Information Overload

Do you ever feel like a disembodied head? I do. There's just so much information to know, so much to learn about our planet and how to care for it, and the Internet makes obtaining that information faster and easier than ever. I'm subscribed to a multitude of e-newsletters, all from worthwhile organizations:

350.org
Al Gore
California Product Stewardship Council
Californians Against Waste
Co-op America
Corporate Accountability International
Earth Resource Foundation
Food & Water Watch
Green Sangha
Greenpeace
Ideal Bite
New American Dream
Organic Consumers Association
Population Connection
Save The Bay
Sierra Club

I'm sure I've missed a few. Plus I'm subscribed to most of the the blogs that you see on my sidebar, including the Green Mom bloggers (which have embraced me as an honorary member) and the APLS, who are currently debating what the A stands for, as well as the newsletters of companies that sell plastic-free products. I want to be informed. Don't want to miss anything that might be useful in the quest to educate myself and others. Or to miss an opportunity to contribute to the conversation.

So the reality is that I sit hour after hour after hour staring at the computer screen, absorbed in the world of images and ideas, not so different from the original Star Trek's Captain Pike whose whole world consisted of mental images... illusions... fed to his brain by the Talosians. (I know. That last sentence was way too geeky even for me. But I'll bet a few of you know what I'm talking about.)

So what about the body? What about the information from the other four senses? From the natural world? The world that is, after all, what I supposedly love and what I'm allegedly trying to protect. How is it that gardening, composting, cooking or simply walking in the hills or along the beach have taken a back seat to email and blogging and virtual reality?

How is it that most of what I learn about nature comes from a plastic box?

I need to get out more. I realized that this weekend at Vajrapani. What a beautiful, soul-stirring place. But why do I need to go on "retreat" for a dose of nature? Why not just step out my front door? There's a lot to learn from the dirt in my front yard. The garden could be more than something I water for a few minutes a day and then forget until the next day. The compost could be a classroom and meditation hall unto itself. Why not?

It's not just kids that suffer from nature deficit disorder. In fact, a few nights ago, I was so desperate for something "real" that I couldn't bring myself to eat anything for dinner except the tomatoes and basil that I picked myself from my own front yard. I'd grown it. I knew where it came from. And I savored every bite. Did I turn on the computer afterwards? Probably not.

What are your favorite ways of immersing yourself in the real world? Of learning experientially? Directly, hands on, with minimal words? Where do you take yourself or your family to figure out what the world's made of? I'm actually craving a trip to a feedlot to see where meat comes from: the reality of food before marketers and packagers turn it into the idea of food.

Don't get me wrong. Language is an amazing tool. And computers take that amazing tool to new levels, allowing us to "see" things we couldn't otherwise or communicate with people we'd never have met. I have no intention of giving up blogging any time soon. But the world inside our heads is only a sketch of reality. How much more does the earth itself have to teach?
 

 

Vajrapani Retreat Center: find the plastic; win a prize!

Vajrapani Institute is a Tibetan Buddhist monastery nestled in the Santa Cruz mountains. Care for the earth and all its creatures is one of its core practices, to the extent that the members try as much as possible to avoid killing even insects. This is where I spent the weekend, sitting in silence, listening to the birds, showering among the trees, and just having a moment to breath.

I love taking pictures, so on the last day of the retreat, I snapped a few to share with you. But so as not to lose the theme of this blog, let's make a little contest. To the person who can identify a large mass of plastic hidden within one of these photos, I'll send a copy of Sierra Club's book, Seven Wonders For A Cool Planet. It's a nifty little book that Sierra Club sent me to review. But after reading it, I'd rather just pass it along and see what you think.

Next week, I'll reveal the winner and also discuss the ramifications of this type of plastic and its use. But for now, just enjoy. You can click on each photo to see a larger version.




























 

 

Fake Plastic Holidays

Walk into the local drug store (this happens to be Walgreens on Powell Street in San Francisco) in September, and this is what you find:




We know this. It's not news that Halloween has become a big plastic party. And it wasn't so different when I was a kid in the 70's. Plastic-wrapped candy in plastic bags and fake plastic costumes, which my family scorned because we always made ours from scratch. ("Do you think that kid's costume is homemade or store bought? Looks like store bought. Lazy.") And it wasn't just that our mom had so much more time to make costumes than other mothers who worked outside the home because when we got a bit older, we all made our own, cobbled together from whatever was around the house.

