Seattle Citizen

Cut-Offs

2009-07-28T03:10:00Z

I'm not sure who looks more ridiculous, my dog in her cone head or me in my sleeveless shirt. At least my dog has an excuse. I put the plastic cone on her head to keep her from scratching at her "hot spot," a rashy, nasty dog thing that happens to Golden Retrievers who spend a lot of time in the water and heat. I have no one to blame for my fashion, save myself. I cut the sleeves off my t-shirt in an attempt to beat the heat. It's an old trick I learned growing up in Virginia, ages ago when that look was both practical and fashionable. Maybe I pulled off the look as a teenager (it seemed to go with my "skater" haircut) or perhaps it would register as trashy regardless of age, time, or location. Nonetheless, I paraded the dog and my cut-off shirt around my Seattle neighborhood this evening. None of my neighbors seemed to mind my DIY fashion or rashy pooch. They're all hiding from the heat inside their dark houses or in the deep shade of their backyards.

In these sticky times of tactical retreats to cool office buildings and tepid neighborhood pools, it's time to count our blessings. Seattle gets this weather in bursts. We're not numb to the heat and humidity like my southern friends. Our neighborhoods don't drone all summer long with the soft mechanical hum of air conditioners. We don't rush from one climate controlled location to another. Our deep, cold Puget Sound gives us cool nights and restful sleep, and even room for a bit of reflection. Maybe, as the sweat drips down your nose and you're aiming a murderous, heat-induced glare at your loving partner, you can think of this heat as a Seattle Teachable Moment, a chance to turn an old t-shirt into a tank-top.

My backyard's brown grass is a shirt sleeve that I would love to shred to pieces. Two reasons keep me from ripping the whole lawn out: my partner and our dog. They both want this brown lawn, so it stays, but my natural tendency toward efficiency (or laziness) finds a bit of drought upside. Dead plants are a perfect opportunity to say I told you so about all those drought tolerant plants we planted, about this ridiculous pastoral metaphor that Americans preach with their lawns. But I like to pretend I am too sophisticated to say I told you so. Instead I remember these moments for later seasons, when my partner and I are pondering our garden through a rain streaked window. I wait to ask summer questions of our fall garden. I wait to temper spring optimism with drought realism. I could whine about this heat now, but I prefer to sing a song of thanks for bringing my brilliant, yet unheeded recommendations, to farm fresh clarity.

My partner is willing to see now, that our backyard is a mess. The native plants, though taxed, are still thriving without water, while we take turns placating the thirsty hydrangeas and the beds of cut flowers (his ideas). This is why we work as a couple. I'm never happier than when the shit hits the fan and we all have to hunker down and suffer together, whereas Bo brings exquisite cut flowers to our table in a vase. Over time I've come to appreciate how his exotic roses look against the backdrop of my native salal. Of course it helps that the roses are just fine without watering.

I ripped the front lawn out completely. I tore those sleeves off and added the bare-midriff fringe of raised vegetable beds and fruit trees. The front yard is a revelation. Neighbors stop us to ask after our tomatoes. "What's a fava bean? Is that corn?" The other day a woman stopped to give me seeds she'd picked up at her church. Our front yard preaches a new gospel. It was a fashion risk to move away from the tailored adornment of our neighbors, but a risk rewarded in praise and produce. Our front yard is a place we're willing to spend our precious resources because we're literally nourished by it.

So at the risk of looking ridiculous (I'm way past caring about sounding ridiculous), I suggest you find your scissors. You must have an old shirt somewhere that you haven't worn in a while, maybe that black one with the drawing of the wolf on the front, perhaps something with a salmon pun. I want you to take that shirt and cut those sleeves right off. Now I want you to take your new fashion on a liberating walk around your yard. I want you to take a hard look at everything that is dead or dying. You might want to make a list to help you remember next fall or spring, when your good intentions are turgid with weeks of rain.

Now put that shirt in a safe place, maybe by your best fleece, because you'll be wearing your cut-off again next fall or spring when you head over to the nursery center with your new list, your list of stuff that works in these summer droughts and winter rain. You'll be wearing it when you recognize all of your fellow gardeners, who are no longer summer hot, but now smokin' cut-off hot. You'll be wearing your cut-off when you rip out that water guzzling lawn and plant your natives, when you build your raised vegetable beds and install your rain barrels. You'll be wearing your cut-off next summer when you're relaxing in the sun with your book instead of watering your garden.

Carnage

2009-07-19T00:55:00Z

We walk up the beach just in time to see a three year-old make her first kill. She is neat and efficient, bringing a blue, broken broomstick handle swiftly down onto an overturned Dungeness crab, which is flailing in her father's hand. If I'd learned this trick this earlier, I'd probably eat crab. But I grew up in a place where we didn't set our pots in the morning, where we didn't row a little dinghy out into a gorgeous bay with our friends, leaning out over the side at a 45 degree angle to pull up the heavy pots. I experienced neither the romance of the harvest, nor the carnage of the kill. By the time I came to live in a mysterious place by the sea, I'd been unduly influenced by Disney's singing crustaceans, by serious philosophical treatments of environmental limits. By the time I came to the sea, I was a vegetarian.

I admire this three year-old girl's skill. My partner Bo has been killing crab for thirty years, yet our friends tease him as the crab thrashes in his hand. All of you who eat crab in its various formats, in buckets and bakes, in butter and bouillon, I want you to see this moment. I want you to see the mallet when it comes down. I want you to know where your food comes from.

I'm not asking you to stop eating crab, although I'd appreciate it if you'd take a moment to stop by the hardware store, pay your ten dollars for your crab license and follow its precepts. I'm asking you to take part in the carnage if you're going to eat the damn thing.

Camus warned his protagonist to wait to see the whites of his victim's eyes, before pulling the trigger. Without this intimate contact, the kill was not noble. I wince when pulling a weed from my garden. I celebrate nature in the abstract, appreciating the sway of the alder, the song of the sparrow, but I yield to a toddler with a stick, I steer clear of the crab feed.

My friend Kirby finally got me to eat salmon, after 15 years of my vegetarianism, not because he talked me into it, but because he's a fisherman. He kept bringing fish to my house, fish he'd left his wife for the summer to catch, fish he labored and loved. I began to eat fish because I respected my friends and their values. But as an adult, I still have not caught my first fish, have not removed the hook from its mouth, have not sliced the scales from its flesh.

I may be coming around. Lately I've been more cavalier in the garden. Just this morning I dug salmonberry out of the earth, from a place it didn't belong. I didn't wait for a wetter time of year when I could have replanted it somewhere else. I just got on with my business. I made this little sacrifice. I killed the thing, I didn't even throw it in the compost.

I don't see myself trading my shovel for a broomstick anytime soon, but perhaps living in this wild, island place I'm starting to be more comfortable with the kill. Perhaps I'm getting closer to engaging in the real, violent, visceral struggle of this world. Until then, there's more crab for everyone else.

Sensible Fruits

2009-07-09T01:37:00Z

We have fruit rotting on the vine in two gardens.

Bo and I planted an ambitious vegetable garden in the front yard of our Seattle home two years ago. Since then it's been a joy to behold, the envy of neighbors, and a source, in the classic sense of the word, of gluttony. Tonight, Bo called me from his busy job to tell me he'd pick something up for dinner. Neither of us thought to look in our garden for inspiration. We happen to have onions, carrots, beets, lettuce, strawberries, blueberries and strawberries ready for the picking right outside our front door, but Red Mill Burgers is on the way home.

We're really good at starting things, in our jobs, in our gardens, but not so great at enjoying the fruits of our labor. Instead of looking within, 'm going to blame that squarely on our culture. Why not? I wasn't raised to plant a garden, nurture it, harvest it, cook with it, store it and begin it all again with saved seed - even though my great grandparents on both sides were farmers. This is just not a cycle that we learn anymore. Now we're trying, in fits and starts, to rediscover it.

At first I thought we just didn't have enough time. We were too busy making money, hanging out with friends, volunteering, whatever, to nurture a garden, to see it through. So I started to focus, to make more room in my life to pick the blueberries, to bake them into a pie. But here I sit writing as those blueberries get bluer. I have never baked a pie.

Around the time we planted a veggie garden in Seattle we decided to buy a little cabin in the San Juans near Bo's parent's place. This was a great decision, and one that dove us ever deeper into that cycle of busy-ness to pay for that place, furnish it, visit it, and, of course, tend a garden there too. We did the sensible thing, knowing that we'd not be able to care for veggies in a place we only saw every few weeks. We planted ten fruit trees instead, and blueberries, and other sensible fruits.

