wasn't having chest pains, my limbs weren't numb, and that I could breathe just fine, she figured that more than likely I was just experiencing premature ventricular contractions, or PVCs. Fortunately, PVCs are often caused by stress or anxiety, are usually harmless, and rarely need treatment. I just needed to get control of my mind and chill the heck out. I tried to consciously return my heartbeats back to normal, which seemed to help. I meditated and focused on my breathing, which helped a lot. Jennie, my roommate, finally got off work, came home, and gave me a face message, which was AWESOME regardless of whether it helped or not (it did). And after awhile, my heart beat finally returned back to normal.
For the past three days, every time I think about court, or dying, or finances, or even just work in general, my heart goes all crazy again. Fortunately, I can calm it down again by thinking happy thoughts, watching The Puppy Channel or CommunityChannel YouTube videos, and stopping work. I guess I hadn't realized how close to the edge I've been with all the stress in my life recently. Between failing businesses; trying to create/acquire a new income source; filing bankruptcy; and probably a lot more stuff I can't think of at the moment, I'm pretty far off the charts for unhealthy levels of stress.
I know it may sound cheesey, but I'm actually seeing this whole crisis as an opportunity. Sometimes life sucks. I'm sure it will again many times in the future. I can see how important it is to control my thinking and consciously keep my stress levels low. Partly because I'll have to deal with stress again in the future, and if I'm not in charge of my mind, I'll damage my body badly, possibly irreparably. And partly because if stress has this bad of an effect in large amounts, it probably still has a deleterious effect on our bodies even in small amounts--possibly even more so considering that a constant flow of stress every day never gives our bodies and immune systems a chance to rest. I can see how easily 20 or 40 or 80 years of constant stress will age our bodies in myriad ways.
The opportunity for me is that now I know all this from firsthand experience. I'm a thickheaded person sometimes, often having to learn everything the hard way, but I am learning. I'm learning at a relatively young age how to control my thoughts, lower my stress levels, and consciously control my body systems to be healthier and more balanced. Better to learn this now than by actually having a fatal heart attack in 20 years. It didn't kill me, so I guess I'm stronger now? I once read a different zen koan-ish proverb, probably in a fortune cookie, that went something like this: "One disease, long life. No disease, short life." Nah, who am I kidding...fortune cookies are never that wise or furtune-y. I probably made it up.
I almost died on Wednesday. Well, not completely died, as in all the way dead, but I did get really worried that maybe I was about to die. I told you in the first post that I'd share some colossal failures, so here's the story.
On Wednesday, I had my meeting of creditors (i.e. court date) for my bankruptcy that I filed in January (long story for another day, but the short version is that I had a mortgage, real estate, and development company that crashed and burned big time recently). My attorney thought it would be an open and shut case with a five minute proceeding. Not so much. An attorney for one of my creditors showed up and proceeded to grill me for the better part of a half an hour. He tried to cast doubt on my character, which appeared to work on the trustee (i.e. the judge-like lady who runs the show for a bankruptcy proceeding), at least for awhile anyway. She started probing a lot deeper into my case too, and decided "we'll just have to research these things a bit more" instead of closing the file. In the end, they both seemed to realize that I had done nothing wrong other than failing my real estate and finance businesses in a very bad market. Nonetheless, I was on the hot seat, in front of a roomful of maybe 50 or 75 strangers, answering very difficult questions for well over a half hour. Given that I pride myself on my integrity and usually aim to please to a fault, this was extra uncomfortable for me.
This story is pertinent to my health and thus, this blog, because while I was being questioned, my heartbeat started doing baaaaaad things, man. Very bad things. It skipped lots of beats. It sped way up. It fluttered. It grew weak. It pounded furiously. The lubs separated from the dubs, sometimes skipping the dubs altogether. I could actually feel and hear all this beating and not-beating as I sat up there in my uncomfortable little chair. Oddly, it occurred to me while I was defending myself up there, that my heartbeat reminded me of the drums in a math rock band. Which is not a good thing, even though I do like math rock.
The scary part is that it didn't return to normal after I left court. I went home, put on PJs, lay down on the couch in the dark, and tried to calm my mind. Several hours went by, and I thought perhaps I was dying. My dad died of a heart attack at 55. My grandpa at 62. A great uncle at 48. I have a big barrel chest like they did. It's not totally unheard of for someone to have a heart attack at 32, especially not for someone with my family history. Thoughts of dying superseded my thoughts of bankruptcy court, which was a dubious silver lining at best. In fact, I even briefly wondered if I had sealed my ironic early death fate by starting a blog devoted to longevity.
After awhile, it occurred to me that maybe I should drive to the emergency room. But that would most certainly cost me a lot of money, insurance coverage notwithstanding, and it's not like I've got big piles of extra cash lying around. I just filed bankruptcy, remember? So I decided on the next best thing: I called my friend Kendall. Kendall is a 23 year old nurse who had heart surgery last year due to an irregular heartbeat. I figured she'd know what to do.
And she did. Once she found out that I wasn't having chest pains, my limbs weren't numb, and that I could breathe just fine, she figured that more than likely I was just experiencing premature ventricular contractions, or PVCs. Fortunately, PVCs are often caused by stress or anxiety, are usually harmless, and rarely need treatment. I just needed to get control of my mind and chill the heck out. I tried to consciously return my heartbeats back to normal, which seemed to help. I meditated and focused on my breathing, which helped a lot. Jennie, my roommate, finally got off work, came home, and gave me a face message, which was AWESOME regardless of whether it helped or not (it did). And after awhile, my heart beat finally returned back to normal.
For the past three days, every time I think about court, or dying, or finances, or even just work in general, my heart goes all crazy again. Fortunately, I can calm it down again by thinking happy thoughts, watching The Puppy Channel or CommunityChannel YouTube videos, and stopping work. I guess I hadn't realized how close to the edge I've been with all the stress in my life recently. Between failing businesses; trying to create/acquire a new income source; filing bankruptcy; and probably a lot more stuff I can't think of at the moment, I'm pretty far off the charts for unhealthy levels of stress.
I know it may sound cheesey, but I'm actually seeing this whole crisis as an opportunity. Sometimes life sucks. I'm sure it will again many times in the future. I can see how important it is to control my thinking and consciously keep my stress levels low. Partly because I'll have to deal with stress again in the future, and if I'm not in charge of my mind, I'll damage my body badly, possibly irreparably. And partly because if stress has this bad of an effect in large amounts, it probably still has a deleterious effect on our bodies even in small amounts--possibly even more so considering that a constant flow of stress every day never gives our bodies and immune systems a chance to rest. I can see how easily 20 or 40 or 80 years of constant stress will age our bodies in myriad ways.
The opportunity for me is that now I know all this from firsthand experience. I'm a thickheaded person sometimes, often having to learn everything the hard way, but I am learning. I'm learning at a relatively young age how to control my thoughts, lower my stress levels, and consciously control my body systems to be healthier and more balanced. Better to learn this now than by actually having a fatal heart attack in 20 years. It didn't kill me, so I guess I'm stronger now? I once read a different zen koan-ish proverb, probably in a fortune cookie, that went something like this: "One disease, long life. No disease, short life." Nah, who am I kidding...fortune cookies are never that wise or furtune-y. I probably made it up.
My Eyes Will Smolder
Blog consolidation: I write other blogs with some interesting posts that fit this blog's themes. In the interest of simplifying my life and providing better and more consistent content to my readers, I'm combining all my blogs here. This and the next few posts are oldies but goodies from my other sites.
Just watched Twilight tonight, and finished the book yesterday. Yes, it's annoying and not that well-written. Yes, it's pretty un-feminist. Yes, it's addicting like crack, or maybe I should say "my own personal brand of heroin." Anyway, my review of the book and movie is not the point of this post. I'd rather examine the central question of the series, and the question most Twilight readers/viewers come to, which is: would you become a vampire?
I'm kind of torn. On the one hand, I'd get to live forever (as long as another vampire doesn't tear off my head and set me on fire). On the other hand, I don't like being cold. The thought of not having a heartbeat really creeps me out. I like my heartbeat. I also wouldn't want to have to eat that much meat, even if I could abstain from human blood and be a "vegetarian" vampire and just eat animals, like Edward and the gang do, though I could deal if I had to. Plus, as you've probably gathered if you know me at all, I don't believe I need to be a mythical creature in order to live forever. I'm convinced I can do that on my own.
So, is "no" my final answer? No, actually, it isn't. I would become a vampire, because of all the superpowers. Being that strong, fast, invincible, infinitely attractive, and psychic sounds pretty rad. A vampire's liiiiffffeee fooooorrrrr mmmeeeeeeeee.
Just watched Twilight tonight, and finished the book yesterday. Yes, it's annoying and not that well-written. Yes, it's pretty un-feminist. Yes, it's addicting like crack, or maybe I should say "my own personal brand of heroin." Anyway, my review of the book and movie is not the point of this post. I'd rather examine the central question of the series, and the question most Twilight readers/viewers come to, which is: would you become a vampire?
I'm kind of torn. On the one hand, I'd get to live forever (as long as another vampire doesn't tear off my head and set me on fire). On the other hand, I don't like being cold. The thought of not having a heartbeat really creeps me out. I like my heartbeat. I also wouldn't want to have to eat that much meat, even if I could abstain from human blood and be a "vegetarian" vampire and just eat animals, like Edward and the gang do, though I could deal if I had to. Plus, as you've probably gathered if you know me at all, I don't believe I need to be a mythical creature in order to live forever. I'm convinced I can do that on my own.
So, is "no" my final answer? No, actually, it isn't. I would become a vampire, because of all the superpowers. Being that strong, fast, invincible, infinitely attractive, and psychic sounds pretty rad. A vampire's liiiiffffeee fooooorrrrr mmmeeeeeeeee.
False Idol
If humanity does not opt for integrity we are through completely. It is absolutely touch and go. Each one of us could make the difference.
-Buckminster Fuller
I had an interesting day. I lost one hero, got to chat with another, and rethought my whole life story.
I started the first draft of this essay mentioning how Deni Leonard, a semi-famous Native American entrepreneur, was the inspiration for my own hero’s journey. He found his life calling; dedicated 5 years of study each to banking, insurance, education, and law; and finally, after 20 years, began solving the problems of his people.
Then I Googled him. I found that he had recently been convicted of some rather serious corporate fraud. My heart sunk. Not only because he wasn’t who I thought he was, but also because it made me call into question my whole approach to my own calling, an approach I modeled after his.
Reeling, I decided I had to ask author Po Bronson what he thought of this. Po wrote What Should I Do with My Life?, dedicating the final chapter to Deni’s story (written pre-fraud). Incredibly, Po immediately wrote me back a long, thoughtful email. He said, “I do know tons of other entrepreneurs who are doing well, who are creating value, by embracing their identity and their culture…But I don’t think a fictional Deni-like idea should be our vision, because when it's fictional one misses crucial lessons.”
Too late. I’m already halfway through my Deni-like plan. But I created I this plan too, and I’m proud of it. I spent countless hours listening to my heart, carving away the unimportant to discover (create, choose) my calling, which is to fix our broken planet and way of living on it while (if) there’s still time, using the most fun and effective leverage I can muster. I spent the last decade honing the first of the skills I’d need on my journey: writing and entrepreneurship, with ecology and leadership on deck. I’ve already won and lost many battles, learned my own crucial lessons, and made countless mid-course corrections along the way.
Deni Leonard doesn’t have a patent on discipline. His hero’s journey may be fictional, but mine is true. I’m strong enough to own my own vision and forge my own path, regardless of the ethics of the person who first showed me the way.
(This blog post was written as one of my Acton MBA in Entrepreneurship application essays. I posted it here because A. I believe it's an interesting essay in its own right, and B. I don't see any conflict of interest or reason why I shouldn't post it here.)
-Buckminster Fuller
I had an interesting day. I lost one hero, got to chat with another, and rethought my whole life story.
I started the first draft of this essay mentioning how Deni Leonard, a semi-famous Native American entrepreneur, was the inspiration for my own hero’s journey. He found his life calling; dedicated 5 years of study each to banking, insurance, education, and law; and finally, after 20 years, began solving the problems of his people.
Then I Googled him. I found that he had recently been convicted of some rather serious corporate fraud. My heart sunk. Not only because he wasn’t who I thought he was, but also because it made me call into question my whole approach to my own calling, an approach I modeled after his.
Reeling, I decided I had to ask author Po Bronson what he thought of this. Po wrote What Should I Do with My Life?, dedicating the final chapter to Deni’s story (written pre-fraud). Incredibly, Po immediately wrote me back a long, thoughtful email. He said, “I do know tons of other entrepreneurs who are doing well, who are creating value, by embracing their identity and their culture…But I don’t think a fictional Deni-like idea should be our vision, because when it's fictional one misses crucial lessons.”
Too late. I’m already halfway through my Deni-like plan. But I created I this plan too, and I’m proud of it. I spent countless hours listening to my heart, carving away the unimportant to discover (create, choose) my calling, which is to fix our broken planet and way of living on it while (if) there’s still time, using the most fun and effective leverage I can muster. I spent the last decade honing the first of the skills I’d need on my journey: writing and entrepreneurship, with ecology and leadership on deck. I’ve already won and lost many battles, learned my own crucial lessons, and made countless mid-course corrections along the way.
Deni Leonard doesn’t have a patent on discipline. His hero’s journey may be fictional, but mine is true. I’m strong enough to own my own vision and forge my own path, regardless of the ethics of the person who first showed me the way.
(This blog post was written as one of my Acton MBA in Entrepreneurship application essays. I posted it here because A. I believe it's an interesting essay in its own right, and B. I don't see any conflict of interest or reason why I shouldn't post it here.)
Saturday, January 30, 2010
The Pursuit of Happiness
I have a Kindle. I love my Kindle. I buy and read books on it all the time. It's completely changing the way I even think about reading, which is big, especially coming from me, a full-time writer and English Lit major.
That said, I'm very unhappy with my Kindle at this exact moment. I just bought a book on Amazon. But, since I'm in Argentina, there's a $1.99 surcharge for international delivery...unless you download the book to your computer and transfer directly to the Kindle via USB cable, which is precisely what I did. Or what I attempted to do, anyway. Every time I tried, Amazon prompted me to log in, even though I was already logged in. I complied anyway, but when I entered my login and password, I was taken right back to the same login screen again.
I thought, "Oh, I must have entered my password in wrong." I tried again. Same result. A third time, typing v-e-r-y m-e-t-i-c-u-l-o-u-s-l-y. Same result. I hit the Back button on my browser and started over. Same result. I had them send me my login and password, which were correct all along, and I tried again. Same result.
40 minutes had now passed. The book had yet to make it onto my Kindle. I checked my email again, only to discover Amazon had charged me the $1.99 fee anyway! (Plus the cost of the book, which I expected.) I wrote them an email asking the charge to be reversed, and for help with the login and download process.