The rest of the holidays are no better. Fake plastic jack-o-lanterns are replaced with plastic-lined cans of pumpkin pie filling (read: BPA) because god forbid anyone should clean out and bake an actual pumpkin. You mean they're not just for Halloween? And of course, even before Thanksgiving is over, the Christmas plastic will be up. Fake plastic snowmen and tinsel and electric candles. Plastic crap toys and plastic appliances and all manner of plastic gadgets: iPods and phones and the latest video game or talking toy.

We spend a lot of time trying to find healthy alternatives to all the environmentally-destructive merchandise that's pushed on us during the holiday season. Toys made from wood instead of plastic. More wholesome sweets. Handmade gifts instead of store bought. Fair trade. Organic. Gifts of experiences instead of physical goods. We spend a lot of time on these things. And that's important.

But is it enough? How about questioning the whole compulsive holiday gift-giving assumption? What's driving us? What's our motivation? Is it to have a quality experience with people we love? Or is it because everyone else is doing it and we don't want to feel left out? Or we don't want our kids to feel left out? Are there ways to subvert the holidays and remake them in our own image, rather than simply "greening" what may be toxic for our souls to begin with?

If the holidays stress us out, make us feel inadequate, drive us to exhaustion trying to meet everyone's expectations, then it doesn't matter how environmentally-friendly the gifts are. The whole system has become fundamentally corrupted. How can we create rituals for ourselves and our families that are life-sustaining rather than draining? How can we approach the holidays from a place of actual holiness?

Holy. It's not a word I use lightly. (Well, except to exclaim "Holy crap!") I'm not even religious, so I don't mean it in that sense. What I mean is finding center and balance and respect for ourselves and those we love so that we're not buffeted by the massive tide of not just commercialism but basic inauthencity. Motivations as insincere as plastic itself. How can we be true to ourselves and honor the holidays without being drowned by them?

This post is full of questions and not many answers because I haven't found the solutions myself. But I feel the coming waves of anxiety and hope for something calmer this season. Last year, I bought movie passes for all my friends and family, feeling it was one of the more ecologically-friendly gift alternatives. But there was no joy in it. Merely a feeling that I had checked off one more chore from my list. But finding a pumpkin and spending a whole day making pumpkin soup -- that was a joyful experience. I hope to fill this season with moments like that.

Here's one idea that arrived in my email box today from Co-op America (soon to be renamed Green America, apparently. *Sigh*) Reverse Trick-or-Treating, "the new Halloween tradition of children handing Fair Trade chocolate back to their neighbors. The candy is attached to a card that includes information about social and environmental justice issues in the cocoa industry and how Fair Trade chocolate helps farmers across the world in cocoa growing communities."

It's not the answer and could be seen as just another thing to buy or to do. But the essential idea tickled me, turning the holiday on its head like that. The trick-or-treaters giving back to the givers and helping to spread a new idea.

What are your suggestions? See any ways around the holiday madness? Please share.
 

 

Sitting with a plastic water bottle

Yesterday, Allie wrote about the problem of keeping hydrated while traveling. Not realizing she could carry her Kleen Kanteen through security, she ended up purchasing bottled water. And apparently, she is far from alone. A couple of days ago, USA Today published an article about the environmental issues around bottled water production and waste that begins with the author's troubles at the airport.

Last night, I encountered this dilemma in a very unexpected place: a meditation hall. My friend Nancy and I went to sit with and hear a talk by teacher Pamela Wilson, given at a Unitarian Church in Berkeley. I'd had a stressful cab ride over and was happy to sit and relax into the moment, take a breath, and slowly open my eyes as Wilson began to speak with the audience. Her voice was calm and serene.

And then... oh my god!

She pull out a disposable plastic water bottle and...

holy crap! drank from it!!!!

What do you do when reality is right up in your face like that? I talked to myself (silently) saying, "Self, it's okay. She must have a good reason. I'm sure she has a good reason. She must not have had any choice. Oh, but Self, of course she had a choice. She's a meditation teacher. She's supposed to be enlightened. So how can she be doing this? Shhhh! Listen, she's saying something. What's that? Words? But... but... but... plastic water bottle! Plastic water bottle! Plastic water bottle!

PLASTIC WATER BOTTLE!!!!!"

It was a great practice, actually. My plastic practice. Because this is the world we live in. And because the point of Pamela's whole talk was about welcoming the voices that we hear in our heads, not shutting them up, but honoring reality in all its forms and in all the ways that it presents itself to us.