A few weeks ago Bo and I attended a wedding in the Skagit Valley, on the mainland a short distance across the strait from our cabin. The wedding was attended by hip, young, ex-Seattleites who'd moved to the valley to grow berries, bake bread, keep bees. The wedding was small town charm without small mindedness. Bo said to me on the way home, flush from laughter, whole foods and handcrafted beer, "we should move to the valley and become farmers." Despite my wide-eyed idealism, I replied, "First you should eat all of those veggies that are rotting in our front yard." Which isn't totally fair since Bo has dished up strawberry pie, beet salad, snowpeas and other delights many times to my few attempts to make magic with my fava beans.

I don't rule out the possibility of agrarian bliss, not entirely. Bo would be the hottest farmer you've ever laid eyes on. We're just not in the practice of farming. Somewhere along the way we all left the farm, moved to the city and became specialists, and then, we specialized some more. I make a living migrating legacy logistics software to newer, service oriented architecture software. To make things sexier, I dabble in green supply chains on the side. Bo sells online "search media" advertising. Our jobs are so specific (and let's face it, nerdy), that it's not automatic for us to plant a seed and watch it grow. It's not like us to generalize from growing things to harvesting them, to selling them, to eating them, to... It's just too mind boggling. Who does this? Oh yeah, small family farmers.

So before we quit the corporate jobs that allow us to entertain the idea of farming. We'll take the small step of preferring, and making, dinner at home to ordering pho. We'll eat more of what we grow, or at least give it to friends. I'm self aware enough to know that canning is completely out of the question for the time being. We'll practice being sensible fruits for another season. Maybe I'll even cook tonight - if Bo has time to check his messages before he stops for burgers.

Serenity Now

2009-07-05T00:32:00Z

I'm beginning to see things for what they are rather than what I believe they should be. I'm not sure why it took me so long to get this point, but with this new perspective I suddenly have a lot more time on my hands.

There's all of the time I'm not spending on worrying about how things should be and how to make them so.

There's the time I'm saving by not taking on things I cannot change and, instead, finding the right moment and technique to change the things I can.

If I'm sounding like a serenity poem, it's because, to borrow words from an era of sitcom certainty, I've found "serenity now."

Some examples:

At work a few titans have given me grief, and I them, for years. But now, I no longer challenge the people whose power I can't match. It's just sound project management: only commit to work when you have adequate resources. I don't have the power to take on certain people, certain institutions. Pursuing that change without adequate resources, well that is just stupid. Why did I behave otherwise?

On my Seattle block a developer built a home four times bigger than it's neighbor. This lesson is not about power, but timing. If history is the consequence of either great actors, or extraordinary times, then the mega mansion will fall victim to the times. The big boxes on my humble street sit vacant, their prices dropping, relics of a reckless marketplace. My writing,calls to my legislators, weren't as effective as a sub-prime lending crisis for making people reconsider the "more is more" mentality. These days, front yard gardens are sexier than three-car garages.

At work I courted another set of titans, ones open to change, and worked with them to pursue new ideas. The resulting projects to green our company have been more successful than I could have hoped. I managed to connect the right people, at the right time, with the right support to make a real change. This experience and many others are teaching me the difference between the things I can change, and those I cannot, that experience some call wisdom.

So if you see me playing my guitar, or lounging around with a book, while the planet appears to be melting, don't hate me for it. I'm letting my workers have the weekend off, so they can hit it harder on Monday.

Bo Mows

2009-06-28T21:09:00Z

Bo and I are having an argument about the lawn. He wants more of it and I, less. We stand on a freshly mowed patch of grass at our cabin in the San Juan islands, the place we bought to get away from it all, to relax. The place, I now realize, many people go to do many things, but not to relax. Once I took Bo with me to a yoga class - he went under duress. I remember Bo asking the instructor, "what should I do? sun salutations, back bends?" The instructor replied, "Sit. I want you to sit silently for ten minutes." These were ten of the longest minutes of Bo's life. He never went back.

Bo has one hand on the lawnmower and another on his hip. He brought this mower up from Seattle, put it on a boat, walked it up the gravel road from the county ramp, repeated this cycle due to repairs, and now here he stands, mower, nay, heart in hand, asking me to love him... to let him plow into the brush, reclaim just a bit more lawn, and I, ever cold, calculating, abstract German, am talking Pollution, Habitat, Global Warming, Doing Our Part.

Bo's parents have a cabin a short walk from ours. They have a modest lawn with a few acres behind it that have recovered quite nicely from a clear cut many years before to become a fledgling forest. The forest's recovery is as much the result of years of benign neglect as it is from righteous principles. In the pacific northwest, things just grow. if you leave a piece of land unattended for years, you get a forest. This part of the world is full of unimaginable riches, to those who will let the world do its thing.

Bo's parent's neighbors love the lawnmower. It's a big love, the kind of love you ride on, a love so strong it can pull small cars behind it. The neighbors' lawn cuts a big swath of green from beach to gravel road, with a series of house and deck and boccie ball and horseshoes, and tents, and barbecues, and where can we pour some more concrete and have some more fun. They're very nice people, happy to share the fun with you. They are sucking the marrow out of life, sucking it hard.

So these are the possibilities: wilderness or funhouse, and my philosophical mind immediately attempts to maximize the categorical imperative. Immanuel Kant comes knocking at my door on the route of his afternoon walk, and says, "What if all people acted this way?" And I, I answer, "No trees!" What would Shell Silverstein say, or Jim Henson, or any of those other nice hippies that reached out into my suburban childhood through my tv set? What will I say to these old crunchy ghosts if I can't keep my gay life partner from creating a golf course in the woods? Surely a hot tub will next. He's been harping on that pretty hard for the last few years. What happened to Walden in the woods? Where is that old fart in Alaska who videotaped himself through all those winters for PBS? How close are we to McMansions dotting these quiet shores?

And then I look past Bo, beyond his strong shoulders, across the gravel road, through the trees to the sea and I smile. I want to control this situation. I want to buy up all of this land, tell everyone what they can and can't do on it. I want Bo to do exactly what I say. But I can't and where would that leave us anyway? This place and these people, including Bo, are going to do what they damn well please, just as I will. This is a free country, as any child will tell you. And I damn well better spend as much time sucking the marrow out of it as I spend protecting it. I don't want to look back on many amazing years in this beautiful place only to realize that I spent most of the time worrying about it. More importantly, I'm quite aware of how easy it is to use the environment (or anything) as a proxy for working through my own playground dramas. Am I really protecting a special place or just bending someone to my will?

Bo and I reach a détente on the lawn. We've been together ten years and know how to work through these things. I go inside to my guitar, and later Bo calls in to me to come out. He's got a blanket with him and a look of pure mischief. He wants to show me a path that he mowed into the six foot tall grass in our orchard. He takes me to a place where no one can see us and we lie down together near our fruit trees. The blue sky spreads out above us with the tall grass rustling all around. A red tailed hawk flies over us toward the sea. The sun warms our bodies. And suddenly, my tall grass seems the perfect compliment to Bo's neat edge.

How to Beat the Weather

2009-03-18T03:53:00Z

"If this is what we can expect from global warming, then we're moving." my partner Bo said to me as we sat in the car on a freezing St. Patrick's Day morning, a mixture of snow and rain blocking our view of the Space Needle. Like hundreds of other Seattlites we had risen early for a running race, or as an excuse to drink before noon. I looked down at my green shorts and striped knee high socks, imploring their good cheer to keep the gloom away, then I looked at my partner. Stepping out of the car, he reminded me of Harrison Ford in Blade Runner - rain running down his face. Were we in the city of the future, when global warming had drenched everything in constant deluge?

Future or no, this time of year I need some help coping with this climate. Here's how you beat the weather.

Step One: Sweat
Sweat makes me feel like I'm in some warm place. And the endorphine release is a good substitute for the way sun makes me feel - or at least how I remember the sun making me feel. It's been a while. If you can't get to sunshine, find a good hot yoga class. It will stink and you will sweat more that you imagined possible. But afterward you might feel like you just spent a day on the beach, a beach with lots of strenuous effort and lifeguards who yell at you, a beach that leaves you with back pain and a mild dehydration headache. But the sweating, the sweating will feel glorious. Don't think for a minute that your half-assed treadmill "work-out" counts as a good sweat. Buckets people. Buckets if you want to feel that sun substitute feeling.