At this point, I was very unhappy, and now I'd wasted nearly an hour of a beautiful South American summer Saturday afternoon. I checked my email one last time before giving up and waiting for a response to my email to Amazon. A shiny new message from Amazon awaited. I thought, "Wow, that was fast customer service." Alas, not so. This new email was actually my receipt for $1.99 being charged to my account a SECOND TIME! Arrrg!
I wrote a second email to Amazon, asking for a refund of $3.98 this time, and for help preventing this problem in the future. I was very courteous and polite--my momma taught me well--but inside I was seething. It's not that much money, but it's the principle of the matter. I also don't want to pay an extra $2-4 and log an extra hour of computer time for every book I buy, both of which could add up quickly, so I want this resolved before making future purchases.
So what's the moral of the story, and why is it blog-worthy? The book I purchased:
Happiness by Thich Nhat Hanh
If only I could read this book, perhaps I could learn how to not let situations like this bother me. Oh the irony.
--
Update: It's a few hours later. Amazon refunded the $3.98, and I eventually got the book (Thank you Amazon!), which I've started and is wonderful. At long last, I'm finally happy.
That said, I'm very unhappy with my Kindle at this exact moment. I just bought a book on Amazon. But, since I'm in Argentina, there's a $1.99 surcharge for international delivery...unless you download the book to your computer and transfer directly to the Kindle via USB cable, which is precisely what I did. Or what I attempted to do, anyway. Every time I tried, Amazon prompted me to log in, even though I was already logged in. I complied anyway, but when I entered my login and password, I was taken right back to the same login screen again.
I thought, "Oh, I must have entered my password in wrong." I tried again. Same result. A third time, typing v-e-r-y m-e-t-i-c-u-l-o-u-s-l-y. Same result. I hit the Back button on my browser and started over. Same result. I had them send me my login and password, which were correct all along, and I tried again. Same result.
40 minutes had now passed. The book had yet to make it onto my Kindle. I checked my email again, only to discover Amazon had charged me the $1.99 fee anyway! (Plus the cost of the book, which I expected.) I wrote them an email asking the charge to be reversed, and for help with the login and download process.
At this point, I was very unhappy, and now I'd wasted nearly an hour of a beautiful South American summer Saturday afternoon. I checked my email one last time before giving up and waiting for a response to my email to Amazon. A shiny new message from Amazon awaited. I thought, "Wow, that was fast customer service." Alas, not so. This new email was actually my receipt for $1.99 being charged to my account a SECOND TIME! Arrrg!
I wrote a second email to Amazon, asking for a refund of $3.98 this time, and for help preventing this problem in the future. I was very courteous and polite--my momma taught me well--but inside I was seething. It's not that much money, but it's the principle of the matter. I also don't want to pay an extra $2-4 and log an extra hour of computer time for every book I buy, both of which could add up quickly, so I want this resolved before making future purchases.
So what's the moral of the story, and why is it blog-worthy? The book I purchased:
Happiness by Thich Nhat Hanh
If only I could read this book, perhaps I could learn how to not let situations like this bother me. Oh the irony.
--
Update: It's a few hours later. Amazon refunded the $3.98, and I eventually got the book (Thank you Amazon!), which I've started and is wonderful. At long last, I'm finally happy.
Roots
I have a theory. My theory is this: most anyone who leaves their hometown eventually comes full circle and finds, creates, or, at minimum, yearns for the best parts of what they had growing up, often with a slight twist. City kids return to cities, but live in better neighborhoods. Suburban kids find a nice quiet suburb to live in, perhaps near the mountains or ocean or a more interesting city. Hippie kids from California move to Boulder. Hippie kids from Boulder move to California. Nomads buy a new camel. And small town kids return to small towns, but ones near their favorite cities to get their occasional urban culture fix. Apparently, I'm no different.
After years of wandering the metropolises of the world, I've finally realized that I'm a country boy at heart. I recently lived in Denver for a decade, and currently live in Buenos Aires, the 10th (or 17th, depending on who you ask) largest city on the planet. But you know what? I'm done with cities. (For now.)
I want small town, rural living again. I want to be around trees, animals, clean air, community, good-hearted folk who sincerely care about their neighbors, and a slower, healthier, and cheaper way of life. I want farmers markets and CSAs. I want a big organic garden. And fruit trees. And bees. A crick and a pond (or an ocean!). Baby goats even? Maybe a whole farm. And someone to share it all with. All in good time.
Since I can work from anywhere with a fast internet connection, I don't see any reason why I shouldn't move back to the country again. I miss it.
After years of wandering the metropolises of the world, I've finally realized that I'm a country boy at heart. I recently lived in Denver for a decade, and currently live in Buenos Aires, the 10th (or 17th, depending on who you ask) largest city on the planet. But you know what? I'm done with cities. (For now.)
I want small town, rural living again. I want to be around trees, animals, clean air, community, good-hearted folk who sincerely care about their neighbors, and a slower, healthier, and cheaper way of life. I want farmers markets and CSAs. I want a big organic garden. And fruit trees. And bees. A crick and a pond (or an ocean!). Baby goats even? Maybe a whole farm. And someone to share it all with. All in good time.
Since I can work from anywhere with a fast internet connection, I don't see any reason why I shouldn't move back to the country again. I miss it.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Wormholes: The Hidden Danger of Buying Local
I found a fold in the fabric of space-time today.
I live on a north-south street very near a corner. I walked two very short blocks (50 meters each) west to the lavandería (laundromat), took a 90% right turn (going north) one very short block to a frutería (fruit stand), took a 90% right (heading east) toward my street for two very short blocks, expecting that I'd be one very short block north of home on my street again, where I'd pick up some fresh bread and chocolate cake at the panadería (bakery) a couple doors north of the front door to my apartment. A simple 2 X 1 rectangle. Makes sense, right?
Enter the space-time fabric fold. After making the first two turns and walking a total of five very short blocks, I ran into not my street, but rather a major east-west highway that is perfectly straight and approximately 20 longish blocks northeast of my house, an entirely different direction from the original westward-pointing rectangle.
Not having my Guía (Buenos Aires map book) and being eternally confused by the northern position of the sun down here, I asked for directions from multiple people. They all gave the same directions back home, which was straight down a small southwest-pointing diagonal street I'd never heard of, walking the 20 longish blocks over the next 30 minutes, passing streets I'd also never heard of, since they're so far from my house. This small, unknown street finally crossed my street five blocks north of my house. Only contact with a fifth dimension can explain this geometry.
The peaches, however, were delicious.
I live on a north-south street very near a corner. I walked two very short blocks (50 meters each) west to the lavandería (laundromat), took a 90% right turn (going north) one very short block to a frutería (fruit stand), took a 90% right (heading east) toward my street for two very short blocks, expecting that I'd be one very short block north of home on my street again, where I'd pick up some fresh bread and chocolate cake at the panadería (bakery) a couple doors north of the front door to my apartment. A simple 2 X 1 rectangle. Makes sense, right?
Enter the space-time fabric fold. After making the first two turns and walking a total of five very short blocks, I ran into not my street, but rather a major east-west highway that is perfectly straight and approximately 20 longish blocks northeast of my house, an entirely different direction from the original westward-pointing rectangle.
Not having my Guía (Buenos Aires map book) and being eternally confused by the northern position of the sun down here, I asked for directions from multiple people. They all gave the same directions back home, which was straight down a small southwest-pointing diagonal street I'd never heard of, walking the 20 longish blocks over the next 30 minutes, passing streets I'd also never heard of, since they're so far from my house. This small, unknown street finally crossed my street five blocks north of my house. Only contact with a fifth dimension can explain this geometry.
The peaches, however, were delicious.
Go see this movie
Fantstic Mr. Fox
It's one of the best films I've seen in years. This enjoyable Grist review gave me a whole new perspective on it, specifically from a locavore/foodie's slant. Plus, who doesn't love Roald Dahl?
http://www.grist.org/article/
It's one of the best films I've seen in years. This enjoyable Grist review gave me a whole new perspective on it, specifically from a locavore/foodie's slant. Plus, who doesn't love Roald Dahl?
http://www.grist.org/article/
Friday, November 13, 2009
Cheeseburger!
Earlier today I walked through the Key Bank parking lot right next door to my house, and I noticed a small stone memorial historical marker with some words etched into the top. Turns out the cheeseburger was invented...AT MY HOUSE!
A guy named Louis Ballast owned the Humpty Dumpty Barrel Drive-in Cafe, where he invented the cheeseburger in 1935. Though some argue he was not the first to slap cheese on a hamburger, he did beat everyone else to the punch by patenting it first. The Humpty Dumpty Barrel Drive-in Cafe (What a great name! I could say it over and over again, all day long...) used to be located right here at my house, on this very spot, or at least within a few yards of here, as the original building burned down a long time ago, and it's hard to say precisely where the building was. But I am willing to say that the rise of the world's cholesterol level literally began right where I'm sitting, right now. (Ta da! The sustainable living connection. I knew I could do it.)
Here's an article talking about it. And here's a picture of the marker that I found at this website:
How cool am I? The cheeseburger was invented at my house! I made a cheeseburger for dinner to celebrate. Admittedly, neither the inventor, Louis Ballast, nor his customers would likely recognize what I had as a cheeseburger, since the major ingredients, all organic of course, consisted of a gluten-free veggie burger, a rice flour hamburger bun, and almond cheese, but c'mon, how many people do you know who can say the cheeseburger was invented at their house? Right? Admit it. I'm cool.
A guy named Louis Ballast owned the Humpty Dumpty Barrel Drive-in Cafe, where he invented the cheeseburger in 1935. Though some argue he was not the first to slap cheese on a hamburger, he did beat everyone else to the punch by patenting it first. The Humpty Dumpty Barrel Drive-in Cafe (What a great name! I could say it over and over again, all day long...) used to be located right here at my house, on this very spot, or at least within a few yards of here, as the original building burned down a long time ago, and it's hard to say precisely where the building was. But I am willing to say that the rise of the world's cholesterol level literally began right where I'm sitting, right now. (Ta da! The sustainable living connection. I knew I could do it.)
Here's an article talking about it. And here's a picture of the marker that I found at this website:
How cool am I? The cheeseburger was invented at my house! I made a cheeseburger for dinner to celebrate. Admittedly, neither the inventor, Louis Ballast, nor his customers would likely recognize what I had as a cheeseburger, since the major ingredients, all organic of course, consisted of a gluten-free veggie burger, a rice flour hamburger bun, and almond cheese, but c'mon, how many people do you know who can say the cheeseburger was invented at their house? Right? Admit it. I'm cool.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
This Little Piggy Ran Barefoot Hundreds of Miles to Market
Just read a fascinating New York Times article about how humans evolved as excellent barefoot distance runners.
The conventional logic is that humans are physically inferior to most wild animals and that it's our advanced brains and community organization that helped us thrive. That never felt like the whole picture to me, especially given how harshly competitive survival can be in nature. I grew up hunting, and I'm not sure how many of us could catch our dinners without firearms. This running article snapped something into place for me. The idea that humans possess at least a few physical superiorities--perhaps even more important attributes than being fast and having big claws--makes a lot of sense.
In fact, the NYT article didn't mention one of the most important factors of all for humans being built for distance: a four-valve heart. Having a bigger, more efficient, more powerful heart helps us run longer distances than most any other animal.
Why did I write about this here, a blog about sustainability? I posted this because I'm a proponent of sustainability in all it's forms: societal and individual, physical and mental, environmental, financial, political, educational...everything. The different kinds of sustainability are inextricably intertwined. Imbalanced and unhealthy individuals create imbalanced and unhealthy societies, and visa versa.
If humans evolved running, then perhaps running is crucial to maintaining optimum health. Proper running form prevents injury and pain, and it promotes a strong and healthy body. Vibrant health is another way of describing youthfulness and longevity. Longevity is another word for sustainability. We're all learning--or relearning in some cases--how to live longer lives in happier communities with less footprint on the environment. Barefoot running certainly leaves a smaller footprint.
The jury's still out, however, on barefoot rock climbing. I'll let you know how that goes. :)
The conventional logic is that humans are physically inferior to most wild animals and that it's our advanced brains and community organization that helped us thrive. That never felt like the whole picture to me, especially given how harshly competitive survival can be in nature. I grew up hunting, and I'm not sure how many of us could catch our dinners without firearms. This running article snapped something into place for me. The idea that humans possess at least a few physical superiorities--perhaps even more important attributes than being fast and having big claws--makes a lot of sense.
In fact, the NYT article didn't mention one of the most important factors of all for humans being built for distance: a four-valve heart. Having a bigger, more efficient, more powerful heart helps us run longer distances than most any other animal.
Why did I write about this here, a blog about sustainability? I posted this because I'm a proponent of sustainability in all it's forms: societal and individual, physical and mental, environmental, financial, political, educational...everything. The different kinds of sustainability are inextricably intertwined. Imbalanced and unhealthy individuals create imbalanced and unhealthy societies, and visa versa.
If humans evolved running, then perhaps running is crucial to maintaining optimum health. Proper running form prevents injury and pain, and it promotes a strong and healthy body. Vibrant health is another way of describing youthfulness and longevity. Longevity is another word for sustainability. We're all learning--or relearning in some cases--how to live longer lives in happier communities with less footprint on the environment. Barefoot running certainly leaves a smaller footprint.
The jury's still out, however, on barefoot rock climbing. I'll let you know how that goes. :)
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The Most Important Letter I've Ever Written
"I prayed for twenty years but received no answer until I prayed with my legs."
-Frederick Douglass
Dear friends, family, and readers of my blog,
I recently read a fantastic but terrifying Grist.org article (and subsequent letter found near the bottom of the comment section) by Adam D. Sacks. Here is the link: The Absent Heart of the Great Climate Affair.
In it, he spoke of dour topics and dire times, how our collective ways of living are unsustainable, leading us to imminent environmental disaster, but that very few people seem to have the foresight, passion, and will to create the changes so desperately needed. This means, in less ambiguous terms, that it is quite likely that WE WILL ALL DIE if we don’t get our act together IMMEDIATELY.
Sacks inspired me to write a letter of my own, to spread the fire of passion and help create a new (or is it old?) way of life required of our species at this point in history.
When I read apocalyptic news stories, I try to read between the lines and understand what the story is really trying to tell me. The big picture that comes through loud and clear, over and over and over again, is that we’re all screwed. We’re killing our skies, our oceans, our fresh water, our weather, our farmland, our forests, our biodiversity, and our brothers and sisters, with a speed and scale unprecedented in all of earth’s history. (If you’d like me to send you credible links documenting the million and one ways we are in such trouble, I will, but for now, I’ll let the point stand.) Then we lamely justify doing so and our reasons for not changing our ways. Worse yet, we deny these problems even exist to begin with, preventing any Hail Mary solutions from possibly being put into play.