So, I honored the reality that was screaming in my left ear. (Don't know why my internal voice seemed to be coming from the left side. It just did.) And when I had a chance to ask a question, I took the microphone and smiled and gave voice to the little freak screaming "Plastic water bottle! Plastic water bottle!" except the voice I used to describe it to the group was much softer and calmer than the one in my head.

As soon as the words were out, I felt better. And Pamela Wilson laughed and looked at the bottle and said, "Oh I know! Isn't it awful?" And she admitted how she had been traveling and was really thirsty and didn't have anything to drink and needed water, and oh how good this water tasted, and yet still, the plastic will last forever, except that she will recycle it. And the whole time, we were smiling and connecting on this genuine heart level.

I don't know what happened to that bottle afterwards. But I do know that once I honored the screaming in my head by giving it loving attention, it transformed into something that could actually be a positive force in the world. Both the message and the medium were one.

I think what I'm trying to say is that I'm realizing all the time how important it is to forgive each other and ourselves as we work to protect the planet and make the world a better place. Because really, the world is already perfect. Isn't it?
 

 

Learning to Sleep

Why would anyone have to learn to sleep? The body does it naturally. When the lights go down, melatonin kicks in and we get sleepy. Then, we go to bed, right? Except, in this day and age with computers and artificial light, melatonin doesn't necessarily kick in. And when you've got genes like mine (father, sisters who stay up all night) the sleep deck is stacked even further against you.

Clif has ocassionally noticed the time stamp on my posts. Yeah, I am usually up until at least 2am. But lately, I've found myself crawling into bed past 4am and even still been up at 5:30 just when Michael is starting his day.

So I'm going to learn to sleep because I'm becoming less and less effective when I'm awake and more and more cranky with the people I care the most about. In the meantime, posts on this blog might be a bit sporadic.

But that's okay, because I'd really like to hear from you for a change. How do you feel about plastic? Is reducing it in your life a priority? Why or why not? And if so, what steps have you taken so far? What's the biggest challenge? And what alternatives to plastic have you found that I might not have yet?

Remember, I'm a child-free 43-year old female urbanite in the SF Bay Area using my own life as a model, so of course I haven't addressed issues faced by those who have kids or live in the suburbs or out on the country or in places that have actual seasons or are older or younger.

What questions do you have about plastic that Fake Plastic Fish has not addressed? Please let me know.

Oh, and remember, plastic will still be an issue after this freaking election is over, no matter who wins. And it will still be an issue no matter what happens to the economy. How can we take care of the short-term without losing sight of the big picture?
 

 

Affluence: Sustaining the flow

Last night, I had a wonderful meal with some new friends who are working to create an alternative online community. We ate at Red Sea, an Eritrean/Ethiopian restaurant down the street from me. As we sat before a giant communal platter of food: meats, vegetables, lentils, fish, all spread across sour injera bread, I marveled at the bounty before us and the irony that this amazing cuisine comes to us from a part of the world where the majority of citizens would be eating far less and far fewer dishes in one meal, and would certainly not have the need for a stainless steel tiffin in which to carry home leftovers.

To be able to eat until our bellies are full, to have food left over, and to feel secure that there will be more tomorrow, this is affluence. And whether we choose to overindulge or to eat simply, the fact that we have a choice is also affluence. Whether we live in a single family home or palacial estate or studio apartment, those of us who have a roof over our heads and are not worried about ending up in the streets are affluent compared with the 85% of people worldwide who earn less than $2,200 per year and whose lives are less certain.

Affluence is the topic of this month's APLS blog carnival. What does it mean and why is it important? So, as I did with last month's topic, Sustainability, I looked at the derivation of the word to gain a better understanding. Affluent comes from the Latin "to flow toward." Having affluence means that the good things in life flow toward you. But if affluence is flow, then do those of us lucky enough to have been born into great (relative) wealth have a responsibility to keep the waters moving, to sustain (our word from last month) the flow? Or is it our right to dam it up and stop it, thinking we can keep all the goodies for ourselves?

Coincidentally, there is an advertisement on my blog this week for a new documentary film entitled, Flow, which looks at the "growing privatization of the world's dwindling fresh water supply" and asks the question, "CAN ANYONE REALLY OWN WATER?" And in fact, right now my own state of California is fighting the Nestle Corporation in court over its plan to build a water-bottling plant in Siskyou County to capture "1,600 acre feet of spring water per year (and an unlimited amount of groundwater) from the McCloud river under a 100-year contract." Forget about all the plastic bottles for a minute, how does this private company have the right to stop the flow?