Step Two: Stare at Your Navel
What was it Alanis Morriset said about gratitude? "Thank you, thank you, thank you... India... blah, blah." As a Canadian she probably knows a thing or two about crappy weather. Introspection is a decent short term solution to gray. Doesn't Morriset thank gray too? Maybe it was kudos to terra cotta - no matter. Nasty weather gives us a good reason to stay inside and really dwell on ourselves, to dwell in the inner dwelling of our souls. Now's the time to read a book, play the guitar, write in your blog. What are you doing right now? Facebook wants to know! Those folks in Miami have their perfect bodies to communicate to the world. We're robbed of this God-given pleasure, by too many layers..of fleece. Our inner beauty can speak in ways our outer beauty, ahem, dares not. Fortunately we've got a solid nine months a year to give birth to ourselves.

Step Three: Work
Someone's got to pay for the sweating and the navel gazing. That person is probably you. Fortunately bad weather makes it easier to sit in a cubicle all day. If you're lucky you'll have no window to tempt you with occasional sunbreaks. Sunbreaks are fickle lovers. Avoid sunbreaks. Now is also a good time to put in some volunteer hours. If you're really upset with this weather, you might consider volunteering to fight all of those global warming advocates. As Tina Fey reminded us in one of her Sarah Palin salutes, "global warming is just God squeezing us closer." Palm trees and warmer (crazy, erratic) temps here we come.

Step Four: Drugs and Alcohol
After you've tried all of the do-gooder stuff you may still find yourself a bit down. Well that's why we have drugs and alcohol. We're not perfect. The best practice has gotten plenty of folks through a long winter. Take a walk through old Ballard and you will see many who have applied drugs and alcohol through many years of snow and rain. Take a lesson from your elders.

Step Five: Get Outta Town
While I recommend these steps in sequence, some of my friends choose to skip ahead to steps four and five, sometimes doing both together. In fact a few of my friends haven't been seen in Seattle for months. I hear tales of high temperatures in desert locations or feet of fresh powder on sunny mountaintops. You know who you are. I'm too good of a person (and not financially situated) to skip step number three, but I occasionally find myself toward the end of this list, buzzed and hitting click on some travel site. In a few weeks Bo and I head to Mexico for a week of sunshine to celebrate our 10th anniversary. Already my rain-soaked coworkers are warning me about kidnapping and sun cancer. The jealous bitches.

Step Six: Do Something Completely Ridiculous
It's not quite warm enough to ride your bicycle naked in Fremont, but there are still things you can do for no reason at all. Earlier this winter I found myself on stage singing in an Elvis impersonation contest. Bo and I ran the St. Paddy's day dash in matching seventies running outfits (maybe this crosses over from silly to full-on gay). Whatever your poison, doing something completely ridiculous takes the winter edge off for a while. It's the last resort when you've tried all of the other steps and well, it makes the winter a little more tolerable for everyone who sees you doing something ridiculous, or maybe not if you actually end up riding your bike naked .

Hope you enjoyed this guide to beat the weather. Follow it and I have no doubt that we'll survive enough winters to find ourselves someday, old and drunk wandering around in the rain.

Mustaches Against Global Warming

2009-02-18T01:57:00Z

I've tried all of the typical approaches to fight global warming: the light bulbs, the bus, the calls to my lawmakers. But the news continues to worsen, and I get the feeling that we are in it for the long haul. As the economy tanks and the polar caps melt, I think it's time to get creative. It's time for mustaches against global warming.

There's just something about the mustache.

I don't know what it is: the allure, the mystery? Not many can pull it off, and yet, there it is: a bristly beacon of something, a symbol in search of meaning, dare I say it, a scratchy totem awaiting its destiny.

The time has come for bold action. It's not enough to calculate our carbon footprints and green our workplaces. It's not enough to buy a Prius or carbon offsets. We need a visual that says we are on board: we not only live our values, but we're willing to look like idiots doing it.

A recent Saturday Night Live sketch celebrated the mustache through swimming celebrity Mark Spitz. Mr. Spitz, make way for some competition. The polar bears are about to give you a run for your money. They don't have the luxury of swimming for sport. They're just trying to get from one shrinking block of ice to the next.

Now more than ever we need mustaches.

Every time we lick our lips we need that prickly reminder that our appetites are causing the planet to decline.

Every time we catch a funny look from a passerby we need a reminder that we are choosing a life outside the norm.

Every time we are tempted to think that our ironic facial hair makes us just a little bit hotter, we need to remember that the world is heating up too.

We're here, we're mustachioed and others better get used to it.

Until we decide some other symbolic action is up to the task of fighting global warming, I'll be taking my humble mustache to Olympia, WA this Thursday to remind our state legislators to take some freakin action on climate change!

'Stache out.

Are These Your Priorities?

2009-02-04T02:19:00Z

Walking my dog tonight I passed a curious object: a little foil pie pan containing a pair of reading glasses and a note saying "Are these yours?" Only in Seattle. I've passed these glasses for weeks. Some neighbor's walked past this little tin on her way home from work, wondering if today would be the day that these five dollar spectacles would be reunited with their long lost, surely angst ridden owner. Some neighbor dedicated her time and energy to finding a home for this tiny bit of plastic and glass. I ask you Seattle: Are These Yours?

Are these reading glasses that you found on the sidewalk one morning your priority? Did you weigh your options for finding their rightful owner? Did you decide after the first week or so, that it was still worthwhile to keep looking for that person who lost their dime-store glasses. Did you post notice on craigslist?

I ask if these are yours, because I too have majored in the minors. I've spent lots of time fretting over tiny little moral dilemmas, building them into major big deal things. I think this is part of our shtick in Seattle, the arithmetic product of (living in a place worth cherishing) X (living under heavy ponderous cloud cover).

I ask you, if these glasses are yours, can you let them go? We have bigger fish to fry. Every day the environmental news gets worse. Ice is melting faster than anyone thought. The scale of the problems we face requires big solutions, clear priorities, There isn't any room for fretting over reading glasses.

When we put the glasses out on the curb, when we fret over paper or plastic, we are meaning to make a difference, and yes, if we all aggregate all of these little things over time it does make a difference. But do we have time for this? I don't think so. I think we waste a lot of time on all of this minutia when there are big things staring us in the face, big ways we can make a difference.

Right now, as we dutifully sort our plastic and paper we're feeling pretty good about ourselves. But the real news is happening in Olympia. Our legislators are deciding on the fate of a set of environmental legislation, legislation that has been blessed by a coalition of twenty environmental groups. These four legislative priorities will have a much bigger impact than our small actions.

That's not to say we shouldn't act responsibly in our daily lives. I'll still use my rain barrels, ride the bus and walk when I can. But the scale of the problems we face demand bigger solutions. We can't be the "ripple in the water" anymore. We need to be the cannon ball. Time for belly flops and triple back gainers. What can you do that is truly effective?

It may make us feel better to put the glasses out on the curb, but I suggest we pause and ask ourselves if our actions come from a place of trying to feel better or come from taking a hard look at our strengths and weaknesses, and focusing on where we can have a real impact. Most of the time that impact will come from tapping into already organized efforts, by reputable organizations.

Washington Environmental Council is one such effort: tweny environmental organizations have duked it out to agree on four legislative priorities. They've made it easier for our legislators to understand and pass a coherent set of laws that we desperately need. Instead of rolling my own volunteer effort, I'm taking a group of people from my church to the environmental lobby day to show the legislators that people of faith, in their legislative districts, care about the environment. If our numbers persuade those legislators to pass these laws, it will wash away hundreds of times we forgot to take our cloth bags to the grocery store.

So next time I'm tempted to volunteer to feel better, I'm going to skip the volunteer part and head straight to feel better. I'll have a glass of wine, or watch stupid TV, go for the straight up guilty pleasure. US Weekly can be truly liberating when viewed as a means to steel us for the hard work of being truly effective. When I volunteer it's because I want to make a difference. I've done enough volunteering to know it's not going to make me feel a whole lot better.

Seattle, go ahead and put the glasses out with the note... for a few days. Then pick them up, throw them in the trash and call your legislators. Or even better, sign up for Environmental Lobby Day.

Elvis Has Left the Office

2009-01-16T04:23:00Z

Maybe if I tell you what I do for a living it will explain why I'm impersonating Elvis this Saturday.

On a recent weekday morning I woke up at 5:00am to make a 6:15 conference call. Since I scheduled the call I couldn't exactly complain about it. It's the only time that works for coworkers from Seattle, London, Tokyo, Frankfurt and Amsterdam. We meet once a month to check in on the status of our environmental initiatives, the work we're doing to lighten our freight company's environmental footprint. After a "good meeting," (we live for good meetings in Corporate America) I walked back to my cubicle to start my normal day, as a software development manager. With supply chain carbon footprints as a hobby and software development as a career, you could say my days are fairly analytical. By now you are also surely yawning.