However, I don’t really believe that. At least not the part that we’re all screwed. Not yet. Those of you who know me well are likely unfortunate enough to also know that I’m a fighter when provoked. I don’t believe in violence, but I also don’t go down without a fight, and I don’t fight without the belief that I can win, no matter how long the odds. I feel the same about our current environmental predicament.
I’m reminded of the end credits of the movie WALL-E, wherein a sequence of images depicts humans rebuilding civilization out of the rubble of a wasted planet earth. The people appeared to have finally learned some valuable lessons about sustainable living. They used technology to improve their lives, but didn't worship it. They acted as stewards over the land. They didn't pollute. They were nice to each other. And so on. Not only did they live more sustainably, it looked like a pretty fabulous lifestyle as well.
I realize this amounts to nothing more than an overly-idealized cartoon, but perhaps that's the point. To date, I've only come across a handful of vivid visual or written representations of how we can do things differently as a society. I'm sure there are many that I just don't know about, but the small stack of positive alternatives barely registers in comparison with looming tower of apocalyptic movies, frightening documentaries, grisly news stories, and purple-faced pundits dominating the various media.
I wonder if the inaction Sacks wrote about results partly from a dearth of our collective imagination. That is, a lack of viable depictions of a happy, sustainable future is somewhat to blame for the shortage of proactive responses. I know that I all too often watch, read, or hear about some terrible thing that could or will destroy us all, but without an idea of how it could be different, I throw up my hands, curse the tragedy, and return to my own little world.
Conversely, after watching WALL-E for the first time, I planted an organic vegetable garden and put a beehive in my front yard. After stumbling upon a simple sketch of a parking garage and mall turned into a verdant urban oasis, I bought an abandoned triplex walking distance from downtown Denver and transformed it into a happy, healthy living space and artist colony. I'm not telling you this to impress or to pat myself on the back, but rather to support my theory that sometimes it's easier to work toward creating something good than it is to fight something bad, provided that we have a clear idea of what a new reality could actually look like. Without that vision of how it could be any different, how can we fathom taking action?
So what am I, personally, going to do about it? For starters, think, speak, and live with more passion. Fight the good fight. Write more letters, article responses, and blog posts like this one. Hold politicians, CEOs, and other leaders accountable for their actions and inaction. Educate myself. Live sustainably in a big way. And, perhaps most importantly, hold a vivid vision of what’s possible.
I expect you, my friends, family, and blog readers, to hold me accountable, just as I'm holding you accountable, for our respective responsibilities in creating our shared future. I’m grateful to Sacks for laying down a rough road map of where to go from here. I’ll do my part and try to add in what few details I can. I pray you’ll join me.
Sincerely,
Matt Sparks
-Frederick Douglass
Dear friends, family, and readers of my blog,
I recently read a fantastic but terrifying Grist.org article (and subsequent letter found near the bottom of the comment section) by Adam D. Sacks. Here is the link: The Absent Heart of the Great Climate Affair.
In it, he spoke of dour topics and dire times, how our collective ways of living are unsustainable, leading us to imminent environmental disaster, but that very few people seem to have the foresight, passion, and will to create the changes so desperately needed. This means, in less ambiguous terms, that it is quite likely that WE WILL ALL DIE if we don’t get our act together IMMEDIATELY.
Sacks inspired me to write a letter of my own, to spread the fire of passion and help create a new (or is it old?) way of life required of our species at this point in history.
When I read apocalyptic news stories, I try to read between the lines and understand what the story is really trying to tell me. The big picture that comes through loud and clear, over and over and over again, is that we’re all screwed. We’re killing our skies, our oceans, our fresh water, our weather, our farmland, our forests, our biodiversity, and our brothers and sisters, with a speed and scale unprecedented in all of earth’s history. (If you’d like me to send you credible links documenting the million and one ways we are in such trouble, I will, but for now, I’ll let the point stand.) Then we lamely justify doing so and our reasons for not changing our ways. Worse yet, we deny these problems even exist to begin with, preventing any Hail Mary solutions from possibly being put into play.
However, I don’t really believe that. At least not the part that we’re all screwed. Not yet. Those of you who know me well are likely unfortunate enough to also know that I’m a fighter when provoked. I don’t believe in violence, but I also don’t go down without a fight, and I don’t fight without the belief that I can win, no matter how long the odds. I feel the same about our current environmental predicament.
I’m reminded of the end credits of the movie WALL-E, wherein a sequence of images depicts humans rebuilding civilization out of the rubble of a wasted planet earth. The people appeared to have finally learned some valuable lessons about sustainable living. They used technology to improve their lives, but didn't worship it. They acted as stewards over the land. They didn't pollute. They were nice to each other. And so on. Not only did they live more sustainably, it looked like a pretty fabulous lifestyle as well.
I realize this amounts to nothing more than an overly-idealized cartoon, but perhaps that's the point. To date, I've only come across a handful of vivid visual or written representations of how we can do things differently as a society. I'm sure there are many that I just don't know about, but the small stack of positive alternatives barely registers in comparison with looming tower of apocalyptic movies, frightening documentaries, grisly news stories, and purple-faced pundits dominating the various media.
I wonder if the inaction Sacks wrote about results partly from a dearth of our collective imagination. That is, a lack of viable depictions of a happy, sustainable future is somewhat to blame for the shortage of proactive responses. I know that I all too often watch, read, or hear about some terrible thing that could or will destroy us all, but without an idea of how it could be different, I throw up my hands, curse the tragedy, and return to my own little world.
Conversely, after watching WALL-E for the first time, I planted an organic vegetable garden and put a beehive in my front yard. After stumbling upon a simple sketch of a parking garage and mall turned into a verdant urban oasis, I bought an abandoned triplex walking distance from downtown Denver and transformed it into a happy, healthy living space and artist colony. I'm not telling you this to impress or to pat myself on the back, but rather to support my theory that sometimes it's easier to work toward creating something good than it is to fight something bad, provided that we have a clear idea of what a new reality could actually look like. Without that vision of how it could be any different, how can we fathom taking action?
So what am I, personally, going to do about it? For starters, think, speak, and live with more passion. Fight the good fight. Write more letters, article responses, and blog posts like this one. Hold politicians, CEOs, and other leaders accountable for their actions and inaction. Educate myself. Live sustainably in a big way. And, perhaps most importantly, hold a vivid vision of what’s possible.
I expect you, my friends, family, and blog readers, to hold me accountable, just as I'm holding you accountable, for our respective responsibilities in creating our shared future. I’m grateful to Sacks for laying down a rough road map of where to go from here. I’ll do my part and try to add in what few details I can. I pray you’ll join me.
Sincerely,
Matt Sparks
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Damage Control
In the interest of unwinding any of the depression or despair my previous post may have caused, here's a quote from my hero:
We did not come to fear the future. We came here to shape it. I still believe we can act even when it's hard. I still believe--I still believe that we can act when it's hard. I still believe we can replace acrimony with civility, and gridlock with progress. I still believe we can do great things, and that here and now we will meet history's test.
Because that's who we are. That is our calling. That is our character.
-Barack Obama, Health Care Reform Speech to Congress, 9/9/09
We did not come to fear the future. We came here to shape it. I still believe we can act even when it's hard. I still believe--I still believe that we can act when it's hard. I still believe we can replace acrimony with civility, and gridlock with progress. I still believe we can do great things, and that here and now we will meet history's test.
Because that's who we are. That is our calling. That is our character.
-Barack Obama, Health Care Reform Speech to Congress, 9/9/09
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Hold onto Your Hats and Glasses Folks...
"It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything." -Tyler Durden
So this is what climate change looks like. Orange and eerie. Ash from California wildfires, greatly exacerbated due to longer, hotter dry seasons and unprecedented droughts, has drifted into Colorado's atmosphere. The sky is yellowish-orange; the sun, hazy orange; the sunset, spectacular and orange; the moon, an uncanny, big orange pumpkin, all night long.
Today I realized it's happening. Climate change is here. It's no longer a scary but remote possibility of a dramatic and dangerous future some scientists warned us about. It came. Just like they said it would, it came. I'm not even discussing this with AGW-deniers anymore. Why bother? It's pretty obvious, to anyone who wants to see, that the emperor has no clothes, that climate change is real. It's already here, kicking our asses and getting a little bit worse every day.
I took a drive through the mountains near Golden the other day and saw mile after mile of dead pine trees, the same sight one can find all across the state. The mountain pine beetles, flourishing due to milder Rocky Mountain winters, killed them. Nearly all of them, and judging by the rapid progress of the blight in the past couple years, the beetles will kill the holdouts soon. Already in some areas, on some mountains, not a single green tree remains. From Mexico into Canada, the Rocky Mountain forests are all dead and dying. Soon, those millions upon millions of acres of now orangish-brown forest will burn. It will be bad. The ecosystem will not recover, many people will die, and millions of people all across the country will breathe polluted air from orange-colored skies for years on end. That means you and me.
The world is coming to an end. That's the best news I've heard all day. Don't get me wrong, I don't want it to happen, not even close, but I had a really bad day. Two foreclosure notices, a repo man trying to find my car (I thought I was current!), six overdraft fees and no cash coming in anytime soon, my ulcer is acting up, a bad date last night...I could go on, but I don't want to bore you. I'm no woe-is-me victim of life. I just had a bad day, and somehow the thought that the world is coming to an end actually, weirdly, cheered me up.
Here's the thing: I'm not religious, but I believe in the soul, an afterlife, and reincarnation. I must have known, at least to some degree, what I was in for when I decided to choose this particular life at this particular point in history. If, in fact, the world is coming to an end, I must have known this ahead of time. That's too big to miss when you're planning out a lifetime. I must have had my reasons for coming.
For example, I'm sure there will be lots of opportunity for personal growth in the coming years. And perhaps some of my random-but-so-far-mostly-useless survival and leadership skills will come in handy someday. If nothing else, it's going to be a wild ride, like one of those terrifyingly-old wooden roller coasters where you swear you saw some missing bolts on the way up and you're positive that it eventually will fly off the tracks at fifty miles an hour and you just hope you're not in it when it does. Except that in this case, every living thing on earth is riding in the same cart, and we've already flown off the tracks, but we just haven't completely smashed into the ground just yet.
I've finally accepted that I may die a terrible death, possibly along with everyone else. I sure hope not. I'm doing what I can to prevent that, including, perhaps most importantly, maintaining hope in the face of very long odds. But there it is. Maybe it's for the best; maybe modern life isn't sustainable or even all that great to begin with. Maybe some things need to end in order to create a new beginning. Regardless, it's going to be interesting. And anyway, if we are past the point of no return, then I guess I don't have to worry about my credit score for too much longer.
Let me put it another way with this story. Last weekend I saw a live theatrical performance of Dial M for Murder, a Hithcock movie, at a cozy, local theater. My two friends and I lucked into front row seats, despite our last-minute purchase of tickets. (Spoiler alert...) At the very end, when the bad guy got busted in his own parlor, he looked around and enjoyed one last moment of relative freedom while everything still retained the appearance of normalcy. He downed a glass of whiskey, undoubtedly his last, and then the play ended on the assumption that the police shortly hauled him away, ultimately to the electric chair.
They say we're headed for upwards of a 10 degree Celsius (18 degree Fahrenheit) increase in global temperature by 2100, and possibly a lot more, since we're already way ahead of schedule. Does anyone really believe any ecosystem anywhere can survive even a third of that? Not likely. Have you looked at the sky lately? We're not faring so well with the 0.9 degree Celsius increase we've already experienced. Maybe it's time to take that drink of whiskey.
While that was probably the best natural ending to this post, I like Fight Club as a better civilization-ending-as-movie-ending-as-essay-ending. (Another spoiler alert...) In the last scene, the narrator/protagonist stands hand-in-hand with his girlfriend, watching the destruction of modern civilization unfold from their vantage point of a large window in a high-rise office suite. Too late to stop the anarchy he unwittingly caused, and with a gaping self-inflicted gunshot wound still smoking in the back of his head, all Jack could manage to tell her was, "You met me at a very strange time in my life."
Yup.
So this is what climate change looks like. Orange and eerie. Ash from California wildfires, greatly exacerbated due to longer, hotter dry seasons and unprecedented droughts, has drifted into Colorado's atmosphere. The sky is yellowish-orange; the sun, hazy orange; the sunset, spectacular and orange; the moon, an uncanny, big orange pumpkin, all night long.
Today I realized it's happening. Climate change is here. It's no longer a scary but remote possibility of a dramatic and dangerous future some scientists warned us about. It came. Just like they said it would, it came. I'm not even discussing this with AGW-deniers anymore. Why bother? It's pretty obvious, to anyone who wants to see, that the emperor has no clothes, that climate change is real. It's already here, kicking our asses and getting a little bit worse every day.
I took a drive through the mountains near Golden the other day and saw mile after mile of dead pine trees, the same sight one can find all across the state. The mountain pine beetles, flourishing due to milder Rocky Mountain winters, killed them. Nearly all of them, and judging by the rapid progress of the blight in the past couple years, the beetles will kill the holdouts soon. Already in some areas, on some mountains, not a single green tree remains. From Mexico into Canada, the Rocky Mountain forests are all dead and dying. Soon, those millions upon millions of acres of now orangish-brown forest will burn. It will be bad. The ecosystem will not recover, many people will die, and millions of people all across the country will breathe polluted air from orange-colored skies for years on end. That means you and me.
The world is coming to an end. That's the best news I've heard all day. Don't get me wrong, I don't want it to happen, not even close, but I had a really bad day. Two foreclosure notices, a repo man trying to find my car (I thought I was current!), six overdraft fees and no cash coming in anytime soon, my ulcer is acting up, a bad date last night...I could go on, but I don't want to bore you. I'm no woe-is-me victim of life. I just had a bad day, and somehow the thought that the world is coming to an end actually, weirdly, cheered me up.
Here's the thing: I'm not religious, but I believe in the soul, an afterlife, and reincarnation. I must have known, at least to some degree, what I was in for when I decided to choose this particular life at this particular point in history. If, in fact, the world is coming to an end, I must have known this ahead of time. That's too big to miss when you're planning out a lifetime. I must have had my reasons for coming.
For example, I'm sure there will be lots of opportunity for personal growth in the coming years. And perhaps some of my random-but-so-far-mostly-useless survival and leadership skills will come in handy someday. If nothing else, it's going to be a wild ride, like one of those terrifyingly-old wooden roller coasters where you swear you saw some missing bolts on the way up and you're positive that it eventually will fly off the tracks at fifty miles an hour and you just hope you're not in it when it does. Except that in this case, every living thing on earth is riding in the same cart, and we've already flown off the tracks, but we just haven't completely smashed into the ground just yet.
I've finally accepted that I may die a terrible death, possibly along with everyone else. I sure hope not. I'm doing what I can to prevent that, including, perhaps most importantly, maintaining hope in the face of very long odds. But there it is. Maybe it's for the best; maybe modern life isn't sustainable or even all that great to begin with. Maybe some things need to end in order to create a new beginning. Regardless, it's going to be interesting. And anyway, if we are past the point of no return, then I guess I don't have to worry about my credit score for too much longer.