Sustaining the flow means directing our resources in such a way that they continue to benefit the rest of the world as they travel from one hand to the next. If we're talking about money, then it means using our wallets to support a healthy world. Not buying the bottled water, just because we can, but choosing organic, fair trade, least toxic products and avoiding those that in some way cause harm. It means that if we make enough money to save for the future, investing in socially and environmentally responsible companies. And it means, to the best of our ability, supporting organizations that are working to create positive change in the world.

There are all kinds of ways we can keep our money flowing to create positive change in the world. But flow is not necessarily only monetary. It's also the time that we have available to live on this planet and what we choose to do with it. I am very fortunate to work only 3 days per week and make enough money to live comfortably (meaning organic food, shelter in a relatively safe neighborhood, a nice computer and Internet access, healthcare, ability to pay for "extras" like concerts and plays and meditation retreats.) I live in a modest rented apartment and don't own a car. But those are choices. I have the luxury of trading free time for material possessions.

For several years, I wondered what it was I was supposed to do with all this free time. I watched a lot of movies. I learned to knit and made silly things for everyone I knew. I trained for and ran a marathon. I planted a roof garden. I learned web programming and made funny flash animations. I got addicted to playing The Sims (a topic for a possible upcoming post) and stayed up many nights in a row making sure my little people ate and showered and peed and slept and chatted so they would be in the mood to go to work and make enough Simoleans to buy new stuff and "move up" in their world. And I came home nearly every night depressed because I felt that all this free time was a gift that I was squandering.

And I was stagnating. The waters were dammed up. The projects I jumped into felt kind of pointless when I considered their impact (or lack thereof) on the rest of the world. And then I found what I thought was my calling. Plastic. This blog. Fake Plastic Fish. And suddenly, instead of keeping all my free time for myself, I was creating a positive force in the world. Not only learning for myself, but passing on what I learned to others. Creating connections. Joining with others. But even this is not the end of the story.

No matter how many good things I had or how many good things I did, there was still me, struggling.

So I'm learning slowly and painfully, there is another kind of affluence that is not based on having anything at all. Money or time or friends or even health. It's the affluence that all of us share: the privilege of simply being. And the recognition that none of us is truly separate from the other, that in reality, there is no other. Whomever and whatever we harm is ultimately ourselves. And when we stand in the way of the flow (or, some might say tao) there is nothing real to win anyway.

For me, it's actually easy to focus on environmental issues and giving to charities and buying organic and petitioning companies and governments and riding my bike instead of driving and volunteering my time because those things build up my ego and give me a sense of self-worth. It's easy to use the affluence I was born into in these ways to make a better world. And it's important. It's my responsibility as a member of the global rich.

But simply being is the greatest affluence of all. And awakening to that fact is truly all that is necessary to save us. All other right actions flow from that source.
 

 

Suddenly Sustainable

I asked Michael, the Latin scholar, what is the derivation of the word "sustain?" He said "to hold up from underneath." Pretty smart, that guy. The Online Etymology Dictionary says almost the same thing. Why did I ask? Because the topic of the very first APLS blog carvival is, "What does living sustainably mean to you?" So I thought I'd start by digging up the roots.

APLS stands for Affluent People Living Sustainably. I'm one. You probably are too. Think you're not affluent? Check your income on the Global Rich List and then decide whether you are affluent or not compared to the majority of the world. We're not comparing ourselves to the CEOs of Microsoft or Clorox but to the 85% of the world who earn less than $2,182 per year.

The APLS blog carnival will be a monthly collection of posts related to living sustainably in an affluent society. Anyone can contribute, whether you have a blog or not. See the FAQ. And as I mentioned, this month's carnival (which will be published at Better Living on August 15th) asks what living sustainably means to us.

You might assume I'll write about how unsustainable plastic is. It's made from a non-renewable resource, its manufacture often leads to pollution of our air and water, it may contain toxic additives that can leach into our food, and as waste, it lingers in the environment indefinitely harming wildlife and attracting oil-based toxins that accumulate up the food chain. No, plastic is not sustainable, and that's why I am working very hard to lessen my dependence on it and to find plastic-free alternatives.

But that's not really what I want to write about. Because, while plastic is not a sustainable material, avoiding it and blogging about it and campaigning against it might not always be sustainable practices either.

How's that?

Let's get back to the root. To sustain is to hold up from below. From the depths. From the core.

How is it sustainable to stay up all night obsessively blogging and end up too tired the next day to eat a wholesome meal? How long can one last on 4 hours of sleep per night before burning out?