But my life isn't all Dilbert. I've been an Elvis impersonator's back up dancer. Two years ago I walked with my friends Danny and Colt up five stairs onto the main stage of the Experience Music Project wearing matching floral sarongs and plastic leis. We paused for a beat while the band started and then we belted out "Rock the Hula, Rock, Rock the Hula!" to an audience of hundreds. While we tried to remember these simple words, and the more complicated dance moves, our friend Helen wowed the audience as the only female contestant in the contest, in a tasteful caped pantsuit, her red hair styled into a pompadour. But life's not all a stage...

Back In the office in my suit and tie, I ate breakfast in our corporate lunchroom, completely alone with my egg sandwich until a coworker showed up. Although I'd never met him before, I can't say he was atypical from my computer peers.

"I guess I'm not the only one who's hungry this morning." The man said to me from across the room.

"I looked up from my laptop and turned to see who was speaking to me. I tried to finish chewing before I spoke.

"Yeah." I stopped. I was searching for a business casual response: the kind that kills the time until that elevator door graciously opens and the conversation is over. I was trapped. Stuck between the floors for the space of breakfast. I decided to bridge the gap with this stranger by sharing company policy.

"I'm just here so I don't stink up my floor" As soon as the words left my mouth, I thought: who says things like this? Even though I was talking about my egg sandwich I surprised myself with this over disclosure. What kind of nerd am I becoming? My partner often looks at me with this question in his eyes.

Before I had time to ponder my awkward moment, the man spoke: "Oh I understand. Have you ever eaten Kim Chi?

"Yes." I offered tentatively" Where was he going with this?

"Well at my last job I had a friend who owned a Kim Chi factory. He used to get it for me in bulk." OK that was random, I thought. The man continued. "I used to eat it all of the time and my coworkers just hated it. Smelled terrible."

At this point I was pondering how rude it would be for me to just bury my face in my keyboard, rather than engage on spicy Korean cabbage. But the man kept talking.

"You know what really smells bad." Now keep in mind, I was still eating my breakfast while this man went on about smelly food..."Are you familiar with Asian food."

Oh no! A direct question from a coworker. I had to answer him, I'd be violating some management rule if I didn't, but I really didn't like where this conversation was going, especially since this guy was not Asian, and his focus on the cuisine had this academic feel to it.

"Yes." I said, "I'm familiar with Asian food." Because, really, in Seattle is there anyone who is not familiar with at least five distinct Asian cuisines?

The man continued, "Well theres this stuff that's sort of like tempeh, in that it's made from soybeans and allowed to grow a fungus on it." I put down my sandwich and attempted to finish chewing what was left in my mouth. "But instead of creating a firm mass, like tempeh, this stuff remains a gelatinous blob, yet with a distinct mold-like odor. Some people just love it. I've had it and it's not that bad - a little chewy."

Maybe it was the color draining from my face or the buzzer going off on the kitchen microwave, but something, some act of grace, halted the man's monolog. He packaged up his breakfast, (I didn't dare look to see what it was) wished me an enjoyable meal and walked out of the lunch room, leaving me to ponder what had just happened. How many variants of this particular conversation have I heard before and thought nothing of it? How many times, God forbid, have I been the guy initiating small talk, the one accosting complete strangers with bizarre non-sequitor information?

That's why I need Elvis, why this year I'll be putting on my friend Danny's red, sparkly pantsuit with the high collar, why I'll be spraying my hair black and crooning out a song I barely know to a room full of 500 friends and sympathetic strangers. Because I need the silly creativity of it. The chance to exercise the other part of my brain, the chance to do something not for the moral or intellectual or financial value of it, but just for the fun of it. The chance to trade keyboard for pelvic thrust.

If you'd like to join me and a bunch of other amateurs, singing and dancing in the footsteps of a King, then buy your tickets here. I'll see you in a week, and I promise not to say a word about stinky Asian food.

New Tricks

2009-01-04T01:42:00Z

Today I got kicked out of a pet store and locked out of my house. Then things got interesting.

Bo and I took our puppy along to do some post Christmas shopping this morning. We hit one of our favorite Seattle neighborhoods to check out some shirts for me and a bone for Matia.

Our first stop was a sporting goods store, the kind that lure you in with second hand virtues, only to find yourself buying all of the brand new, full-price merchandise. Bo talked to the man about triathlon bikes while I tried on one coat and then another for forty minutes. Forty minutes may seem like a long time to try on two coats, but not when you consider that this coat must move from city to mountain with finesse. As I find myself finally succumbing to Seattle's fleece fashion: believing that one can mix fine dining with synthetic fibers, I needed the perfect mix of form and function. And I found it - on sale even.

I walked out of the store in high retail spirits and knelt down to greet Matia. She had waited patiently outside, happily greeting each passerby with a wagging tail and a smile. As I untied Matia's leash from the metal bike rack, I noticed the leash had been torn and retied - probably repaired by our dog walker. It was our dear dog Kinsey's old leash, so Bo and I decided it was time for Matia to have a new one and added that to our list for the pet store.

At the pet store, I explored my leash options with the woman behind the counter. It was one of those little boutique pet stores that are all over Seattle, places intended for people like me who will spend money on pets that parents would spend on children. But even I have limits. I chose a retractable leash like her old one, but with newer technology, a flat tape that retracts instead of a cord. Turns out too many people have been injured, literally clotheslined, by retractable cords and they no longer sell them for big Golden Retrievers like Matia. I wasn't thrilled by the forty dollar price tag, but threw in a big old knuckle bone, paid and we were on our way.

My wallet and stomach were both feeling lighter so Bo and I abandoned our retail agenda and went straight to lunch at a little Thai place. We found a table in the front next to a big picture window where we could watch our pooch while we ate. As we downed fresh rolls and slurped noodles, Matia enchanted the pedestrians to the point that we had to stop eating and pantomime responses through the window to the comments from those outside. "She's so cute" one lady seemed to be saying, or maybe it was "How's the soup?" I'm no lip reader, but clearly Matia was a hit. Our yummy lunch seemed like just one more stop, in a day full of promise.

Bellies full, we wandered out to collect Matia and head home, but reaching down to untie her new leash from the telephone pole, I noticed a large tear in the fabric tape. In the space of a half hour lunch, the friction on the wood, had ripped the leash. Since we had to pass the pet store on our way to the car anyway, we decided to drop in and get another leash. Maybe they would replace the leash free of charge, or give us a discount on the new one.

I found myself in a moral quandary. Should I tell the lady that I'd tied Matia up and that caused the rip. Maybe this wasn't allowed. Maybe I'd have to pay full price. I found myself using my business tactics: saying not much and keeping the situation ambiguous.

"Hi" I said, "We just bought this leash from you and it's already ripped." Pause.

"Really?" She responded. "That is strange."  "Did she chew through it."

This put me on edge.

"No. I don't believe so. She was just sitting outside of the restaurant for a half hour. I don't see how she could have chewed through a leash in that amount of time."

"Oh" She replied with a pregnant pause. And then "You tied her up. Well that explains it. It says in the instructions not to tie the leash to anything."

Now I'm thinking, leashes come with instructions? Come on.  Computers come with instructions. Desks from Ikea come with instructions.   But leashes: a piece of fabric that retracts into a hard plastic case, who needs instructions for that? Me evidently. So while the ex-software tester in me is wondering why no one thought of the "use case" where a pet owner would tie the leash to a stationary object, such as a telephone pole, in the testing of a forty dollar leash, the woman remains silent.

"Do you have any leashes I could tie to telephone poles?" I ask.

"Not retractable ones." She replies. "But you could get a regular leash."

"That won't work for her. She's a puppy and she's still pulling on the leash." I say.

"Maybe you should try doggy training classes." The woman says, a bit too steadily.

I'm starting to get a bit angry, so I pay for the new retractable leash, expecting, hoping that maybe the woman will give me a discount on the new one. But she rings it up. Forty bucks and change and hands it to me.

I turn to leave. Noting Bo at the door and his even tempered gaze. He's been studying this conversation all along. Watching, waiting, ready to be there for me, but also ready to keep me from making a complete ass out of myself. He knows me well after ten years.

As we turn to step out the front door I mutter under my breath "That was lame." I realize this was a childish thing to say, and I'm immediately sorry to say it, but at the same time the situation is lame. I just paid eighty dollars for a leash I can't tie to anything and endured nit-picking comments from the woman selling me the leash.

The woman at the counter doesn't miss a beat. She replies, loudly enough for the two other people in the store to hear: "What's lame is that you haven't trained your dog."