Let me put it another way with this story. Last weekend I saw a live theatrical performance of Dial M for Murder, a Hithcock movie, at a cozy, local theater. My two friends and I lucked into front row seats, despite our last-minute purchase of tickets. (Spoiler alert...) At the very end, when the bad guy got busted in his own parlor, he looked around and enjoyed one last moment of relative freedom while everything still retained the appearance of normalcy. He downed a glass of whiskey, undoubtedly his last, and then the play ended on the assumption that the police shortly hauled him away, ultimately to the electric chair.
They say we're headed for upwards of a 10 degree Celsius (18 degree Fahrenheit) increase in global temperature by 2100, and possibly a lot more, since we're already way ahead of schedule. Does anyone really believe any ecosystem anywhere can survive even a third of that? Not likely. Have you looked at the sky lately? We're not faring so well with the 0.9 degree Celsius increase we've already experienced. Maybe it's time to take that drink of whiskey.
While that was probably the best natural ending to this post, I like Fight Club as a better civilization-ending-as-movie-ending-as-essay-ending. (Another spoiler alert...) In the last scene, the narrator/protagonist stands hand-in-hand with his girlfriend, watching the destruction of modern civilization unfold from their vantage point of a large window in a high-rise office suite. Too late to stop the anarchy he unwittingly caused, and with a gaping self-inflicted gunshot wound still smoking in the back of his head, all Jack could manage to tell her was, "You met me at a very strange time in my life."
Yup.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Walden Lives
I just read a fantastic Jonathan Hiskes article in Grist.com on Henry David Thoreau and climate change and felt compelled to respond.
Like Hiskes, I too am just about to finish rereading Walden at the moment, first time in years. I noticed Thoreau's stunt aspect as well, but I'm reminded also of a bigger philosophy to his experiment that has less to do with environmentalism, economics, and book deals, and more to do with a personal philosophy on living. As in, Thoreau was deeply self-aware, constantly observing, analyzing, and experimenting with self and world alike. This playful approach can be applied to urban living, rural living, and everything in between. It's about keeping our eyes wide open and being courageous enough to try out something different than the norm--life itself as a grand experiment that's never over.
I'm reminded of how Edward Abbey, the anarchist enviro-hero and desert rat, also lived in Hoboken and worked in Brooklyn for a period. Similarly, a friend living in Manhattan told me he saw the city as his garden, a place of mindfulness and spiritual connection, words more often used for places like Walden and the Colorado Rockies where I live, not Times Square.
As the world continues to shrink and as environments continue to change, we'll need to adapt and learn new ways to interact with each other and nature. Thoreau not only offers a specific example of a way to live more simply and sustainably, but he also offers advice on how to go about rethinking and redesigning individual and societal life in general (whether we come to the same conclusions as him or not) and that's something we'll all be doing a lot more of in the months and years to come.
Like Hiskes, I too am just about to finish rereading Walden at the moment, first time in years. I noticed Thoreau's stunt aspect as well, but I'm reminded also of a bigger philosophy to his experiment that has less to do with environmentalism, economics, and book deals, and more to do with a personal philosophy on living. As in, Thoreau was deeply self-aware, constantly observing, analyzing, and experimenting with self and world alike. This playful approach can be applied to urban living, rural living, and everything in between. It's about keeping our eyes wide open and being courageous enough to try out something different than the norm--life itself as a grand experiment that's never over.
I'm reminded of how Edward Abbey, the anarchist enviro-hero and desert rat, also lived in Hoboken and worked in Brooklyn for a period. Similarly, a friend living in Manhattan told me he saw the city as his garden, a place of mindfulness and spiritual connection, words more often used for places like Walden and the Colorado Rockies where I live, not Times Square.
As the world continues to shrink and as environments continue to change, we'll need to adapt and learn new ways to interact with each other and nature. Thoreau not only offers a specific example of a way to live more simply and sustainably, but he also offers advice on how to go about rethinking and redesigning individual and societal life in general (whether we come to the same conclusions as him or not) and that's something we'll all be doing a lot more of in the months and years to come.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Universal Mind at Work?
Seems as though the great (and I don't mean that sarcastically, he's one of my heroes) Thomas Friedman has been thinking along the same lines as my previous post. His most recent New York Times column discusses The Great Disruption of 2008 in both the economy and the environment, and how we (as in, the human race) have begun to move from basing global economic growth on the one-time-use of one-time-mining of resources to creating renewable resource flows for cradle-to-cradle closed-loop products.
In other words, we're knocking down the blocks that comprised the old ideas and economic structures so we can rebuild our society and economy in more sustainable ways. He's even optimistic about our ability to rebuild before the environment and economy are too far gone. If he's got hope, and if Obama's got hope, then I can have hope.
Here's the link to his article: The Inflection Is Near?
In other words, we're knocking down the blocks that comprised the old ideas and economic structures so we can rebuild our society and economy in more sustainable ways. He's even optimistic about our ability to rebuild before the environment and economy are too far gone. If he's got hope, and if Obama's got hope, then I can have hope.
Here's the link to his article: The Inflection Is Near?
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Forget the Phoenix and Butterfly, I've Got a New Metaphor
Last night, I had a conversation with a really wise old woman named Carol. The discussion eventually turned to the economy. Carol told me a story of how she used to teach young children. The little boys in her class would inevitably end up at the back of the room playing with the building blocks. They'd build elaborate structures (or not, depending on the creative faculties of the child), and then knock them down in a loud clatter. Sometimes a flying block would hit a child in the face, maybe even hurting him, and he'd cry for a bit, but ultimately, the hurt would stop. More importantly though, they needed to knock down their creations in order to build something new and better and keep learning. Carol made the analogy that that's what's happening in our economy right now. I hope she's right.
On the way home, I got to thinking that maybe this same principle is at work with regard to our struggling ecosystem and our cities. Maybe we're knocking our blocks down so that we can rebuild them again. Granted, it's pretty hard to scrub carbon from the sky and unmelt the icecaps, and impossible to bring back extinct species and hurricane victim fatalities, but I'm trying to have a hopeful moment here.
Greensburg, Kansas serves as an example of what I mean. The town was obliterated by an F5 tornado in 2007, one of the worst years on record for tornado activity (along with 2004 and 2008, notice a pattern there?). Many scientists theorize that climate change influenced the doubling of the frequency of tornadoes in the Midwest over the past 40 years, possibly even as a contributing cause of the Greensburg tornado. Of course, the official line is that this is all unproven conjecture, but I'm not sure the families of the rising number of people killed annually by tornadoes would agree. But that's not the point. Greensburg is rebuilding itself as a LEED Platinum City, which means extra green, extra efficient, extra sustainable, extra New Urbanist. If other cities follow suit, we may just have a chance at curbing climate change after all. Knock it down, rebuild it again, but better.
I've heard that in Chinese, the symbol for crisis is the same as the symbol for opportunity. That might sound cliché, but it's also a pretty cool metaphor for our time.
On the way home, I got to thinking that maybe this same principle is at work with regard to our struggling ecosystem and our cities. Maybe we're knocking our blocks down so that we can rebuild them again. Granted, it's pretty hard to scrub carbon from the sky and unmelt the icecaps, and impossible to bring back extinct species and hurricane victim fatalities, but I'm trying to have a hopeful moment here.
Greensburg, Kansas serves as an example of what I mean. The town was obliterated by an F5 tornado in 2007, one of the worst years on record for tornado activity (along with 2004 and 2008, notice a pattern there?). Many scientists theorize that climate change influenced the doubling of the frequency of tornadoes in the Midwest over the past 40 years, possibly even as a contributing cause of the Greensburg tornado. Of course, the official line is that this is all unproven conjecture, but I'm not sure the families of the rising number of people killed annually by tornadoes would agree. But that's not the point. Greensburg is rebuilding itself as a LEED Platinum City, which means extra green, extra efficient, extra sustainable, extra New Urbanist. If other cities follow suit, we may just have a chance at curbing climate change after all. Knock it down, rebuild it again, but better.
I've heard that in Chinese, the symbol for crisis is the same as the symbol for opportunity. That might sound cliché, but it's also a pretty cool metaphor for our time.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Life Improvement Project
I went for a nice walk with a friend through the neighborhood this evening, as we so often do. We noticed that a Victorian house just a couple blocks down was about halfway through a big renovation job. The owners appeared to be doubling the square footage and overall footprint of the house, no doubt also doubling the value as well. Good for them, I thought.
But as we strolled past maybe six or seven more houses undergoing similar construction all on the same block, something dawned on me. I told her, “You know…this neighborhood will forever consist of considerably less green space, with all these bigger houses and smaller yards.”
She responded, “Why don’t you try to look at the bright side for once? At least they didn’t move to the suburbs.”
She had me there. I’m usually a big fan of urban infill. So why was I having an adverse reaction to all these home improvement projects?
As we walked on, I turned this question over in my head for several blocks before I figured it out. It has to do with a seemingly benign word in the phrase “home improvement project”: improvement. If you’ve ever read an appraisal or the county property assessor’s report for your home, you may have noticed that your property has two distinct values for two distinct components: the land and the improvements. The improvements refer to any permanent buildings or structures built on the land. Unless your home is a cabin on 4000 acres of beachfront or a hovel on the strip in Las Vegas, the value of the land will usually be a fraction of the value of the improvements. In other words, houses are worth way more than empty lots. Also, because home values are mostly a function of price per square foot, bigger houses are generally worth more than smaller houses. Therefore, doubling the size of your house roughly doubles the value, regardless of the size of the yard. Makes perfect sense, right?
Well, mostly. But similar to how the laws of Newtonian physics begin to break down as certain conditions—such as the velocity or temperature of matter—become more extreme, the fundamental principles of city planning, zoning laws, and home valuation sometimes cease to create the best urban spaces possible. Times are changing. Conditions aren’t what they were in the 50s when many of these laws and systems were created. Most notably, we’ve redlined the economy and our consumption of natural resources at the same time our sense of community and our level of personal fitness have approached absolute zero. The correlations are subtle but present.
I admit that many factors intertwine in unfathomably complex ways both as causes and effects of modern life. It’s difficult to say that this problem over here is a direct result of that cause over there. However, I do believe that the shape, structure, utility, sustainability, community, beauty, and green space of and within our cities crucially impact the quality of our individual and collective lives in ways we’re only beginning to understand. The growing popularity of new urbanism within planning departments and development companies across the country—across the world even—suggests that perhaps the old rules don’t always work as well as they should. As the world changes, we must adapt to these changes with purpose and intention.
Well, so what? Does this esoteric blather really matter to us regular folk on the micro scale? My answer is yes. Specifically, I believe we need smaller houses and bigger yards, and that our own physical, mental, and spiritual health depend on it.
When we build bigger, better inside spaces (i.e. our homes and businesses) and decrease the quality and quantity of our outside spaces (i.e. our yards and parks), we incentivize ourselves to spend more time inside and less time outside. This cuts us off from interaction with our neighbors as well as with nature. Sociologists tell us it also tends to fatten us up. These are no small things. We need more community, not less; more fresh air, sunlight, and connection to all-things-green, not less; more exercise, not less.
I personally know exactly two of my neighbors, and I don’t know those two very well, partly because I live in a triplex surrounded by large condo buildings and houses with tall fences. The buildings around me have virtually no yards. Avoiding cars as they dart in and out of the underground garage comprises my only interaction with the condo owners. But I am just as susceptible as everyone else; the nicer and bigger my apartment or home, the more time I tend to spend indoors. My current apartment is the smallest quarters I’ve had in years, and my time here also corresponds to the period in which I’ve spent the most time outside in the yard, created my first food-producing garden in two decades, started my first bee colony and compost pile, and walked and biked more than I have driven.
Perhaps even more important than those factors, however, is our runaway consumerism. From the very first television commercial we see as children, we’re imbued with the idea that more is better. We must buy the latest, biggest, and best as often as we can, even when we can’t afford it. Buy a house. Fill it with stuff. Buy a bigger house. Fill it with more stuff. I’m as bad as anyone. I have an iPod, an iPod Shuffle, an iPhone, two digital cameras, two computers, two bicycles, and over twenty pairs of shoes.
I also recognize that virtually none of this stuff improves the quality of my life—at least not for very long—or makes me any happier than I was when I didn’t have it. In fact, as I’ve begun to downsize my wardrobe, my collection of gadgets and toys, and the size of my house, my life has become less cluttered. My mind is less distracted. I’m more organized. I save more money and accrue less credit card debt. My heating bills are lower. I don’t have to work as much to support my lifestyle. I have more free time. I can more easily make do with smaller spaces when I have less junk to store. And I enjoy the things I do have more when I have fewer things altogether.
I know, I know, the annoying simplify-your-life movement is nothing new. But do we really have a choice anymore? What will happen if we continue our trend toward buying more and more stuff, mostly on credit, to fill our ever-larger homes surrounded by ever-smaller yards in endlessly sprawling megacities? Our budgets won’t sustain it. The economy won’t sustain it. The ecosystem won’t sustain it. Our personal need for community won’t sustain it. Our waistlines won’t sustain it. Our souls won’t sustain it. I would argue that we’ve already reached the breakdown point on all these fronts, and if the current economic crisis, global warming, obesity rates, and spate of school shootings are any indication, we’ve already begun to see the fallout in myriad ways.
I’m not so sure we really do need bigger spaces to store our increasing pile of stuff. I think we can be more efficient with what we already have, downsizing our possessions and our unfulfillable desire to have bigger, better, more—and I’m guessing my depression-era grandparents would be proud of that conclusion. I’ve come to disagree with the belief that "unimproved" land has virtually no value. The next house I buy will be very small, in a pedestrian-friendly community, and will have a big beautiful yard in which to plant my garden and spend time reading in the shade. Or perhaps I’ll just work on making my current home and yard more usable, more efficient, healthier, and more neighborly, instead of just adding square footage or buying something new. I bet the flora, fauna, and other people in my neighborhood will appreciate that too.
But as we strolled past maybe six or seven more houses undergoing similar construction all on the same block, something dawned on me. I told her, “You know…this neighborhood will forever consist of considerably less green space, with all these bigger houses and smaller yards.”
She responded, “Why don’t you try to look at the bright side for once? At least they didn’t move to the suburbs.”
She had me there. I’m usually a big fan of urban infill. So why was I having an adverse reaction to all these home improvement projects?
As we walked on, I turned this question over in my head for several blocks before I figured it out. It has to do with a seemingly benign word in the phrase “home improvement project”: improvement. If you’ve ever read an appraisal or the county property assessor’s report for your home, you may have noticed that your property has two distinct values for two distinct components: the land and the improvements. The improvements refer to any permanent buildings or structures built on the land. Unless your home is a cabin on 4000 acres of beachfront or a hovel on the strip in Las Vegas, the value of the land will usually be a fraction of the value of the improvements. In other words, houses are worth way more than empty lots. Also, because home values are mostly a function of price per square foot, bigger houses are generally worth more than smaller houses. Therefore, doubling the size of your house roughly doubles the value, regardless of the size of the yard. Makes perfect sense, right?