How sustainable is it to become so preoccupied with writing a presentation about environmental issues that one stands in the shower for 20 minutes letting the water flow down the drain until it runs cold?

How sustainable is it to live in an "us vs. them" world in which we are the good guys picking up litter and carrying our own bags and everyone else are the bad guys tossing empty cups out car windows and double bagging each item? How can we live in a world like this without losing our minds?

How can we sustain ourselves and the planet without going crazy?

I'll share with you the deepest thing I learned from my vision fast a few weeks ago. Sitting in the woods, staring at (and kinda chatting with) the eucaluptus trees, I suddenly had the experience of not just being with the trees, but actually being the experience of those trees, the cold breeze, the crackling bark. I realized that without me, this experience would not exist. And that all I am is my experience of the world around me, every day, each moment. And that each moment I have a choice... to fully live it or to hide in my head.

In February, I wrote about loving what is and giving up the struggle against reality. Last month, I had the experience of being reality, of realizing that the only struggle is against ourselves. That's wacky. And it's not sustainable. But it's sooooo easy to fall into again and again.

So for me, what is sustainable is simply practicing being the awareness of my experience each moment and seeing what actions arise from that awareness, rather than planning the actions and carrying them out from a place of frustration or anger or separateness from the reality of life.

Each day, I practice. 10 minutes of meditation first thing in the morning. That may not seem like much, but for me, it sets an intention for the rest of the day. The intention to show up for life.

I'm learning to use the computer as a tool rather than an obsession. When I find myself falling back into compulsive behaviors, I'm learning to sit still and ask what it is I really long for. And when I notice anger arising from someone else's unconscious act, I ask myself what it is that separates him from me and whether the division is real or simply an idea in my own head.

I'm learning how much of the world I experience IS only an idea in my head and how, when I drop assumptions and judgments for a bit, compassion arises for both myself and the perceived "other."

When that happens, when the separation between me and life dissolves, all my actions, whether blogging about plastic or making a Power Point or playing with my kitties or eating chocolate or taking a shower, are suddenly sustainable.
 

 

I went to the woods...

...because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. Henry David Thoreau, Walden.


I spread a sheet on the ground and set up my chair in a eucalyptus grove overlooking Lake Chabot. I sat in that chair from 12:30pm yesterday to 11:00am today, not quite 24 hours. It was cold and foggy most of the day, and very cold last night. Thank goodness for my mummy bag with hood, which kept me warm enough.

I drank water and listened to the rumblings of my empty tummy. Thoughts were thought and visions beheld, although not of the fantastical burning bush sort. The sound of eucalyptus bark peeling from trees was like a chorus of creeky doors opening and closing, inviting me over and over again to wake up. And the leaves fluttered all night like little birds over my head. After dark, a skunk and I were mutually alarmed by the presence of the other, but after a few seconds of nervous staring, we parted ways (the skunk turned and ran off) neither the worse for the encounter.

That's all I'm prepared to say right now. The deeper experience feels too raw and precious to share publicly... at least for a while. Here are a few more pictures. Yes, I brought my camera, but it spent most of its time in my backpack.

The view from my chair:






Early Tuesday morning:




Lake Chabot from the bench where I sat and ate my lunch Tuesday after fasting for a full day. The best PB&J ever!


 

 

This doesn't belong on BART!

I've got a busy weekend ahead of me: three days of the Blogher Conference in San Francisco, Michael's sister coming to visit during the same weekend, and then my vision quest retreat on Monday/Tuesday. I plan to blog my usual plastic tally on Sunday night, but we'll see how it goes. In the meantime, I wanted to share a quick story and also let you know about another neat bloggy thing.

A few days ago, I was sitting on BART, reading or something... not really paying much attention to my surroundings. The train stopped at a station and a couple of loud, scruffy guys got off. Suddenly, from halfway down the car, a tall man jumps up, grabs a plastic garbage bag full of bottles and cans, marches toward the open door by me, throws the bag out onto the platform, and yells to the scruffy guys, "This does not belong on BART!" Then he stomped back to his seat, all the while muttering and sputtering and visibly upset. The guys on the platform just took their bag and left.

My reaction: WTF???!!!!!!! What's wrong with this man that he should get so angry when clearly those guys didn't mean to leave a valuable bag full of recycling on the train. Obviously they weren't paying attention and just forgot it. Clearly they had spent a lot of time collecting those bottles and cans and didn't leave the bag on purpose. Hey, guy. Why are you so upset? Maybe YOU don't belong on BART. Yeah, maybe I should throw YOU off the train. How would you like that, Mr. A-hole? You are getting all pissed off just because of a failure of perception. Just because you misunderstand the meaning of a bag of recycling on BART. Why do you choose to assume the worst of people?