I'd like to say that I turned the other cheek on this comment. That I was mature enough to continue walking out the door.   But I'm not perfect. Instead I turned heal, walked back to the counter, told the woman her comment was rude and demanded a refund for the new leash. To my credit I didn't hurl any names at her, nor she at me. But it ended with Bo intervening, shuffling me out of the store, me vowing never to return, and the woman fuming and refusing to refund me anything.

After I talked to Bo, and my mother, and left word for my friend Joanne, these three being my collective moral compass, I was still not proud of my behavior, but also really pissed to be judged in this way by this stranger. I started thinking about other encounters with well-intentioned dog owners at dog parks, people who say things like: "The proper command is 'off' not 'down'" or who move their dog to the other side of the street when they see a puppy, rather than let the chaos tempt their canine from their heel.

I went for a long run a few hours later, still contemplating my actions, not thinking I was a bad puppy parent, but wondering why I still have this anger in me, how a perfect stranger could toss a little bit of judgment my way and get my goat. It's none of her business how I raise my pooch, or in a broader sense how I live me life, so why do I care so much? And the answer came to me, it's because I'm a lot like this woman. I've got too much judgment in me, about how others live their lives, the choices they make. If you read this blog you probably find this undercurrent between the lines. I was angry because I've been trying to rid myself of this tendency, trying to absorb the best of Seattle's tolerance. It hurts to be judged.  Over the last few years I really thought I'd been unlearning those tendencies, that this old dog was learning some new tricks.

I got home from my run just as the last of the sun's light was fading. The house was dark, Matia inside, but Bo was off swimming at an indoor pool. I walked around the house to the back yard, opened the gate and walked up our stairs to the back patio door, the one I had left unlocked and expressly asked Bo to leave unlocked.

It was locked. Matia sat on the other side of this locked sliding glass door looking at me. Her expression one of curiosity, like "Oh you again. What's keeping you? Why don't you come inside already and feed me?" But try as I might to open the door, a large wooden rod was jammed between the door and the frame along the floor, this rod being our burglar-proofing strategy. And I have to admit that strategy works pretty well.

I tried the window by the door, ran down the stairs and around the house again, trying all of the doors, all locked. It was getting dark. I was getting cold. And my running outfit was entirely too embarrassing to take into the local pub for a drink while I waited for Bo to return. Matia was my only hope, my untrained puppy. I wandered back to the glass door, squatted down to her level and started pawing at the glass with my hands, trying to get her to mimic my behavior, hoping that she would paw the floor and knock the wooden rod out of the frame so I could open the door.

I realize this was a long shot, a dog trick akin to getting a beer out of the fridge or riding a skateboard. Dogs opening doors is the kind of thing you see on Letterman, but moving a stick is not that out of the ordinary.

"Get the stick Matia! Get the stick!" I implored her as I vigorously pawed the glass door from outside. She cocked her head to one side. I had her attention. Wasn't attention the most important thing? Didn't I read that in that book about the monks who raise dogs? Maybe I hadn't invested in puppy school, but my girl was looking at me. She was rapt. I tried again.

"Get the stick Matia! Get the stick!" This time a bark. Ooh that's good. Very good. And I kept at it. Then she started pawing the glass. I am not kidding. This really happened. After her third or forth try of pawing the glass, she stopped. I thought I was in for a cold night, but then she flopped down on the floor, in a classic playful puppy move, and her paws were on the stick. As I stared in disbelief she popped up again, pulling her front paws under her and the stick moved out of the door frame. And I was inside.

"Good girl Matia!" I exclaimed as I knelt down to give her a hug. As she jumped up on me and put both paws on my shoulders, I thought about telling her no, that this wasn't good dog behavior. But instead I just returned her hug and decided not to return to that pet store.

Snow Nights

2008-12-24T17:41:00Z

A guy flew past me on his snowboard as I hiked up the hill in the snow. It was one o'clock in the morning, and the snow was falling heavily, but visibility was still good enough for me to turn and follow the snowboarder's descent. He worked the powder on his way down, switching left then right along the narrow run, keeping an eye out for other skiers, sledders, and the occasional Ford Taurus.

I actually felt bad for the Ford Taurus, this man attempting to drive up 65th Ave from Ballard to Phinney in the wee hours of Sunday morning, in a snow storm while people were sledding down the street. On most nights this would be an easy and short drive home from the pub, his only worry dodging cops, but on this night he found himself dodging snowballs.

A crew had assembled spontaneously, maybe thirty people, adults spilling out of pubs and parties, hauling makeshift sleds of cardboard boxes, baking pans and garbage can lids, to hike up what was usually a busy street, but now, under a blanket of snow, was a party.

Seattle has sanctioned street parties in the summer. Neighbors get a permit from the city, put a few cones at one end of the street and wonder why everyone brought hummus and pita to the street potluck. This party was different. The snow was our permit, and the unlucky Taurus did not get the invite.

You can't blame us. We haven't had a snow storm like this in a decade. Winter storms are too rare for the city to invest in plows and chains. We'd never let crews salt roads that run next to our organic gardens and drain into the sound. Seattle's plan for snow is simply to stay put and enjoy it. And that's what we did, by the hundreds, young and old.

The city's plan is a good one. Christmas is a time to slow down. Instead of trekking to malls in cars, Seattle enjoyed its walkability. We're not stuck. Even that guy in the Ford Taurus abandoned the idea of driving up a snowy hill full of sledders, turned down a flat side street to escape the snow mob, parked his car, walked back to us, picked up a piece of cardboard and thrust himself down the hill with wild abandon. Or at least that's what I imagine he did - there's no way he would have revealed himself to us after that stunt with the Taurus.

I found myself walking up that snowy hill with my friends, pulling a borrowed Radio Flyer sled behind me, the holiday cheer making all of us a little braver than normal. We walked up three blocks to the group of strangers at the top, strangers who were laughing and cheering, sharing their makeshift sleds and offering suggestions for the descent. By some snowy miracle, the real ice had temporarily replaced Seattle N(ice) and turned us all into goofy little kids, sliding down hills.

Grabbing the Radio Flyer with both gloved hands, I leaped into the air (or somewhat stumbled depending on your perspective) and belly flopped down with the sled onto the snow. I slid downward, faster and faster, first one block and then another, remembering long lost steering skills, until I reached the base of the hill, grinned a huge grin, and then ran up the hill to do it again.

So on this Christmas Eve, whereever you are - snow or no snow, I hope you're with people you love, throwing yourself down some joyful path, and loving every minute of it.

Merry Christmas!

Snow Days

2008-12-21T00:02:00Z

Hating snow is like hating puppies. A blanket of white can make it tough to get where you want to go, and a puppy may not want to walk your direction, but in the end both take you places worth going.  After a week of snow, ice and cold, Seattlites are beginning to run a cabin fever, but I say Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow.

We heard talk of snow for days before we saw any, so much talk in fact that people were pissed at the local weathermen. We're usually pissed at the weathermen. This town of microclimates and convergence zones makes precipitation prediction unlikely. The weather men hedge their bets with compound sentences whose complexity underscores their dishonesty: "partly cloudy with sun breaks," or, areas of "low pressure backed by areas of high pressure." So when the weathermen started using sensationalist terms like "Arctic Blast" and "December Freeze," we listened. Some school districts were so frightened they canceled schools Wednesday without a flake of snow. That's a lot of fuming parents home with their kids.

But really, who can predict the weather? I was glad for the surprise we woke to Thursday morning.  I could tell by the light coming into our bedroom, that a blanket of snow awaited me on the other side of the blinds. I happily slept a while longer, knowing that my coworkers would be uniformly late, and at the last reasonable moment, put on my hiking boots and warm clothes and started walking to work. Normally I put on my suit and hop on the bus, but not on snow days. The bus is a mess on snow days - no fault of Metro's, it's the snow pushing people out of their routine.  For some people this is a joyful change and for others a nightmare. I've been on the bus with the latter folks and now I skip that experience. More room for them on the bus.

Instead I walk four and a half miles from our home in Magnolia to my office downtown. Under normal circumstances, it's not a very pretty walk along a busy street (15th), but the snow hides the ugly. With just a few cars on the road, and the pavement covered fluffy white, it's easy to forget about traffic and timelines. The cold temps and snow make me feel like I'm walking through Whistler village, not on my way to work at all, but on my way to have breakfast before getting on a chair lift.

By the time I'm halfway to my office, my boss calls to let me know the office will be officially closed for the day, but I'm enjoying my walk and have things to do at work, so I decide to keep going. Besides, on the way in, I'd already dropped off our puppy Matia at doggy day care, and didn't want to pull her away yet from her playtime with all the other dogs. After an hour and 15 minutes of walking, I was at work, in the locker room changing into the suit I keep there for special occasions like this.