Well, mostly. But similar to how the laws of Newtonian physics begin to break down as certain conditions—such as the velocity or temperature of matter—become more extreme, the fundamental principles of city planning, zoning laws, and home valuation sometimes cease to create the best urban spaces possible. Times are changing. Conditions aren’t what they were in the 50s when many of these laws and systems were created. Most notably, we’ve redlined the economy and our consumption of natural resources at the same time our sense of community and our level of personal fitness have approached absolute zero. The correlations are subtle but present.
I admit that many factors intertwine in unfathomably complex ways both as causes and effects of modern life. It’s difficult to say that this problem over here is a direct result of that cause over there. However, I do believe that the shape, structure, utility, sustainability, community, beauty, and green space of and within our cities crucially impact the quality of our individual and collective lives in ways we’re only beginning to understand. The growing popularity of new urbanism within planning departments and development companies across the country—across the world even—suggests that perhaps the old rules don’t always work as well as they should. As the world changes, we must adapt to these changes with purpose and intention.
Well, so what? Does this esoteric blather really matter to us regular folk on the micro scale? My answer is yes. Specifically, I believe we need smaller houses and bigger yards, and that our own physical, mental, and spiritual health depend on it.
When we build bigger, better inside spaces (i.e. our homes and businesses) and decrease the quality and quantity of our outside spaces (i.e. our yards and parks), we incentivize ourselves to spend more time inside and less time outside. This cuts us off from interaction with our neighbors as well as with nature. Sociologists tell us it also tends to fatten us up. These are no small things. We need more community, not less; more fresh air, sunlight, and connection to all-things-green, not less; more exercise, not less.
I personally know exactly two of my neighbors, and I don’t know those two very well, partly because I live in a triplex surrounded by large condo buildings and houses with tall fences. The buildings around me have virtually no yards. Avoiding cars as they dart in and out of the underground garage comprises my only interaction with the condo owners. But I am just as susceptible as everyone else; the nicer and bigger my apartment or home, the more time I tend to spend indoors. My current apartment is the smallest quarters I’ve had in years, and my time here also corresponds to the period in which I’ve spent the most time outside in the yard, created my first food-producing garden in two decades, started my first bee colony and compost pile, and walked and biked more than I have driven.
Perhaps even more important than those factors, however, is our runaway consumerism. From the very first television commercial we see as children, we’re imbued with the idea that more is better. We must buy the latest, biggest, and best as often as we can, even when we can’t afford it. Buy a house. Fill it with stuff. Buy a bigger house. Fill it with more stuff. I’m as bad as anyone. I have an iPod, an iPod Shuffle, an iPhone, two digital cameras, two computers, two bicycles, and over twenty pairs of shoes.
I also recognize that virtually none of this stuff improves the quality of my life—at least not for very long—or makes me any happier than I was when I didn’t have it. In fact, as I’ve begun to downsize my wardrobe, my collection of gadgets and toys, and the size of my house, my life has become less cluttered. My mind is less distracted. I’m more organized. I save more money and accrue less credit card debt. My heating bills are lower. I don’t have to work as much to support my lifestyle. I have more free time. I can more easily make do with smaller spaces when I have less junk to store. And I enjoy the things I do have more when I have fewer things altogether.
I know, I know, the annoying simplify-your-life movement is nothing new. But do we really have a choice anymore? What will happen if we continue our trend toward buying more and more stuff, mostly on credit, to fill our ever-larger homes surrounded by ever-smaller yards in endlessly sprawling megacities? Our budgets won’t sustain it. The economy won’t sustain it. The ecosystem won’t sustain it. Our personal need for community won’t sustain it. Our waistlines won’t sustain it. Our souls won’t sustain it. I would argue that we’ve already reached the breakdown point on all these fronts, and if the current economic crisis, global warming, obesity rates, and spate of school shootings are any indication, we’ve already begun to see the fallout in myriad ways.
I’m not so sure we really do need bigger spaces to store our increasing pile of stuff. I think we can be more efficient with what we already have, downsizing our possessions and our unfulfillable desire to have bigger, better, more—and I’m guessing my depression-era grandparents would be proud of that conclusion. I’ve come to disagree with the belief that "unimproved" land has virtually no value. The next house I buy will be very small, in a pedestrian-friendly community, and will have a big beautiful yard in which to plant my garden and spend time reading in the shade. Or perhaps I’ll just work on making my current home and yard more usable, more efficient, healthier, and more neighborly, instead of just adding square footage or buying something new. I bet the flora, fauna, and other people in my neighborhood will appreciate that too.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Bee Wars: A New Hope
The bees were in trouble. I don't mean bees as a species, though that's also true. I mean my bees. Our bees. The bees in the beehive my roommate Jennie and I bought just three weeks ago. I heard Jennie shout from the yard. I ran outside to see what was wrong. About fifteen or twenty wasps were attacking the hive, stinging the bees to death, hauling them away for food, and trying to sneak inside the hive. I didn't know what to do about it.
Standing in front of the hive, I felt a little like Luke Skywalker as he stood in front of the Emperor at the climax of Return of the Jedi. Part of me wanted to remain neutral and not give in to my anger, causing me to do something I would undoubtedly regret. Another part of me raged as I watched my friends get killed, one by one, by this more powerful, swarming menace. These bees are my friends, and there I was, not doing a thing except watching them literally get torn to shreds.
The minutes ticked on. More mad at myself than anything, I wished I knew more about beekeeping. Did the bees really need my help? Are attacks like this part of the natural way of things? Can I justify killing the wasps, which are a vital part of the ecosystem as well? These wasps just wanted a meal so they could keep on living themselves, and goodness knows there's plenty of bees in my hive.
But these are my bees. When we bought this hive, the destiny of these bees inextricably linked itself to Jennie and me. The world's bees are dying. But not mine. Not today. In a strange way, I'm just a very big bee in this hive. I'm a guard bee. I'm an attack bee. I'm a Jedi master bee. Don't mess with my hive.
So I grabbed a stick. Actually, it was a discarded foot-and-a-half-long scrap of old hardwood flooring from my home remodeling project. Perfect. Reduce, reuse, recycle, we environmentalists always say. "This fits 'reuse,' right?" I said to Jennie as I snuck up beside the meelee. A wasp near the back of the swarm ventured my direction, separated from the pack and flying low to the ground. Wham. It became a very flat wasp. Wham, wham. Another flat wasp. Wham, a near miss and a counterattack by the wasp, causing a sudden but brief retreat on my part. Wham, wham, wham. Again and again, I leapt into the fray with my board, smashed away at the enemy, and quickly retreated.
In twenty minutes, it was all over. The wasps' bodies lay scattered about the front of the hive, just as in Star Wars when Luke and his friends finally defeated the Emperor and his countless storm troopers in their demolished TIE fighter fleet. The enemy now vanquished, harmony returned to the galaxy. The bees quickly calmed down and went back to their normal bee business. As if they knew I fought for them, not a single bee stung me or even so much as buzzed my face throughout the entire battle, despite my proximity to the hive throughout the ordeal. Member of the hive I am. A Jedi bee I became.
Once it was over, my adrenaline from battle subsided a bit, and I felt a tinge of remorse for having killed nearly two dozen wasps. Jennie, watching from a few feet away the enitre time, said, "If the bees could swing a piece of hardwood flooring at the wasps, they'd do it. We should spear the dead wasp bodies on little thumbtacks around the hive as a warning." I may not have made the right decision to intervene, but she's totally right. The bees need help. The whole planet needs help. The time of impartiality is over, and I'm in this fight until it's won.
Standing in front of the hive, I felt a little like Luke Skywalker as he stood in front of the Emperor at the climax of Return of the Jedi. Part of me wanted to remain neutral and not give in to my anger, causing me to do something I would undoubtedly regret. Another part of me raged as I watched my friends get killed, one by one, by this more powerful, swarming menace. These bees are my friends, and there I was, not doing a thing except watching them literally get torn to shreds.
The minutes ticked on. More mad at myself than anything, I wished I knew more about beekeeping. Did the bees really need my help? Are attacks like this part of the natural way of things? Can I justify killing the wasps, which are a vital part of the ecosystem as well? These wasps just wanted a meal so they could keep on living themselves, and goodness knows there's plenty of bees in my hive.
But these are my bees. When we bought this hive, the destiny of these bees inextricably linked itself to Jennie and me. The world's bees are dying. But not mine. Not today. In a strange way, I'm just a very big bee in this hive. I'm a guard bee. I'm an attack bee. I'm a Jedi master bee. Don't mess with my hive.
So I grabbed a stick. Actually, it was a discarded foot-and-a-half-long scrap of old hardwood flooring from my home remodeling project. Perfect. Reduce, reuse, recycle, we environmentalists always say. "This fits 'reuse,' right?" I said to Jennie as I snuck up beside the meelee. A wasp near the back of the swarm ventured my direction, separated from the pack and flying low to the ground. Wham. It became a very flat wasp. Wham, wham. Another flat wasp. Wham, a near miss and a counterattack by the wasp, causing a sudden but brief retreat on my part. Wham, wham, wham. Again and again, I leapt into the fray with my board, smashed away at the enemy, and quickly retreated.
In twenty minutes, it was all over. The wasps' bodies lay scattered about the front of the hive, just as in Star Wars when Luke and his friends finally defeated the Emperor and his countless storm troopers in their demolished TIE fighter fleet. The enemy now vanquished, harmony returned to the galaxy. The bees quickly calmed down and went back to their normal bee business. As if they knew I fought for them, not a single bee stung me or even so much as buzzed my face throughout the entire battle, despite my proximity to the hive throughout the ordeal. Member of the hive I am. A Jedi bee I became.
Once it was over, my adrenaline from battle subsided a bit, and I felt a tinge of remorse for having killed nearly two dozen wasps. Jennie, watching from a few feet away the enitre time, said, "If the bees could swing a piece of hardwood flooring at the wasps, they'd do it. We should spear the dead wasp bodies on little thumbtacks around the hive as a warning." I may not have made the right decision to intervene, but she's totally right. The bees need help. The whole planet needs help. The time of impartiality is over, and I'm in this fight until it's won.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
What I Love Most about Cities
Cities are always best at dawn and dusk. There's something softer and less imposing about a row of skyscrapers when they're mostly empty and the sky reflects blue and grey and orange off their shiny skin. Seeing a skyline just before the sun comes up or just after it goes down is like receiving a warm, spontaneous hug from your belligerent teenage child. That moment of vulnerability helps me remember why I love cities so much. There's so much innocence, so much potential wrapped up in those moments that I instantly forgive all the pollution, the traffic, the lack of green, and the daily, frenzied scramble to make a buck. Sometimes I just want to take the whole city right into my arms and cry.
Last night, like many nights, I sat by myself in my front yard during the photographers' golden hour before sunset, sipping mint lemonade, facing east instead of west. As I watched, the steel and glass buildings transformed into impossibly large trout, with a silvery blue irridescence, swimming into the darkening pool of sky behind them. The lights began to flick off, turning windows into scales. All those buildings seem to live their own lives at night once the people are all gone, and the slow minutes of sunrise and sunset allow us brief glimpses into this secret world. What do these buildings do at night, when we're all asleep back in our residential neighborhoods? Where do they go? What kind of trout dreams do they have? I swear I think of this trout metaphor every single time I see a city skyline at dusk or dawn. Maybe the similarities extend beyond the visual. I'm OK with that.
Last night, like many nights, I sat by myself in my front yard during the photographers' golden hour before sunset, sipping mint lemonade, facing east instead of west. As I watched, the steel and glass buildings transformed into impossibly large trout, with a silvery blue irridescence, swimming into the darkening pool of sky behind them. The lights began to flick off, turning windows into scales. All those buildings seem to live their own lives at night once the people are all gone, and the slow minutes of sunrise and sunset allow us brief glimpses into this secret world. What do these buildings do at night, when we're all asleep back in our residential neighborhoods? Where do they go? What kind of trout dreams do they have? I swear I think of this trout metaphor every single time I see a city skyline at dusk or dawn. Maybe the similarities extend beyond the visual. I'm OK with that.
Monday, June 2, 2008
The Economics of Man-Eating Lizards
My roommate, Jennie, and I popped out for a short run to nearby Jefferson Park and back last Saturday morning. We were headed down to Colorado Springs for her cousin's wedding later in the day, and we knew if we wanted some exercise, it would have to be first thing or nothing at all. The run part of our morning paused for intermission when we reached the park, as we sprawled out in the lush grass and clover for some high-powered relaxing. It's hard to resist the shade of big ol' trees like the ones in Jefferson Park on a just-warmer-than-crisp morning when you know the rest of the day, heck, the rest of every day for the next four months, is going to be scorching hot.
Of course, sprawling in the grass for upwards of a half hour meant our run was over, which wasn't entirely a bad thing, because walking back afforded us the chance to notice a few more details on the way home. For example, we passed a series of chalk drawings that began with some hopscotch squares scrolling down the sidewalk. Next came a drawing of a little girl in a pink dress, who apparently had just completed the hopscotch game. In the third frame, the artist completed the story with a zoom-out of the little girl's body, but without a head, next to a giant green lizard with the head in it's mouth and blood dripping down. And finally, the words, "The end." Who says a story needs character development? Transformers didn't do much better.
About a block from home, we found an old abandoned house that we somehow never managed to notice before. Big time fixer upper. What caught our eye (caught our eyes??), however, was the lot. For a house less than a mile from downtown, the lot was friggin' huge. Possibly a triple city lot, it housed a small garage and an even smaller shed, which, along with the main house structure, didn't leave much of a footprint on that much land. Jennie drooled over the garden oasis she could turn this space into as I climbed up the side of the main building to peek in the windows. Good thing it really was abandoned or else I could have been shot.
The house itself measured maybe only 1200 square feet, including what appeared to a be a small, finished attic (no, we didn't actually break into the house and go inside--we deduced the finished attic from the windowed dormers on both ends). Probably two or three bedrooms and one bath in all, if I were to bet. A bit small by American standards, but with way more remodeling money than we have right now, it would be perfect. How much space to people really need, anyway? I'd rather spend my time drinking mint lemonade in the back yard--with mint picked in the back yard--than getting hooked on some explosive television show on an expensive entertainment center in an expansive living room. Or maybe I could spend my time helping Jennie a bit with the garden, chatting about the Rockies game (only five blocks away) with the folks walking by. How else are we going to meet our neighbors, after all?