And by this time, I'm getting all red and worked up myself, just from the thoughts in my own head. And you guys know where this is going, right? I WAS DOING THE SAME THING AS MR. A-HOLE! I was Ms. A-hole but no one could tell because I hadn't stood up and marched down the train car to make my point. But I could tell from my pounding heart and clenched fist. So I just sat with all the weird contradictions and realized what a tiny piece of perception we each have about the world and how if we're not paying attention in the first place, we can miss oh so much.

This Monday, I'll be sitting in the woods for 24 hours, awake, consuming only water, and paying attention to everything that I can. My vision quest is about finding out who I am without all the things I use to distract myself on a daily basis. I just want to see. No, actually I need to see. What will it be like to be alone in nature with only the thoughts in my own head for a full day? It's a scary proposition, but I think I'm ready.

In the meantime, while I'm dealing with the trash in my own head, check out the latest Blog Carnival on the block: the Carnival of Trash. Created this week by Almost Mrs. Average from The Rubbish Diet blog, the Carnival of Trash will be a monthly collection of blog posts dealing with garbage and finding ways to reduce it, and the Carnival will travel from blog to blog. This month's Carnival of Trash includes some of my letters to companies about excess packaging as well as articles from bloggers you might not yet have heard of. Next month, the carnival will land at Mrs. Green's My Zero Waste blog and in September, I believe the host will be Fake Plastic Fish.

If you'd like to submit a trashy post to the Carnival of Trash (a good way to promote your blog), please use the submission form at http://blogcarnival.com/bc/cprof_4478.html. And if you'd like to host the Carnival of Trash on your blog, contact Almost Mrs. Average and let her know.

Okay, signing off now. Have a great weekend, and if I don't have time to post before Monday, please keep me in mind while you're snug in your beds eating bonbons and slurping up Jamison's Irish whiskey through a straw. Don't think you can hide it. I'm on to every single one of you!
 

 

Fear of unpunctuated silence, or emptiness sucks.

The Blogger posting screen is blank and white and taunting me. I've been procrastinating starting this post for the last two hours because I'm not sure what shape it should have or how to begin. So I'll just dive in and see where the words lead. Maybe by the time you read this, I'll have deleted these introductory sentences altogether. Or maybe not.

This week, I started letting go of some things. Monday, I uninstalled the Microsoft games from my computers. No more killing time playing Freecell or Spider Solitaire. No more distracting myself while waiting for files to upload or programs to backup. No more splitting my attention with reruns of "House" playing in one corner of my screen and a game of Freecell going in another. I'm letting in a little empty space, and it sucks.

Tuesday, I used up the very last of my fairtrade organic coffee from Peaberry's, washed out my new porcelain coffee cone as well as Organic Needle's organic cotton filter, and stored them on the top shelf of the cupboard. No more charging my battery chemically because I stayed up all night, once again, and have to find the energy to go to work. Don't worry. I'm not a masochist. I'm weening off the caffeine by switching to black tea for a few days and then maybe green, for the antioxidants, of course!

Also, on Tuesday, as I was emptying my backpack of non-essentials in preparation for a long nature walk, I decided to remove the case of prescription drugs I carry around every day for insurance. I'm referring to the big V's: Valium and its friend Vicodin. I've had ongoing prescriptions for these drugs for many years for valid medical reasons, although I lost my Vicodin Rx at the same time I lost my uterus, the painful reason for the prescription in the first place. Still, I had some saved up, and while I rarely felt the need to actually take these drugs, just having them with me made me feel calm and prepared. Like I couldn't be hurt, either emotionally or physically.

After putting the bottles in the kitchen cabinet, I sat at the table and wept.

I sobbed, actually, for about a half an hour. Even though all I'd done was put the bottles away (as opposed to discarding the contents altogether), I felt like I'd removed a limb. And a piece of identity I didn't even know I'd been carrying. Breakable. Fragile. Patient. The drugs didn't take up much room in my backpack, but the knowledge that they were there apparently filled a huge space in my psyche. Now I've created more emptiness and nothing to fill it with but tears.

Or alcohol.