About half of my coworkers were there. The mood was festive: another thing I love about snow days. The snow's novelty, beauty and element of danger had us all buzzing. Most of my regular work (software development) meetings had been canceled, so I got to catch up on my environmental work: projects that are officially sanctioned for my company, but that I do in a volunteer capacity on "my own" time. I noted the irony of extreme cold giving me time in my schedule to fight global warming.

By 2:00pm my coworkers and I had enough and started home. This time I only walked part of the way because my partner Bo had driven into work. Bo is brave. He consistently does things I wouldn't think of doing: like driving down our steep, icy hill, or pulling me out of the house on a cold winter's night to go cross town to a holiday party.  His action is a good foil to my contemplation.

I spent the rest of the afternoon playing with the puppy and doing all of the stuff I love to do when I have a good excuse to stay indoors: write, play guitar, surf facebook, watch movies, procrastinate from doing: volunteer work, housework and (this time of year) decorating the Christmas tree. Friday morning was a repeat performance. The conditions were actually worse because the temperatures had dropped and frozen the streets and sidewalks, but my office was open and I duly hoofed it in my hiking boots.

Now we're a few days into this winter storm and the snow is falling again. The weather men are exuding a confident "I told you so" arrogance they so rarely get to display. Several friends are starting to strain from a little too much family time under one roof, but I love it.

This afternoon (Saturday), Bo, ever brave, drove across town to his gym, while I stayed home with Matia. I figured I could avoid venturing out into the cold by practicing yoga in our living room.  Almost as soon as I stepped onto my yoga mat, Matia was in my business. She thinks it's hilarious to lick the one foot I happen to be standing on, or scoot underneath me while I'm doing Down Dog. She doesn't understand meditation, she just thinks I'm ready to play with her. Instead of being annoyed, I chuckle. Matia modifies my practice, making me fully present in the room, aware of the moment: the elusive goal of yoga that I usually miss.

Outside the snow falls. Bo gets home from the gym. He's brought some groceries to make a salad for the holiday party we're attending later this evening, in a home that we could walk to if we really had to. We'll see our friends tonight despite the snowstorm. Because of the snow we'll all be a little more grateful to see one another, a little more thankful to share a warm space and a cold drink. Because of the snow we'll all be a little more open to the wonder of this holiday season. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

Time for Joy

2008-12-14T22:41:00Z

Years ago a yoga instructor told me: "If you don't have time for God, then you don't have time." At that moment I was probably standing on one foot or maybe my head - I can't remember, but I've recalled her pithy advice ever since. The class was small and she was making that mistake, one I've made before, of complaining about the people who don't show up to the people who do show up. By referencing God, she was speaking metaphorically about yoga, making the connection that if you don't make time for important stuff like yoga, or God, then you have misplaced priorities, that you don't even know what time is.

This yogi's message comes to me often, but especially during this Season of Joy. It's the time of Advent, a time of preparing for Christmas. At St. James, my Catholic church, I'm instructed to hold off on the decorations, the music, the gifts, in order to create a sense of anticipation, to heighten the experience of Christmas day. Throughout our busy lives and especially at this time of year, it takes real discipline to make time for joy, rather than getting caught up in a whole lot of busy-ness.

Even after making time for joy, it's tough to feel that "kid on Christmas day" kind of joy. We're bombarded with information. We know what's going on in the world. There's all kinds of bad crap happening all over the place. For anyone who has the slightest sense of irony, it's hard to greet the Christmas trees, and holiday parties without ambivalence. For me personally, I pretty much want to throttle any adult whose view of the holiday season is less than complicated. Please keep the Disney version of the season for those who are not tall enough to ride this ride.

So how do I, someone who is incredibly blessed, and also busy and aware, find the Joy in this season? I'm not sure, but I'm seeking an answer by making time and refining my search.

If I've learned anything over the last year, it's about being honest with my time commitments. For a few years my volunteer efforts were all over the place, but lately I'm focusing in on just a few objectives and making strides with those. But they all involve big time commitments and I only have so much time. The more time I spend on this laundry list of structured activities, the less time I have for Joy. I haven't achieved that "oneness" where the volunteer work I do is a source of joy for me, although I have my moments. At this time of year, I want to put the phone down, bail out of the meetings, and just revel in the season. It's like what that yogi said, if you don't have time for God (or yoga or joy), you don't have time.

This might all be easier if I knew what joy was. I've never been a happy-go-lucky sort. I'm much more comfortable analyzing joy than experiencing it. Father Ryan explained it all last Sunday in his Homily but of course I can't repeat it with his eloquence. According to Father Ryan joy has something to do with knowing that God loves us and that He has promised to take care of us. God's promise is our source of joy. This might seem simplistic if it weren't for the massive complexity of our world. I've sought joy in all of the usual places and found it in some: the good meal, the surprise puppy, the renewed friendship. Joy is all of those things, but it's something more. Something that requires time and grace.

Growing up my first best friend was named Joy. Joy's sister was named Felicity. Perhaps these names were nothing more than hippy parenting, or maybe God was trying to tell me something. Maybe God was telling me to walk with Joy and Felicity throughout life, and not just on my way to elementary school.

So this Advent season, this season of waiting, I'm making time. I'm holding Christmas at bay. I'm making arrangements to go to church more often, only seeing the friends I want to see, not letting myself use the word "stress." This Advent season I'm taking it as slow as my ambitious heart will allow. I'm clearing the table to make way for Christmas goose. I'm not sure I would know Joy if She showed up on Christmas day in a tutu and spanked me on the bottom. But if She's anything like my childhood friend I wouldn't put it past her.

Miracle on Third Avenue

2008-12-05T01:28:00Z

In two months we raised a hundred and eighty grand for the United Way. I'm not going to say it was easy. We definitely put work into it. But there were no heroics, no working weekends, no shouting matches, no tears. This was a corporate endeavor, a small motivated team leveraging a mature, captive workplace for maximum benefit and minimum effort. Corporate Gods: teach me your lessons so that I might apply them to my non-profits.

My boss's boss asked me to lead our United Way campaign this year. I was about to say no, but then he gave me this inspired little speech about the benefits of always saying yes. I remember well how he pitched it to me: his cuff links gleaming in the florescent light, a pithy anecdote delivered with just the right amount of ego stroking. I said yes when I realized that my friend Anni would also be asked and that she would do the lion's share of the work.

The odds were against us: only two months to plan the campaign in a time of economic turmoil. Fortunately our company is still doing very well. We're not allowed to say the "R" word, so we figured, "What the hell? Let's go for it." Anni and I met a few times, established some goals, formed a small team of six people and we were off. A short time later and we'd surpassed our wildest expectations in terms of money and participation. How did it happen? Why is it so much harder to get things done in the non-profit sector? I can answer the first question, but the second is trickier.

Our company's been funding the United Way for years. Our senior executives believe in it and supported the campaign team's efforts. Corporate America in this respect reminds me of Thomas Friedman's wish that the US could be China for a day. Top down authority works for a day - it gets shit done. Obviously authority must be tempered - that's why Friedman only wants to be China for a day, but if the folks at the top have the right objective, then the infrastructure beneath them can execute at a fast pace.

In my do-gooder efforts outside of my corporate job, I have a real tendency to be party of one, or five, or maybe ten. It is very difficult to get people to show up. If you've tried to organize volunteer events you know what I'm talking about - or you're much better at it than I am. In corporate do-gooder efforts, people are paid to show up. You'd be amazed what a salary can do for attendance. United Way takes it a step further by offering events called "Lunch and Learn." United Way provides a speaker, your company provides a conference room and some pizza, and all of a sudden the donations are rolling in. Never underestimate the appeal of a free lunch.

In addition to large numbers of potential donors being physically present, corporations also have these wonderful things called distribution lists. With executive leadership behind you, it's pretty easy to write an email once a week and send it to all of your coworkers, informing them of the charity's goals and your company's progress. At least I think it was easy, since Anni did all of that.

All of this is not to say that I plan to abandon my non-profit pursuits of greening churches and pulling weeds in local parks. But I have seen the Miracle on Third Avenue:achieving big goals through very little effort, and I realize it is not a miracle. A lot of the social problems that face us, especially the environmental issues that drive me, are created in large part by our industrialized economy. It's no big surprise that we would find the solution to our problems in the origin of those problems. We can harness the same infrastructure that creates pollution and inequality to create sustainability and harmony. The people are there in their cubicles, the dollars are there to motivate them, all it takes is vision and work to move them in a new direction. OK, a lot of vision and a lot of work, but I have hope. Aside from our United Way campaign and other charities, in the last year I've worked with my company to plan our green house gas footprint, partner with the EPA to incentivize fuel efficient trucks (we're a shipping company), and helped reduce the carbon footprint of some of our customers. But these possibilities didn't just land in my lap. It took lots of prodding and persistence to connect the right questions to the right leaders willing to help me answer them.