Poppies and roses bloomed all along both sidewalks (it's a corner lot) and all throughout the yard--maybe even enough flowers for two bee hives--and several large willow and Chinese elm trees encased the entire lot. Someone had lovingly xeriscaped from the homey little covered front porch all the way down to the street, apparently last tended to in 1959, but who cares? This place would be our own little city haven. A true nature oasis in the heart of the urban cityscape: the best of both worlds.
Well... that is, assuming that I was in the market to buy something like this, which I'm not, not really, and assuming I wanted to stick around in Colorado for a few more years, which I probably won't do, and assuming that it was for sale, which I didn't know if it was, but I'm just saying. Maybe I'll have a place like this someday, and maybe I'll just think of this place as my inspiration for what I'll look for the next time I really am in the market to buy another home, whichever city that may be. Yeah, that's the ticket.
Anyway, just thinking about the potential of this place and poking about for awhile (a.k.a. trespassing) really got us both excited. With my remodeling skills (if you could call them that) and Jennie's landscaping and gardening skills (which truly are amazing), we could turn this place, ahem, a place like this into a truly New Urban, sustainable home. The city needs more houses like this. Lots more. And coming across one with so much potential so close to downtown really got our blood pumping. Clearly, the jogging wasn't going to serve that purpose, so something had to.
Jennie suggested that I remember the address and look it up in public records. Dig up the story on the place and see who owns it; hopefully, say, a bank wanting to get rid of it for a song. I easily committed the address to memory, since I had already mentally filled out my change of address forms for imaginary future here.
As soon as I got home, I jumped right onto the net and looked up the owner. Who did it end up being? The Potter Highlands Development Company, Inc. (I changed the name for obvious legal reasons, but you get the idea.) I know those guys. Condo developers. Of course. More lofts. Four stories of uber-trendy lofts. What city doesn't need more stupid lofts? Annoyed, I showered and left for the wedding, but several days later, I still haven't been able to let it go. How many more lofts do we need, for Pete's sake?
I know I'm being a bit harsh. After all, these developers are revitalizing a run down old neighborhood. I'm doing something similar myself over in Capitol Hill, in fact. Someone neglected this poor house, stopped making his or her payments, and then abandoned it to the bank. No one's been here for who knows how long. High-density living is far better than vacant, run-down homes. No argument there. It just seems like a shame that such a beautiful, healthy, green space and that cute little house will be bulldozed and replaced with a towering brick and steel box, extending from one property line to the other, complete with underground parking and rooftop patio. I personally enjoy seeing big yards with beautiful gardens in my neighborhood. It's why I chose to live where I do. And yet, it seems that, once again, the giant green lizard developers are hungrily waiting to rip the head off yet another innocent little home in a pink dress.
More to the point, I can't help but think that we developers (yes, I admit it, I am of reptilian heritage too) are going a bit overboard these days, creating too many new loft-style condos in too short a time. At some point, supply will inevitably overwhelm demand, leaving several years' worth of inventory unsold, and ultimately toppling the whole Denver condo market, leaving all the unwitting previous condo buyers incredibly upsidedown for many years to come, which is seriously uncool.
The pattern is easy to see. It happens all the time in markets all over the country, over and over again. Every time it does, all the developers lose their shirts. You'd think we'd learn. At least get creative and put a cafe, a wine bar, and an art gallery on the ground level, when zoning allows for it as this one does. But it rarely happens. Instead, it's always more and more lofts crammed into every last corner of the city until the bubble bursts and the cycle starts over again. Furthermore, I cringe every time I see such a beautiful space--a space that could have housed a nice little family so close to jobs, commerce, and schools--sit vacant and contribute to slum and blight instead of being fixed up and rented out, if even for just those few years until the lofts finally get built. It just seems like our cities, cities we all call home, deserve better than this.
Of course, sprawling in the grass for upwards of a half hour meant our run was over, which wasn't entirely a bad thing, because walking back afforded us the chance to notice a few more details on the way home. For example, we passed a series of chalk drawings that began with some hopscotch squares scrolling down the sidewalk. Next came a drawing of a little girl in a pink dress, who apparently had just completed the hopscotch game. In the third frame, the artist completed the story with a zoom-out of the little girl's body, but without a head, next to a giant green lizard with the head in it's mouth and blood dripping down. And finally, the words, "The end." Who says a story needs character development? Transformers didn't do much better.
About a block from home, we found an old abandoned house that we somehow never managed to notice before. Big time fixer upper. What caught our eye (caught our eyes??), however, was the lot. For a house less than a mile from downtown, the lot was friggin' huge. Possibly a triple city lot, it housed a small garage and an even smaller shed, which, along with the main house structure, didn't leave much of a footprint on that much land. Jennie drooled over the garden oasis she could turn this space into as I climbed up the side of the main building to peek in the windows. Good thing it really was abandoned or else I could have been shot.
The house itself measured maybe only 1200 square feet, including what appeared to a be a small, finished attic (no, we didn't actually break into the house and go inside--we deduced the finished attic from the windowed dormers on both ends). Probably two or three bedrooms and one bath in all, if I were to bet. A bit small by American standards, but with way more remodeling money than we have right now, it would be perfect. How much space to people really need, anyway? I'd rather spend my time drinking mint lemonade in the back yard--with mint picked in the back yard--than getting hooked on some explosive television show on an expensive entertainment center in an expansive living room. Or maybe I could spend my time helping Jennie a bit with the garden, chatting about the Rockies game (only five blocks away) with the folks walking by. How else are we going to meet our neighbors, after all?
Poppies and roses bloomed all along both sidewalks (it's a corner lot) and all throughout the yard--maybe even enough flowers for two bee hives--and several large willow and Chinese elm trees encased the entire lot. Someone had lovingly xeriscaped from the homey little covered front porch all the way down to the street, apparently last tended to in 1959, but who cares? This place would be our own little city haven. A true nature oasis in the heart of the urban cityscape: the best of both worlds.
Well... that is, assuming that I was in the market to buy something like this, which I'm not, not really, and assuming I wanted to stick around in Colorado for a few more years, which I probably won't do, and assuming that it was for sale, which I didn't know if it was, but I'm just saying. Maybe I'll have a place like this someday, and maybe I'll just think of this place as my inspiration for what I'll look for the next time I really am in the market to buy another home, whichever city that may be. Yeah, that's the ticket.
Anyway, just thinking about the potential of this place and poking about for awhile (a.k.a. trespassing) really got us both excited. With my remodeling skills (if you could call them that) and Jennie's landscaping and gardening skills (which truly are amazing), we could turn this place, ahem, a place like this into a truly New Urban, sustainable home. The city needs more houses like this. Lots more. And coming across one with so much potential so close to downtown really got our blood pumping. Clearly, the jogging wasn't going to serve that purpose, so something had to.
Jennie suggested that I remember the address and look it up in public records. Dig up the story on the place and see who owns it; hopefully, say, a bank wanting to get rid of it for a song. I easily committed the address to memory, since I had already mentally filled out my change of address forms for imaginary future here.
As soon as I got home, I jumped right onto the net and looked up the owner. Who did it end up being? The Potter Highlands Development Company, Inc. (I changed the name for obvious legal reasons, but you get the idea.) I know those guys. Condo developers. Of course. More lofts. Four stories of uber-trendy lofts. What city doesn't need more stupid lofts? Annoyed, I showered and left for the wedding, but several days later, I still haven't been able to let it go. How many more lofts do we need, for Pete's sake?
I know I'm being a bit harsh. After all, these developers are revitalizing a run down old neighborhood. I'm doing something similar myself over in Capitol Hill, in fact. Someone neglected this poor house, stopped making his or her payments, and then abandoned it to the bank. No one's been here for who knows how long. High-density living is far better than vacant, run-down homes. No argument there. It just seems like a shame that such a beautiful, healthy, green space and that cute little house will be bulldozed and replaced with a towering brick and steel box, extending from one property line to the other, complete with underground parking and rooftop patio. I personally enjoy seeing big yards with beautiful gardens in my neighborhood. It's why I chose to live where I do. And yet, it seems that, once again, the giant green lizard developers are hungrily waiting to rip the head off yet another innocent little home in a pink dress.
More to the point, I can't help but think that we developers (yes, I admit it, I am of reptilian heritage too) are going a bit overboard these days, creating too many new loft-style condos in too short a time. At some point, supply will inevitably overwhelm demand, leaving several years' worth of inventory unsold, and ultimately toppling the whole Denver condo market, leaving all the unwitting previous condo buyers incredibly upsidedown for many years to come, which is seriously uncool.
The pattern is easy to see. It happens all the time in markets all over the country, over and over again. Every time it does, all the developers lose their shirts. You'd think we'd learn. At least get creative and put a cafe, a wine bar, and an art gallery on the ground level, when zoning allows for it as this one does. But it rarely happens. Instead, it's always more and more lofts crammed into every last corner of the city until the bubble bursts and the cycle starts over again. Furthermore, I cringe every time I see such a beautiful space--a space that could have housed a nice little family so close to jobs, commerce, and schools--sit vacant and contribute to slum and blight instead of being fixed up and rented out, if even for just those few years until the lofts finally get built. It just seems like our cities, cities we all call home, deserve better than this.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
My Bucolic Frolic: a Country Kid Goes Home
Be forewarned: this post may come off somewhat cheesy or cliche at times, but if you look hard enough, doesn't everything these days?
A couple weekends ago, I went back to my hometown in rural Iowa for my step-brother's wedding. Since I'd be in town for two or three days, I wanted to drive out and see the old house where I grew up. My dad, now deceased, built it himself. It's a pretty special place, really, at least to me. I only expected that I'd get to take a quick drive by, barely stopping a minute before I freaked out the current owners, but I lucked out. The place is up for sale again, and the realtor was holding an open house. I got to see the rough-hewn, dark-stained beams lining the arched living room ceiling, my old bedroom (now in blue), the multiple bay windows, the wood wall downstairs still full of holes from errant throws from the old dart board, the wraparound deck my dad and I built together, everything. All in all, the place looked pretty good.
The inside is great, but the outside is what made the place magical. With its cedar siding and forested surroundings, it looks like an old mountain cabin. The beauty of the whole area kind of surprised me, honestly. Typically, when I go back to my hometown and, say...drive by my old elementary school, I'm struck by how ridiculously small and plain everything is compared to my memories. My high school sits small and unimpressive (way different than I remember my first day of freshman year) next to a corn field. Rock Creek Lake where I spent my summers working for the family business: barely more than a big muddy pond. That's kind of what I expected when visiting the old homestead. It is Iowa, after all. Maybe there wouldn't as many trees and hills as I remembered. In truth, there were lots more.
The house itself sits on top of a small forested hill that sloped down from the back yard. Across the windy, half-mile long, gravel driveway sprawls a large wooded, rolling cow pasture, populated by the occasional farm pond--all nearly spilling over with hungry largemouth bass, crappy, bullheads, catfish, and bluegill-- and an enchanting shady forest of enormous mature oak, elm, maple, willow, walnut, and others. I'm talking trees six or eight feet in diameter, upwards of 15 feet in circumference, some a hundred feet tall. Hardly any direct sunlight reaches the forest floor in the heart of the forest. Squirrels and grinneys (a.k.a. squinneys, a.k.a. 13-lined ground squirrels--they look a lot like chipmunks) chattered about everywhere. Cardinals, downy woodpeckers, goldfinches, chickadees, and innumerable LBBs (little brown birds) flitted about from every tree and fencepost. A red-tailed hawk glided by in the distance. Not quite the redwood groves of northern California for pure splendor, but it's as close as the midwest has to offer, and every bit as fantastical in its own way. Sort of like a Disney landscape, but without the singing princess.
And don't forget the deep, verdant green as far as the eye could see in all directions. To the left (east) of the woods stretches a lovely grassy meadow along a mile long hill that lazily drops a couple hundred feet down to the crick. As any rural Iowan kid knows, a crick is smaller than a creek, and much smaller than a stream where you might actually catch some catfish. Much bigger than a wash, however, as water always flows in a crick, even in a drought. A crick can be jumped over in the narrow spots, and I remember that this one in particular holds plenty of leopard frogs, bullfrogs, unidentified minnows, crawdads, and even the occasional two-foot-long tiger salamander. Putting two-foot-long tiger salamanders in the tub first thing in the morning doesn't make moms very happy, however, so bear that in mind. A long-forgotten bridge spans the crick about halfway through the meadow, a relic of an old reclaimed county road that bisected the area decades (centuries?) prior. I'm not sure what they used for transportation when that bridge was built, but I know I personally wouldn't have wanted to drive my little Honda Civic across it even when the bridge was new.
Some folks put Normal Rockwell paintings on their walls to be reminded of our pastoral past, but I don't need them. Apparently, I grew up in one. But that's not why I'm telling you all this, though it is certainly a nice reminder that alternatives to our dull, zero-community, environment-destroying, taupe-colored suburbs do still exist (not that I have an opinion or anything). The point of all this is that while walking around, I noticed some unfamiliar trees in the front and side yards. Big ones. One walnut, right in front of the kitchen window, stood maybe fifty feet tall, and several large, flowering plum trees lined the driveway in pink and white. These trees clearly did not exist in my recollections of this house, and I would remember, I lived there for nearly two decades.
Where did these trees come from? I moved away about about thirteen years ago, and they weren't there then. My mom only sold the place eight or ten years ago, and I'm pretty sure she didn't plant them. I can't imagine why the people who bought the house and land from us would plant fully-grown trees that close to the house. The incredible expense involved notwithstanding, why on earth would they do that when there are already so many others growing all around? And how did they get the trucks and cranes in there without destroying the rest of the yard? I couldn't figure it out. Are mutant GMOs taking over the Midwest? Did the beings in the crazy, darting, red lights in the sky that my brother, my cousin Kelly (who lived next door), and I used to see at night (that's a good Midwestern story for another day, though one I don't feel too inclined to tell for obvious credibility reasons) come down and plant full-grown trees all over the countryside as some sort of extra-planetary Johnny Appleseeds? What the heck was going on here?
Then it dawned on me. I planted these trees. Well, some with the help of my dad, but still, these trees wouldn't exist if it wasn't for me. The fifty-foot walnut measured up as a spindly ten-foot sapling when my dad and I planted it twenty-five years ago. I didn't remember it because it grew along with me, inches every year. It never really entered my consciousness as a kid because it was always there, literally and figuratively overshadowed by the much larger trees a few yards in every direction. In fact, now that I thought about it, one of those large ones just across the yard apparently died, leaving a hole in the canopy for this one to "rapidly" take its place.
Dad and I planted the plum trees when they were no more than a couple feet tall--no bigger than the weeds I constantly mowed down in order to give them space to grow--and now these trees loom over the road. No doubt the plum trees themselves now need to be pruned back once or twice every summer simply to allow cars to pass.
The scrawny bushes I planted as a teenager--now huge, hulking masses--hide half the west side of the house. The gardens I sectioned off and created in the side yard still bear a great many flowers, and hopefully a few veggies too. The tiered landscaping I built and seeded on some rocky barren soil next to the garage now sprouts all kinds of flowers and bushes.