Confession: I've been drinking my household cleaner for the last few months. That's because I like to clean with vodka instead of vinegar. I bought the cheapest stuff I could find in a glass bottle because I hadn't planned on consuming it. But that's what happens at 2am when I'm anxious and agitated and want to wind down. And you know the saying that the definition of insanity is repeating the same thing over and over hoping for a different result each time? Alcohol NEVER puts me to sleep. It keeps me up. Yet every night, I expect it to do what it's never done before.

So okay, last night I finished the bottle of household cleaner. Tonight, I have no alcohol in the house and have mentally stored that crutch away in the cupboard along with the coffee and pills. Wow. I sound like a total fiend. I was about to qualify all this with a statement about how little I actually drink, but screw that. It's a problem. It's been blocking me from finding out how powerful I could actually be without it, so it has to go. More space. More emptiness. More silence.

I'm giving up these heavy, heavy crutches in preparation for a 24-hour fasting vision quest I'll be undertaking as part of the Integral Life Practice group I recently joined. And all these distractions are just weighing me down. Perhaps I feel such a connection to photos of dead birds full of plastic because I myself feel so heavy I can barely move.

But how can I take care of the planet when I am barely taking care of myself?

These are the thoughts I pondered during my 3-hour walk Tuesday, climbing the Berkeley hills, looking and listening for signs. I envisioned myself as both sculptor and clay, my job to cut out whatever is not me. And then I imagined a candle inside and light pouring through the openings I'd created. The spaces where I could shine a little, and maybe breathe.

The hill I climbed was steep (literally) and shadeless, and the weight on my back and in my brain, discouraging. Suddenly, I heard a familiar sound and looked up to catch sight of two hummingbirds, way up there in the hills, soar straight up into the sky and then dive bomb back down. Over and over they did this together, and once again that day I broke down and sobbed. "I want to fly," I cried out to the wind, "How come I can't fly? Why?"

I'm not making this up. I really did cry out in the "wilderness" of the Berkeley Hills. And of course, I knew the answer. I'm too heavy. All this extra stuff I carry. All the strategies I have for killing time, holding myself back, keeping myself in check. I want to find out who I'd be without those things. I'm really, really ready. And pretty terrified.

Yes, I go to meditation retreats twice a year and sit in silence and practice mindfulness. But the stillness is punctuated by the ring of the bell. The sessions structured and interspersed with meals and a waiting bed. I nap a lot. During my vision quest, I won't be eating food or taking naps or ringing bells. And there won't be anyone to tell me when to open my eyes. It'll just be me and the woods and my bottle of water.

In discussing how hard it is to give up coping mechanisms and routines that we've come to depend on, my wise friend Axelle had this to say:

I didn't answer your question about unpunctuated emptiness. Here it is: If I don't have the structure of seeking food, whether at home or out, and eating it, at regular times, I don't know what to do with the extra time. It's too much space, too much freedom. What I missed when I quit smoking was the structure it gave me, of having to do something (smoke) at certain times. When I no longer had to smoke at certain times, I couldn't handle the freedom, the space.

Why are some of us so afraid to be free? There's a question to ponder on Independence Day while many are compulsively shopping or eating or drinking, accumulating more and more stuff to plug up the emptiness in their lives. Sitting quietly should be the simplest thing in the world. So why's it so freakin' hard?
 

 

Activism, Religion, & Despair: What Would Jesus Buy?

Last weekend I finally saw the documentary What Would Jesus Buy? on DVD. It follows the crusade of "Reverend Billy" and the "Church of Stop Shopping Gospel Choir" during this past Christmas season as they traveled cross country spreading a message of anti-commercialism, support for local businesses, and hairspray. Well, the hairspray was more method than message, but I digress.

Say what you want about environmentalists taking on the language of the Church to make their points, (and by the way, there's been quite a bit of debate about that very issue this week on the Green Bean Dreams and TallgrassWorship blogs) Reverend Billy's evangelical escapades, offensive or not, grab attention and draw converts to the cause. He exorcises shopping demons from Wal-mart and Disneyland. He gets himself banned for life from Starbucks. He's been arrested more times than his wife Savitri can count.

But flamboyant showmanship aside, what spoke to me as an activist was the group's persistence in the face of a seemingly insurmountable obstacle. Americans love to shop. The opening of the documentary shows footage of customers trampling each other at midnight on Black Friday in their race to get the best deals before everyone else. Everyone wanted either a Wii or an X-Box374rt43gh-something-or-other. And if they couldn't bring it home THIS CHRISTMAS, they might as well not come home at all.