So relax into your desk chair, lean into your cubicle wall, and ask the person on the other side what you're going to do at your company to make your community a better place. I bet you can think of ten doable, profitable things before your next meeting.

Voluntary Complexity

2008-11-28T06:42:00Z

There's nothing like a tropical island to make you consider simplifying your life: lounging on a beach, drinking fruity cocktails with friends and family - it's tempting to think you could quit your corporate job for a life of scaling palm trees and hawking coconut milk to tourists out of the back of your old pickup. But that would be an illusion. Simplicity isn't that simple. It's as complicated as it is ambiguous.

A few weeks ago, before I left for Thanksgiving in Kauai, I attended a class on living simply at my church, St. James. The class, hosted by my eco justice group, was meant to help parishioners explore living simply as a way to having a saner, more eco-friendly Christmas, and also to remove things that distract us from connecting with God. I was asked to speak for a few minutes on my experience living simply. I started by confessing the un-simplicity of my life: waking at 6:00am to exercise my dog and myself, driving rather than busing to work because of the logistics of attending class that night, paying someone else to let my dog out during the day, scrambling to scarf down some dinner before class at a Thai restaurant - all of this in the name of telling others how to live simply. But I stopped short of calling myself a simple living failure. In situations where I'm faced with an uncomfortable truth, I prefer to reframe the question. If simple living is a way to live lighter on the environment, does simple living really deliver a smaller footprint ?

Back in Kauai we're preparing a Thanksgiving feast. This Thanksgiving I am thankful for many things, one of which is a non-traditional meal. Instead of turkey and stuffing we have fish tacos and rice. On this, the "Garden Island" there are all kinds of fresh fish and fruit and well, nothing else fresh. The tomatos we bought from the local market are like those mealy, colorless specimens that decorate the salads of thai places. Here in this lush tropical place of relaxed rythms, a lot of the food I take for granted in Seattle must travel huge distances to reach us. Looking at the vacation homes, I get the impression that the money that pays for them, like the tomatoes, must come from somewhere else too. It may be romantic to think about getting away from it all, but in order to do so, one must have alot (financially) that they are getting away from. It's simliar to cabin I share with my partner in the San Juans - it is a great escape, but there is not much of an economy on a small island. The money must be made somewhere else before you decide to live the simple life.

I'm not saying it's a bad thing to stop being a power shopper, or to try to reduce, reuse recycle. These are important goals for me, as an overconsuming American, to seek. I've made huge strides in reducing my shopping, growing my own vegetables, etc. It's just that from an environmental perspective there are much bigger things that we must do, things like improving our energy policy by advocating for and passing legislation. Legislation that incentivizes renewable energy and penalizes fossil fuel use will do more for the environment than me planting a corn crop in the front yard of my city home. If we want to find real, meaningful solutions to a problem as large as global warming, it's going to require a range of approaches from the simple to the complicated. I just don't think the number of us that need to are going to voluntarily reduce our environmental impact in the major ways we need to make the difference we need to make. We have this big economy driving us. We have all of the things we enjoy doing - driving cars, flying on planes. We work in these big corporations. Baring some sort of catastrophe this won't change. We must change the institutions where we work and pray, change the technologies of the vehicles we drive. Lately, I feel drawn to the complicated side of things, to greening corporations and churches, to leveraging technology to solve environmental problems.

And this is where it gets personal. All of these steps I've taken to simplify my life have actually made it much more complicated. It's time consuming to water your vegetables. It's angst ridden to give up shopping for stuff and also give up the great feeling that comes from spending. It's complicated to take on causes and join groups, to sift through the emails and attend meetings, to wrestle with questions of personal impact and wonder if all this time and energy is actually helping anything. But it's also rewarding. Life doesn't get simpler, it gets richer.

Over the years I've made the mistake of focusing too much on minutia. Fretting over the carbon footprint of this or that personal choice, at the expense of other important things like joy. I've gone to a place of aesceticism at times where I wonder if I was seeking the denial of pleasure more than the reduction of my carbon footprint. I suspect I'm not alone in this feeling . It's a natural place when you start giving up stuff. But it's not a place I want to stay.

Yesterday I went on a cruise my partner arranged on the north coast of Kauai, along the Napali coast. We took a small boat out with two guides and a dozen people, into the open ocean. For five hours we explored sea caves, beaches, swam with turtles, raced dolphins and hung on for dear life in large swells. It's an experience I will never forget. I won't say that I didn't think of the carbon footprint of this experience. It certainly was complicated to arrange the logistics. My partner spent hundreds of dollars on the tour as a gift to his family. I almost bailed when I realized the time comittment. But, I'm glad that I wasn't foolish enough to let any of this disuade me. I will never forget the excitement of entering the cave in a small boat with raging surf, the color of the ocean beneath us or the exotic birds in the cliffs above us, birds called "Boobies" by our guides . Who's to say if I was living simply in this moment? All I know is I was experiencing the nature we all dream of saving. In a few days I will return to Seattle, via a gas guzzling plane, with new energy for my personal and political comittments to the environment. It's voluntary complexity, and I don't know any other way.

If It's Not Boring, It's Not Green

2008-11-10T00:16:00Z

My life just gets stranger and stranger. On Friday I found myself at a Christian camp on Hood Canal. A fine place I suppose: old wooden cabins in the woods, a community dining hall circa "Dirty Dancing," complete with a bell to ring mealtimes, the kind of place where the bathroom stalls are filled not with profanity, but thoughtful missives like, "Non-Conform!" and "Invert the dominant paradigm." I'd chosen to devote two days of my time, even taking a day off of work, to sleep in a room without a bathroom and spend my waking hours with a group of believers scheming ways to save the environment. Five years ago this scene would have been unimaginable. How did I get here?

The short answer is a car crash, a serious one that sent me scrambling back to the Catholic church after years of being angry over Church statements on homosexuality. The longer answer is my continuing discernment, while volunteering on the environmental front and exploring Catholic social justice, that to make a large difference, the kind that's necessary to mitigate the consequences of global warming, I needed to combine my faith work with my environmental work.

I'd come to the Seabeck conference center for a board retreat with Earth Ministry to plan out our strategies for the next year. How would we devote our time and talent to inspiring and mobilizing people in faith traditions to reduce their parish carbon footprints and pass tougher environmental laws?

Earth ministry's been around for about 15 years and has grown from a small organization to a major voice in the
WA legislature for passing environmental legislation. In the coming year Earth Ministry will develop a Washington chapter of Interfaith Power and Light to provide tools for carbon footprints and energy audits as well as bringing a much larger interfaith voice, Muslims, Jews, Christians and other faiths, to Olympia to advocate for the Washington Environmental Council's four environmental legislative priorities.

As much as I enjoy pulling blackberries and working in my Seattle garden, and as important as these activities are to the environment on a personal level, I'm proud to be a part of an organization that is amplifying the work of many people around a coherent set of environmental legislation. Earth Ministry has enormous potential to leverage huge numbers of people in faith traditions - traditions that already know how to mobilize their people, but may need help in understanding the details of the environmental legislation or science. Faith based traditions offer a population that has been left out of a lot of the environmental movement. Sitting in a conference room for two days working on strategies, I hope, will create a much bigger ripple than my front yard corn crop. With this work we are no longer preaching to the choir.

In Thomas Friedman's Hot Flat and Crowded, there's a chapter titled, "If it's not boring, it's not green." This title resonated with my fellow Earth Ministry board members. Not that any of us were bored as we pitched our strategies, you can't really consider a discussion boring when every one of us is clamoring to get a word in and we're amazed when the light starts to fade and the day is already over. Friedman's point is that the hard environmental work ahead of us is in the details, stuff like writing efficiency standards for air conditioners or designing effective carbon taxation systems. Regulations aren't sexy, but given the right attitude, crafting them can feel at least compelling.

The morning after I return from the retreat I'm exhausted. Bo and I take Matia to Marymoor park to play with all of the other dogs and I can hardly make it around the park. Perhaps it's the sight of her wresting with the other dogs, or the wonderfully indulgent meal and drinks Bo and I had with friends the night before - or maybe it was just two days of intense focus, with a group of smart, passionate people finding effective ways to reduce our burden on the planet.

Working with a faith based charity is not sexy work. You won't find our strategy sessions getting thousands of hits on YouTube. But perhaps a year from now you'll read an article about a few congregations that implemented energy efficiency programs in their churches and temples and then banded together to pass carbon cap and trade legislation. It may not be Paris Hilton vamping on the hood of a luxury car, but perhaps you'll find yourself a little bit excited.