Without wanting to venture back into the realm of the cheesy and cliche, I have to admit that a warm, fuzzy feeling literally began to seep into me and melt all the way down through my body. How come? I did this. I did this. I changed a whole landscape for the better, and then left it alone for a quarter century before coming back to see the whole place healthier than when I left it. These trees nearly fully matured in the past two or three decades. Maybe not so ironically, so have I.
For those of you much older than me, this is old news. Of course trees get big. Of course people, places, and things change, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. What's new? I'm not so used to this, however. I'm only 31. I'm not used to seeing something that I planted grow to fifty feet tall. I made a difference. In that little corner of the world, I made a big difference that, barring some jerk cutting everything down, will last for a very long time to come. I'm very grateful for what that home, that land, provided to me as a kid, and maybe now the land, in turn, is grateful for what I did for it.
A couple weekends ago, I went back to my hometown in rural Iowa for my step-brother's wedding. Since I'd be in town for two or three days, I wanted to drive out and see the old house where I grew up. My dad, now deceased, built it himself. It's a pretty special place, really, at least to me. I only expected that I'd get to take a quick drive by, barely stopping a minute before I freaked out the current owners, but I lucked out. The place is up for sale again, and the realtor was holding an open house. I got to see the rough-hewn, dark-stained beams lining the arched living room ceiling, my old bedroom (now in blue), the multiple bay windows, the wood wall downstairs still full of holes from errant throws from the old dart board, the wraparound deck my dad and I built together, everything. All in all, the place looked pretty good.
The inside is great, but the outside is what made the place magical. With its cedar siding and forested surroundings, it looks like an old mountain cabin. The beauty of the whole area kind of surprised me, honestly. Typically, when I go back to my hometown and, say...drive by my old elementary school, I'm struck by how ridiculously small and plain everything is compared to my memories. My high school sits small and unimpressive (way different than I remember my first day of freshman year) next to a corn field. Rock Creek Lake where I spent my summers working for the family business: barely more than a big muddy pond. That's kind of what I expected when visiting the old homestead. It is Iowa, after all. Maybe there wouldn't as many trees and hills as I remembered. In truth, there were lots more.
The house itself sits on top of a small forested hill that sloped down from the back yard. Across the windy, half-mile long, gravel driveway sprawls a large wooded, rolling cow pasture, populated by the occasional farm pond--all nearly spilling over with hungry largemouth bass, crappy, bullheads, catfish, and bluegill-- and an enchanting shady forest of enormous mature oak, elm, maple, willow, walnut, and others. I'm talking trees six or eight feet in diameter, upwards of 15 feet in circumference, some a hundred feet tall. Hardly any direct sunlight reaches the forest floor in the heart of the forest. Squirrels and grinneys (a.k.a. squinneys, a.k.a. 13-lined ground squirrels--they look a lot like chipmunks) chattered about everywhere. Cardinals, downy woodpeckers, goldfinches, chickadees, and innumerable LBBs (little brown birds) flitted about from every tree and fencepost. A red-tailed hawk glided by in the distance. Not quite the redwood groves of northern California for pure splendor, but it's as close as the midwest has to offer, and every bit as fantastical in its own way. Sort of like a Disney landscape, but without the singing princess.
And don't forget the deep, verdant green as far as the eye could see in all directions. To the left (east) of the woods stretches a lovely grassy meadow along a mile long hill that lazily drops a couple hundred feet down to the crick. As any rural Iowan kid knows, a crick is smaller than a creek, and much smaller than a stream where you might actually catch some catfish. Much bigger than a wash, however, as water always flows in a crick, even in a drought. A crick can be jumped over in the narrow spots, and I remember that this one in particular holds plenty of leopard frogs, bullfrogs, unidentified minnows, crawdads, and even the occasional two-foot-long tiger salamander. Putting two-foot-long tiger salamanders in the tub first thing in the morning doesn't make moms very happy, however, so bear that in mind. A long-forgotten bridge spans the crick about halfway through the meadow, a relic of an old reclaimed county road that bisected the area decades (centuries?) prior. I'm not sure what they used for transportation when that bridge was built, but I know I personally wouldn't have wanted to drive my little Honda Civic across it even when the bridge was new.
Some folks put Normal Rockwell paintings on their walls to be reminded of our pastoral past, but I don't need them. Apparently, I grew up in one. But that's not why I'm telling you all this, though it is certainly a nice reminder that alternatives to our dull, zero-community, environment-destroying, taupe-colored suburbs do still exist (not that I have an opinion or anything). The point of all this is that while walking around, I noticed some unfamiliar trees in the front and side yards. Big ones. One walnut, right in front of the kitchen window, stood maybe fifty feet tall, and several large, flowering plum trees lined the driveway in pink and white. These trees clearly did not exist in my recollections of this house, and I would remember, I lived there for nearly two decades.
Where did these trees come from? I moved away about about thirteen years ago, and they weren't there then. My mom only sold the place eight or ten years ago, and I'm pretty sure she didn't plant them. I can't imagine why the people who bought the house and land from us would plant fully-grown trees that close to the house. The incredible expense involved notwithstanding, why on earth would they do that when there are already so many others growing all around? And how did they get the trucks and cranes in there without destroying the rest of the yard? I couldn't figure it out. Are mutant GMOs taking over the Midwest? Did the beings in the crazy, darting, red lights in the sky that my brother, my cousin Kelly (who lived next door), and I used to see at night (that's a good Midwestern story for another day, though one I don't feel too inclined to tell for obvious credibility reasons) come down and plant full-grown trees all over the countryside as some sort of extra-planetary Johnny Appleseeds? What the heck was going on here?
Then it dawned on me. I planted these trees. Well, some with the help of my dad, but still, these trees wouldn't exist if it wasn't for me. The fifty-foot walnut measured up as a spindly ten-foot sapling when my dad and I planted it twenty-five years ago. I didn't remember it because it grew along with me, inches every year. It never really entered my consciousness as a kid because it was always there, literally and figuratively overshadowed by the much larger trees a few yards in every direction. In fact, now that I thought about it, one of those large ones just across the yard apparently died, leaving a hole in the canopy for this one to "rapidly" take its place.
Dad and I planted the plum trees when they were no more than a couple feet tall--no bigger than the weeds I constantly mowed down in order to give them space to grow--and now these trees loom over the road. No doubt the plum trees themselves now need to be pruned back once or twice every summer simply to allow cars to pass.
The scrawny bushes I planted as a teenager--now huge, hulking masses--hide half the west side of the house. The gardens I sectioned off and created in the side yard still bear a great many flowers, and hopefully a few veggies too. The tiered landscaping I built and seeded on some rocky barren soil next to the garage now sprouts all kinds of flowers and bushes.
Without wanting to venture back into the realm of the cheesy and cliche, I have to admit that a warm, fuzzy feeling literally began to seep into me and melt all the way down through my body. How come? I did this. I did this. I changed a whole landscape for the better, and then left it alone for a quarter century before coming back to see the whole place healthier than when I left it. These trees nearly fully matured in the past two or three decades. Maybe not so ironically, so have I.
For those of you much older than me, this is old news. Of course trees get big. Of course people, places, and things change, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. What's new? I'm not so used to this, however. I'm only 31. I'm not used to seeing something that I planted grow to fifty feet tall. I made a difference. In that little corner of the world, I made a big difference that, barring some jerk cutting everything down, will last for a very long time to come. I'm very grateful for what that home, that land, provided to me as a kid, and maybe now the land, in turn, is grateful for what I did for it.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Hang in There, Little Bees
Whoa. A report just came out that said the rate of bee Colony Collapse Disorder (AKA beehive collapse, AKA bee deaths) increased by 36% last year. More than 20% of hives have been dying off every year in recent years, and the death rate in 2007 was around 30%. In healthy, sustainable environments and bee populations, the number of hives that die are evenly replaced with new ones, resulting in a 0% net loss or gain in hives. Bees are our main pollinators. Without them, we don't have food.
That's very, very scary news for the agriculture industry and the ecosystem in general. China's already resorting to pollinating their crops by hand (!) because their bees have all disappeared in certain regions, and it seems we're getting dangerously close to that point too. See the Associated Press article here for more about this story:
http://ap.google.com/article/ALeqM5hto6brnUAtJICOy6STCUqNWvEKiAD90GHMR00
Jennie (my roomie) and I are both taking a beekeeping course right now, and our instructor said that while no one knows for sure what is killing the bees, they do have some pretty solid hunches:
1. Unsustainable apiculture (bee farming) practices that result in dirty, bacteria-ridden hives. Bees naturally leave hives and start new ones periodically, but the apiculture industry reuses bee wax indefinitely. The wax eventually turns black and the bees are forced to live in an unsanitary environment.
2. Cell phone transmissions. It's been proven that cell phone transmissions mess with bees' navigation systems and possibly even their ability to process information. It's sort of like having a 100 decibel tinnitus that gets worse every year.
3. Pesitcides, environmental toxins, and genetically modified foods (GMOs). All this nasty stuff is out there everywhere these days, and bees eat it in concentrated amounts right off the flowers. Their bodies are a lot smaller and more susceptible to this gunk than ours are. They just can't handle that much poison.
4. Climate change. While bees do live in a wide range of climates, specific strains of bees evolved to adapt to specific locales. Slightly longer summers, slightly hotter summers, slightly drier or wetter regional weather due to rapid (evolutionarily speaking) changes in climate, more intense storms due to changes to macro-weather patterns (such as el nino, la nina, increased evaporation and convection, jet streams shifting poleward, et cetera)... all this stuff affects insects a lot more than it does, say, highly adaptable, long-lifespan mega-fauna (such as humans and deer), so the detrimental effects (aka deaths) are seen more readily and more quickly in insects.
5. Loss of habitat and food supply. Not sure if you've noticed, but a lot more of the world has been paved over and developed into suburbs in recent decades. Less truly wild areas, fewer fields, smaller forests, and so on means fewer places for bees to make their home and less flowering plants for them to dine on.
6. A combination of some or all of the above factors.
Again, why is this important to us, besides yet another species dying off like the dodo? Well, it's because bees are a keystone species, possible the most important keystone species of them all. What's a keystone species? It's a plant or animal that has a disproportionately large roll in the creation and balance of an ecosystem.
For example, beavers are a keystone species because they shape forests and create damns, which thins the forest (mitigating the risk of fires) and creates habitat for numerous other forest-dwelling species. The existences of many, many of these other species depend on beavers to do their job.
Well, bees are even more important than beavers, because without bees, many plants do not get pollinated, which means the plants don't reproduce, and more importantly to us, they don't produce food. Some plants are pollinated by other insects and birds, but many aren't. In fact, flowers and bees evolved together tens, possibly hundreds, of millions of years ago in symbiosis. Without bees, there are no flowers. Flowering plants make up a sizable percentage of our food-producing flora. In other words, if the bees all die off, the world will see food shortages and habitat destruction like it's never known. We'll at least not since that big meteor struck the Gulf of Mexico and killed off the dinosaurs a few million years ago. Even the ice ages didn't do this much damage to Mother Nature.
As George Carlin said in one of his stand up routines (I'm paraphrasing): "Earth is gonna be just fine. Give it a enough time, and earth will heal itself no problem. It's the humans who are screwed." He probably used a nastier expletive, but you get the point.
Now, most of you already know that I'm pretty liberal, especially when it comes to environmental issues. But most of you also know I'm no alarmest. I won't say the sky is falling unless I see chunks of it on the way down. As I'm sure Jennie and my family would attest, it's hard for me to listen to anyone until I've seen the data myself. And this is data I've been watching for a long time.
So, are we really screwed? I don't know. I hope not, but we've certainly got to figure out this specific problem, and fast, before the bees are all gone. And how do we figure it out? No idea, but addressing some of the issues listed above would be a good start. Doing what we can to slow urban sprawl, buying organic, buying a hybrid or taking public transportation, even raising a hive in your backyard (which is easier than you might think, and totally do-able in urban environments too). A quick Google search or a walk through your local bookstore will likely provide a hundred more ideas in minutes.
The important things to keep in mind are:
A. that everyone needs to be made aware that the disappearance of bees is happening at an alarming rate,
B. that people must understand that this is a major problem for the sustainability and continuance of the human species, despite how innocuous it may initially sound and despite the lack of media attention it receives, and
C. that we each take action now, even if that action is as simple as passing on this blog post to someone you know.
It's clear that certain aspects of the way we have lived our lives and designed our societies are unsustainable, and not just unsustainable for some nebulous, distant future either. These are endemic problems with planetary consequences of biblical proportions that we're facing right now, and if we don't make immediate changes within our individual lives and also to the way we create our cities and societies, we may not even have a distant or a near future to worry about.
That's very, very scary news for the agriculture industry and the ecosystem in general. China's already resorting to pollinating their crops by hand (!) because their bees have all disappeared in certain regions, and it seems we're getting dangerously close to that point too. See the Associated Press article here for more about this story:
http://ap.google.com/article/ALeqM5hto6brnUAtJICOy6STCUqNWvEKiAD90GHMR00
Jennie (my roomie) and I are both taking a beekeeping course right now, and our instructor said that while no one knows for sure what is killing the bees, they do have some pretty solid hunches:
1. Unsustainable apiculture (bee farming) practices that result in dirty, bacteria-ridden hives. Bees naturally leave hives and start new ones periodically, but the apiculture industry reuses bee wax indefinitely. The wax eventually turns black and the bees are forced to live in an unsanitary environment.
2. Cell phone transmissions. It's been proven that cell phone transmissions mess with bees' navigation systems and possibly even their ability to process information. It's sort of like having a 100 decibel tinnitus that gets worse every year.
3. Pesitcides, environmental toxins, and genetically modified foods (GMOs). All this nasty stuff is out there everywhere these days, and bees eat it in concentrated amounts right off the flowers. Their bodies are a lot smaller and more susceptible to this gunk than ours are. They just can't handle that much poison.
4. Climate change. While bees do live in a wide range of climates, specific strains of bees evolved to adapt to specific locales. Slightly longer summers, slightly hotter summers, slightly drier or wetter regional weather due to rapid (evolutionarily speaking) changes in climate, more intense storms due to changes to macro-weather patterns (such as el nino, la nina, increased evaporation and convection, jet streams shifting poleward, et cetera)... all this stuff affects insects a lot more than it does, say, highly adaptable, long-lifespan mega-fauna (such as humans and deer), so the detrimental effects (aka deaths) are seen more readily and more quickly in insects.
5. Loss of habitat and food supply. Not sure if you've noticed, but a lot more of the world has been paved over and developed into suburbs in recent decades. Less truly wild areas, fewer fields, smaller forests, and so on means fewer places for bees to make their home and less flowering plants for them to dine on.