And yet there was Reverend Billy and his choir preaching in the midst of the chaos, singing revised versions of Christmas carols, and smiling at those who would deride them. What does it take to be that kind of person? Balls of steel? A white suit and an entire can of Aqua Net every day? It was hard enough for me to dress as a BRITA filter for the Bay to Breakers, an event where participants are expected to be outrageous. Now, I'm thinking about wearing my costume to the BART station to gather signatures during evening rush hour. Do I have the guts? What will it take to pull it off?

There is a scene in the film which was particularly touching to me. Billy and his wife are alone in their hotel room (except for the camera crew, presumably) feeling exhausted and overwhelmed after a particularly intense action at Wal-mart.

Savitri: [Looking like she's ready to break.] I just don't know if anyone hears us. Or if they do hear us, they so don't want to hear us.

Billy: You look pretty tired.

Savitri: I feel I need for what we do to have an impact on someone. Soon.

Back in November, I left a comment on the No Impact Man blog that Colin Beavan copied (with my enthusiastic permission) as a post a few days later. The title of the post was, "On Caring Without Despairing," and in it, I said:

My dad asked me the other day how I can blog day after day about plastic and not get totally overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the problem. I think part of my coping strategy, and it might be yours too, is selective attention.

I guess I allow in as much information as I can stand in order to understand the problem and then shut it out and focus on what I can do and how I can have the biggest impact and do the most good I can without caving under the pressure.

Not my most articulate moment, but sincere. My feeling at the time was that if I allowed myself to become overwhelmed by the magnitude of the problem, I'd just curl up under the covers and do nothing but drink and eat bon bons. Shortly afterwards I received an email from No Impact Man reader, Brian Morton, who begged to differ with me. He actually sent me a very long essay explaining why despair is valuable and why we should all allow ourselves to feel our despair fully and completely. Here's the last paragraph of his essay. I'd love to know what you think.

A time of black despair is coming, and if you feel like you are drowning in despair be comforted. Despair is a GOOD thing, when it functions properly. Swim in your despair, master it, use it for what it is good for. Use your despair to let go, and set new humbler goals. You are less rich, and less powerful than you think you are, than you are used to being. But you are not without any wealth; you are not without any power. Each breath is riches; each moment is wealth; each choice is power. All work is using our power. Do what work you can, plan, set new goals, and do what good you can. Despair, but do not drown in it, despair to clear a place for humbler goals. Your despair is in reality a valuable friend, helping you to re-prioritize your life, even when doing so is painful and difficult. Despair hurts, but it is a virtue in disguise. The pain of despair is the pain of healing, and adapting to humbler circumstances. All Americans will soon become acquainted with despair. Be assured, despair is a gloomy ally, but it is not in the end your enemy.

So, the question is, how do you cope? What keeps you going in the face of massive problems? As an activist (and I believe that everyone reading this blog is an activist in some way, whether you call yourself that or not) what makes you think you can make a difference? What gives you hope? And what is the role of despair in your life?
 

 

Some things I learned from my cats...

Just a few thoughts tonight before signing off for the week. I was watching Soots and Arya (or Suit Scenario, as Axelle calls them) examine the common objects of their lives. They chew on cords. They bat at invisible specks. They jump onto the kitchen counter and invariably knock things off. They drag balls of yarn through the house, creating intricate and artistic messes that I have to clean up. They are way too curious about curly CFL lightbulbs for my comfort, and, as I mentioned yesterday, they are ruining the window blinds in their fascination with all things that move, swing, or make noise.

They are terribly curious and examine every object in their world with fierce intensity. And yet as much as they study and even learn the behaviors of certain objects, for the most part, they will never, ever understand why those objects are here in their world and what they are for. They bumble and break things and don't understand what they have done.

And we, as their humans, get exasperated but love them unconditionally. We do understand the purpose of the lamp or the ball of yarn or the pull cord or the cloth pantiliner (oh yeah, Arya loves dragging my freshly laundered cloth pantiliners out of the basket and having her way with them, and Michael loves to let her do it cuz he thinks it's funny and cuz he's the good cop and can't bear to say no.) We know that the cats will never understand, and we love them anyway.

Now think about humans. Aren't we kinda like cats, toying with the universe, poking and prodding and testing and trying to understand, and oftentimes breaking things and creating all kinds of environmental messes in the process? I'm not saying we shouldn't study and try to learn as much as we can. But shouldn't we also admit that the universe is way too complex for any of us to ever understand fully? And shouldn't we have a little humility and awe for the intricacy of the world and quit thinking we can just take it apart and put it back together?

And now I'm going out on a limb here because I have said before that I'm not religious and don't have any specific belief in an