6. A combination of some or all of the above factors.
Again, why is this important to us, besides yet another species dying off like the dodo? Well, it's because bees are a keystone species, possible the most important keystone species of them all. What's a keystone species? It's a plant or animal that has a disproportionately large roll in the creation and balance of an ecosystem.
For example, beavers are a keystone species because they shape forests and create damns, which thins the forest (mitigating the risk of fires) and creates habitat for numerous other forest-dwelling species. The existences of many, many of these other species depend on beavers to do their job.
Well, bees are even more important than beavers, because without bees, many plants do not get pollinated, which means the plants don't reproduce, and more importantly to us, they don't produce food. Some plants are pollinated by other insects and birds, but many aren't. In fact, flowers and bees evolved together tens, possibly hundreds, of millions of years ago in symbiosis. Without bees, there are no flowers. Flowering plants make up a sizable percentage of our food-producing flora. In other words, if the bees all die off, the world will see food shortages and habitat destruction like it's never known. We'll at least not since that big meteor struck the Gulf of Mexico and killed off the dinosaurs a few million years ago. Even the ice ages didn't do this much damage to Mother Nature.
As George Carlin said in one of his stand up routines (I'm paraphrasing): "Earth is gonna be just fine. Give it a enough time, and earth will heal itself no problem. It's the humans who are screwed." He probably used a nastier expletive, but you get the point.
Now, most of you already know that I'm pretty liberal, especially when it comes to environmental issues. But most of you also know I'm no alarmest. I won't say the sky is falling unless I see chunks of it on the way down. As I'm sure Jennie and my family would attest, it's hard for me to listen to anyone until I've seen the data myself. And this is data I've been watching for a long time.
So, are we really screwed? I don't know. I hope not, but we've certainly got to figure out this specific problem, and fast, before the bees are all gone. And how do we figure it out? No idea, but addressing some of the issues listed above would be a good start. Doing what we can to slow urban sprawl, buying organic, buying a hybrid or taking public transportation, even raising a hive in your backyard (which is easier than you might think, and totally do-able in urban environments too). A quick Google search or a walk through your local bookstore will likely provide a hundred more ideas in minutes.
The important things to keep in mind are:
A. that everyone needs to be made aware that the disappearance of bees is happening at an alarming rate,
B. that people must understand that this is a major problem for the sustainability and continuance of the human species, despite how innocuous it may initially sound and despite the lack of media attention it receives, and
C. that we each take action now, even if that action is as simple as passing on this blog post to someone you know.
It's clear that certain aspects of the way we have lived our lives and designed our societies are unsustainable, and not just unsustainable for some nebulous, distant future either. These are endemic problems with planetary consequences of biblical proportions that we're facing right now, and if we don't make immediate changes within our individual lives and also to the way we create our cities and societies, we may not even have a distant or a near future to worry about.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
From an Email to John
John,
Thanks for reading my blog post! It certainly describes where I've been at lately. Kinda dark, honestly. I'm trying to elevate things, but it's hard these days. Every time I turn around, I read about bees dying, bats dying, salmon dying, polar bears dying, pine forests dying, icecaps melting, worldwide food shortages, increasing food costs here at home, storm intensity increasing, jet streams shifting poleward, songbirds getting wiped out, and on and on. It really scares me. I'm really beginning to wonder if we're a lot closer to total environmental collapse than many people would like to admit. I mean, several of these species are keystone species. That means that we can't survive too well without them.
I'm reminded of Generation X, where Coupland points out that one of the biggest defining characteristics of generation X is a constant fear of nuclear annihilation. I think I feel that same fear, only the bomb has been replaced with total environmental meltdown. In that way, I'm not so different from the characters in the book. I play out dystopian future scenarios in my head. I read stories about seriously damaged ecosystems. I tell stories about them. Everyone I know and connect with feels much the same way. Our new national heroes are Al Gore and Barack Obama, environmental and social icons.
These are good perspectives to have, I suppose, but my concern is that it's too late. The cancer has metastasized and the chemo won't work anymore. We can't fix the problems anymore; we can only hold hands and enjoy the spectacular smoggy sunsets until the wars, famine, and chaos finish us off. I don’t fully believe that, though… not yet. But sometimes I do wonder if the earth isn't trying to shake off us humans like a dog shaking water off its fur. Or at very least it’s trying to shake off some harmful ideas. As Buckminster Fuller once said, "Nature is trying very hard to make us succeed, but nature does not depend on us. We are not the only experiment." Or, as he also said, "If humanity does not opt for integrity we are through completely. It is absolutely touch and go. Each one of us could make the difference." I guess I'm trying very hard to make the difference, and that's what my blog is about, more or less. I've got to do something, and I'm just figuring out the best and biggest way I can help.
I'm reminded of Generation X, where Coupland points out that one of the biggest defining characteristics of generation X is a constant fear of nuclear annihilation. I think I feel that same fear, only the bomb has been replaced with total environmental meltdown. In that way, I'm not so different from the characters in the book. I play out dystopian future scenarios in my head. I read stories about seriously damaged ecosystems. I tell stories about them. Everyone I know and connect with feels much the same way. Our new national heroes are Al Gore and Barack Obama, environmental and social icons.
These are good perspectives to have, I suppose, but my concern is that it's too late. The cancer has metastasized and the chemo won't work anymore. We can't fix the problems anymore; we can only hold hands and enjoy the spectacular smoggy sunsets until the wars, famine, and chaos finish us off. I don’t fully believe that, though… not yet. But sometimes I do wonder if the earth isn't trying to shake off us humans like a dog shaking water off its fur. Or at very least it’s trying to shake off some harmful ideas. As Buckminster Fuller once said, "Nature is trying very hard to make us succeed, but nature does not depend on us. We are not the only experiment." Or, as he also said, "If humanity does not opt for integrity we are through completely. It is absolutely touch and go. Each one of us could make the difference." I guess I'm trying very hard to make the difference, and that's what my blog is about, more or less. I've got to do something, and I'm just figuring out the best and biggest way I can help.
Hot Sun and Black-Winged Angels
Today I witnessed a miracle.
It all started about four days ago when Jennie, my roommate, flew to
To be fair,
As mild and breezy as it was today, the sun was still beating down pretty intensely from a stark, cloudless sky. The blazing sun already burned my left forearm in the fifteen minute drive to the trailhead. I pulled in to the little gravel parking lot, strapped on my helmet and gloves, and hit the trail.
It’s late April. Springtime. Everything should be green and full of life, like Jennie’s text messages about Berkeley, right? Hardly.
This thought did not encourage me. I want the real deal springtime. I want green. I want April rain showers and fragrant May flowers. I want an orgy of bees gorging themselves on pollen and brightly-colored songbirds tweeting their little heads off trying to get some action. But I apparently won’t find it here. Thinking like this, it got harder and harder to keep pedaling.
After several more minutes, I came to the edge of a cliff of sorts and got off my bike. Not exactly an inspiring overlook for the already uninspired, I gazed out across fifty miles of suburbs, freeways, and tall, grey office buildings. Ugh. From the looks of the scene before me, we’re going to doom our whole planet to extinction if we’re not more careful with our endless sprawl, pollution, and consumption. I sat in the dusty dirt near the edge and tried to enjoy the scene, all the while baking under that fiery yellow sun overhead. By this point, my lungs and nostrils burned with the hot, arid air. My front teeth were actually dry and covered with a gritty film. Gross.
Knowing the bad space I was in, I tried to change my thoughts and see something good around me. Something encouraging. Something to give me hope that mankind hasn’t already pushed earth’s fate past the point of no return. After all, we are a resourceful bunch. Maybe we can turn this thing around after all. I asked myself how we could transform the city sprawled out before me into an inspiring, healthy, sustainable place to live. It’s all of our responsibility to figure a way out this environmental quagmire, so, if not me, who? If not now, when?
I sat there in the dirt, squinting in the sun at the city below, waiting for my muse. But nothing came. I inspected quickly reddening skin on my forearms. I ate a sesame energy bar. I picked up some plastic silverware trash strewn about by some careless hiker. Still nothing. Screw it, this place sucks. I’m moving to
A young couple in shorts and t-shirts ambled up the trail and sat down on the rocks close enough that I could eavesdrop a little. “Look, honey. Over there is where you work!” “Good thing we brought plenty of water.” “I bet this picture won’t do it justice.”
Wait a minute. They’re taking pictures of…of… suburbs??? What on earth for? What’s there to see here? My personal black cloud of doom clearly hadn’t stained their afternoon too. I decided to keep my mouth shut.
Eventually, they got up and moved on down the trail. I tried to see what they thought so beautiful. A large, square, blue-black city sewage lagoon glowered back at me as the most prominent landscape feature in the direction they faced. The poor critters that live around here…god help them if they ever get thirsty. I kept asking myself: How can we recreate our home and rewrite the ending to our story? How can I rewrite my own?
That was when I heard it. A strange repetitive buzzing sound immediately behind me, so close I absurdly thought for a moment maybe it was coming from inside my shorts. Faint, but distinct, and like nothing I’ve ever heard. Coming from the soil. I wouldn’t have heard it at all if I hadn’t been sitting on the ground right next to it, wrapped up in my own sulfurous thoughts, asking questions with no easy answers. After some patient inspection of the ground around me, a jet black, skinny, leggy, vaguely wasp-looking bug backed out of a pencil-sized hole in the shady dirt just beneath a tiny little plant, the only flora within arm’s reach. Since it was in the shadow of the plant, I wouldn’t have even seen the hole had I not first heard the buzzing and then seen an insect emerge from it. The bug backed out of the hole for just a brief moment, and then crawled back in. Then more buzzing. Then back up out of the hole again, crawl back in, and more buzzing from within. Again and again. What in the world is she doing?
I assumed it was a she, but who knows? This was like some kind of crazy nature documentary, but with no narrator and not professionally produced and not aired on TV. This was real. I felt like a voyeur as she repeated this process repeatedly and without interruption for the next ten or fifteen minutes. That is, except for when I tried to scoot forward to get a closer look and it freaked her out and she hid behind some grass for a minute or so until she calmed down and went back to her little process. I must have looked gargantuan to her. Heck, even that grass over there must look like sequoias when you’re only an inch long.
What is she doing? Maybe she’s making a den? Trying to attract a mate? What else do insects do when they’re not eating things or stinging us? I lost track of time, but eventually she must have finished doing whatever she was doing because she backed out one last time, did some push-ups (Push-ups?!? It seems I have a lot to learn about little black wasp-like bugs.), and then flew away. But not too far. She did a lap around the area, maybe a five meter radius, as if scoping out the scene, landed back at the hole site briefly, and then flew away far into the brush.
About five minutes later and my mood much improved, I was about to leave when a very strange-looking creature returned from the brush. It looked like a pale pink flying banana, about an inch long. It flew kind of slowly and clumsily. A mini, pink, flying banana? Now this was just getting weird.
The pink banana landed by the hole. It turned out to be my little friend carrying something. But what is that thing? It’s a wiggling little worm of some sort. Is that her dinner? That thing’s bigger than she is—equally as long, but fat and round and fleshy. It would take her days to eat that thing. No…wait. It’s a larva! It’s her baby! She’s making a home for her baby. Wow!
The larva wiggled a little, and a moment later, she backed her way into the hole this time, grabbed the larva with her two little front feet, and pulled it down into the darkness of the hole. Then, more buzzing. A softer, more pleasing tone this time. A minute later she emerged. Looked around. And then started kicking dirt down the hole. The hole filled up fast. She paused to look around a couple times and then started up again. She used her front legs to spray dirt under body and behind her like a dog burying a bone. She dragged little pebbles and sticks (boulders and logs relative to her size, some were almost as big as she was) and piled them on top. She then sprayed more dirt. You’d never know that hole was ever there. If she only knew I was watching…not that I’d even think of doing anything to disturb her or her larva, but still.
Five more minutes passed. She’s still kicking dirt back toward the hole. Total overkill. Still kicking. Geesh lady, that’s good enough already, but she didn’t stop. Kick kick kick. Look around. Kick kick kick. Another five or ten minutes, and she finally finished. Whew! Then a couple more push-ups for good measure and a quick flight around the site, finally landing precisely on top of the original hole. She pressed her body down close to the ground and lowered her head to touch the ground with her mouth and quietly buzzed what seemed a lower, slower tone for several long seconds. She then struggled to get back up on her feet and slowly crawl over toward the tuft of grass she hid behind earlier. Her final buzz over the hole sounded so lonely and mournful. Did she look sad? Is that even possible? She then flew away for good. Was I imagining this, or did she just kiss the ground over her baby and sing a lullaby? Was that one last message of love before leaving, possibly forever?
A sad buzzing tone? Kissing the ground? Singing a lullaby? I knew I was probably just anthropomorphizing an insect, but… maybe not. She obviously cared about this baby at least at an instinctual level, or else why go to all that effort? Who’s to say that our human version of love is any different? Who am I to say she’s not capable of love just because she’s an insect? Heck, her actions clearly demonstrated a lot more love on top of that cliff than I had, so why not?
I blinked. I’d been staring at a patch of barren dirt for a half hour. I vaguely remembered several groups of hikers coming through, snapping pictures, smoking cigarettes, laughing, and moving on. I even recalled one shapely young woman had her shirt off and was walking around in just a bra, but I hardly even noticed, which just shows how engrossed I was in my little entomological world. They must have thought I was a serious weirdo who stares at dirt. They’re probably right. I turned around and looked at the ground all around me. It all looked barren and dead, but now I wasn’t so sure. Life could be teeming here, just millimeters beneath the sand and rocks and dirt and dust. I hoped I wouldn’t hurt anyone on my way back to the car when my tires rolled down the path. Nah, they’ll be OK. Those cute little pink banana babies are probably just fine. They’re all tucked in with nice sturdy rock blankets to keep them safe. I scanned the ground all around me again. They could be anywhere. The barren rockscape around me was now bursting with invisible life, all just waiting to metamorphose into moths or butterflies or little black bugs, crawl out into the light, and fly away. Who knew?
I looked down over the city and saw trees all throughout the suburbs. I saw landscaped lawns and ponds and parks. Untold millions of critters and flowers and things could be out there, surviving and thriving, hidden in secret little corners, even within the city limits. My black sulfur cloud totally blew away with a gust of wind that whipped down over the cliff’s edge. I mean, I just witnessed a miracle, my own private little National Geographic documentary, right here in the hottest, driest, rockiest, most desolate-looking corner of
Then something occurred to me: the miracle that happened out there was not my little friend tucking her baby into bed all full of love and the sorrow of separation. The real miracle was right in front of me the whole time. I was looking for a reason to have hope for our common future. Something to show me that there’s more than just a vain hope for the destiny of the world, that there’s a love strong enough to bind us all together, humans and critters alike, and keep us all moving forward, building a new and better home for our future generations. And as soon as I asked, that’s exactly what I found.
There are answers out there. We simply have to ask the right questions, and then pay attention to the miracles hidden in plain sight all around us.
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