Blackberry Realities

2008-11-06T05:42:00Z

I'm sure I wasn't the only grown man bawling like an idiot when Barack Obama gave his acceptance speech last night. Sitting alone in my living room, after our overly rambunctious puppy home forced me to leave my partner to fend for himself at an election party, the weight of eight years of lowered expectations left me, and in their place I felt a mix of hope and reality.

I don't write about national politics in this blog, instead keeping to things I know from experience. I've told myself that it's too hard for me to keep up with everything on a national front, but after Obama and Gregoire won last night I realized that it's just been too hard for me to confront the massive disappointment of our federal government. I directed my energy toward local action, where things seemed doable: pulling invasive blackberries in local parks, volunteering at church and at work.

Obama's win comes just in time, as I'm seeing how daunting even the local work is. We are faced with massive problems like global warming and I can't even keep a small patch of land from being overrun by weeds. A few weeks ago, I met up with two other volunteers to check in on a park site we've been attempting to restore into native forest for the last few years. I remember two years ago, clearing wide areas of blackberry, feeling the satisfaction of grubbing the roots out of the ground, of digging the native plants into the earth with dozens of volunteers. But on a recent weekend the three of us stood somberly observing the new blackberry canes that had arched over those native plants in a single season. Mother Nature is bigger, faster than our attempts to help her. We pulled at these weeds for two hours, and talked retrospective. Maybe we shouldn't have taken on such a big project. Maybe we should have cleared a smaller area and tended to it for a few years, scaled down the scope, admitted our limitations and worked within them.

My friend Jessie, from Earth Ministry, says that the stroke of a legislator's pen can wipe out the kind acts of a thousand volunteers. Obama and Gregoire give me hope. Their pens won't wipe out our little citizen actions. Their legislation will amplify the work so many people have been doing without the support of government and laws for years. I am hopeful.

But there's a lot of blackberry out there.

I respect Obama for asking us for both patience and for assistance. In his speech last night he said that his work won't be done in a year, may not be done in a term. He needs our help. This is honesty. He is humbled by the scale of the challenge. Lately I realize that if I want to make a real difference, I have to focus on just a few things and give them real attention, with real resources, both of which are in short supply as I try to keep up with a very demanding job.

I wrote last week of feeling like Max in Rushmore, wanting to embrace each new opportunity, say yes to all of it, throw myself into the experience. This is who I am. I say yes. I want to fix things. But I'm realizing that the blackberries grow faster than I can pull them. Just tonight I found myself telling a woman I deeply respect at St. James that I do not have the time to play a bigger role in our eco group, even though I would love to, even though the group needs it. There are limits to what can reasonably be expected of a volunteer. Fortunately she understands and knows this.

The problems we face are large. Volunteerism is part of the solution, but these problems need government, and they need salaries, these problems need to be people's jobs to fix. I'm starting to really understand the scale of the challenges we face. I didn't realize it at first because I was in denial, and then because my ego allowed me to think I could do more than I really can do. I don't say this in a spirit of disappointment, but more with a sense of gratitude, gratitude for the lessons of experience and gratitude for real help from a new government.

I continue to volunteer. I continue to say yes, when I should not say yes. But I'm starting to reign myself in, to have a better sense of focus, to look at a challenge squarely, to assess honestly if I'm up to that challenge and to ask whether I'm willing to accept the real sacrifice involved.

Lately I realize that I make the most strides in volunteer efforts at my work, whether they be raising money for the United Way or Juvenile Diabetes, or my true passion, environmental initiatives. I'm most successful when I can leverage my company's people and processes towards a new set of goals, goals of reducing our carbon footprint or raising money to end homelessness in King County. I seem to be the least successful trying to organize a bunch of strangers to care about something they don't care about.

Truth be told I'm feeling a bit ineffective in my efforts, like everything I'm doing could be done better with a bit more focus, but at least tonight there is hope at scale, a new government to direct and amplify the work of so many one-off efforts like my own. I pray that somehow it will all come together, the work of the volunteers, the direction of a new government and the new awareness that doing good is good business.

As for my blackberries, voters of Seattle approved our parks levy, additional money that among outher things, could fund workers to remove invasive plants in the park where I volunteer. Help is on the way.

Five Pounds

2008-10-24T02:53:00Z

Lisa and I discussed workout strategies over lunch. It was "Pho Wednesday," our weekly work ritual where we get together to chat and eat pho in our company lunch room. Lisa was excited about a new gym routine she'd just started. Her enthusiasm reminded me of the five pounds I've been trying to lose for the last several years, five vanity pounds designed to give me that magazine-worthy flat stomach, five pounds that would shed easily were it worth forgoing ice cream, or wine, or Red Mill veggie burgers. Five pounds that to me represent perfection and perfection's cost, a price I haven't found worth paying for my physique, my job, my volunteer efforts, my hobbies or my relationships. I find myself torn between circuit training and ice cream, between city council meetings and playing the guitar. Five pounds, you are not worth it.

There's something to that Japanese idea of avoiding perfection in art, of taking something that is too perfect and placing a scratch or a dent, just so to ground it in reality. Maybe those early American protestants were onto something when they avoided the flash of buttons for the utility of hook and latch. I must confess that I grew up around my mother's family and their Pennsylvania Dutch modesty, so maybe I am unduly influenced, but there is just something sinister about perfection, in bodies, in careers, in pretty much anything. Or at least that's what I choose to tell myself at this point in my life.

The truth is I have too much going on to strive for perfection in any one thing. And I am not willing to give any of it up. The deeper I move into my faith, the more I believe that God created a world of abundance for us, and that we are all deeply flawed, and thus human and so loved. I do well to remember this abundance and my distance from perfection as I attempt to keep up with my too busy life, a life I continue to make busier all the time.

I am an addict for new opportunities. Try as I might to say no, to make a little more room for my partner, my dog, my garden, I find myself saying yes to each new proposition. Earth Ministry board membership? Of course I can do that, what is one more meeting a month? Eco Justice group at St. James? I can lead that, sounds like fun - what's a few classes per season, a few emails and a couple meetings? At work now I'm leading our United Way campaign and managing our environmental projects, while attempting to still get my actual job done. I've left out the parts about my guitar lessons, the two homes my partner and I are trying to afford, our four month old puppy, volunteer habitat restoration, a new project with Seattle University, and attempting to be a loving boyfriend to my partner, caring son to my parents and decent friend to a few wonderful, fun people.

God has truly filled my life with abundance, so I choose to welcome more of that abundance. I try not to be selfish about it. If there is a better person than me for any of my volunteer pursuits, I invite you to take them over - although you can kindly steer clear of my boyfriend.

In this abundance, I don't have the time or energy to be perfect in any one thing. I could do a better job at work, be a better volunteer, be a better friend and partner. Those of you in my life know this. My guitar teacher knows this. My boss knows this. And yet what I'm delivering is good enough. You don't complain, or rarely. And for that I am grateful, because I love this abundance, each and every opportunity is a lesson learned, a chance to contribute and connect. I see myself as Max in the movie Rushmore: on the fencing team, directing plays, wrestling, debating, wooing my teacher, flunking most of my classes, but occasionally having a moment where everything comes together and shines with brilliance.

So forgive me for wanting six pack abs. Forgive me for squandering my ability to have them on bowls of ice cream and glasses of wine. Forgive me if I don't reach for greatness. I'd rather seek goodness.

Well Wishes

2008-10-13T00:36:00Z

We’re almost out of water, so I’m having a bloody Mary. It just feels like the right thing to do given the circumstances. Bo is outside with a very expensive plumber that boated over from a neighboring island. I’m trying to make something for lunch that doesn’t leave any dishes to wash, and being reminded once again of the very large gap between our “off the grid” wishes and our “off the grid” reality.

There’s a reason why most of the people on this island seem buzzed most of the time. No, it’s not the natural high of majestic views and salt air. It’s the vodka, boxed wine and Budweiser. It’s hard living when you’ve on an island where you’ve got to do it all yourself. Living in a city we never think about where our water comes from or our electricity, or where our waste goes. Living in a cabin on an island you become intimately acquainted with these matters.

Bo and I chose to put ourselves into this weird in between land of city living and island retreating. The whole experience over the last year and a half has been enlightening. You can read about this stuff in books but it’s another thing to live it. Our wild eye optimism has come up short a few times, usually in the same place where our checkbook comes up short.

I took our dog Matia on a walk around the island earlier, before the plumber got here. I needed the island’s quiet charm to steel me for the potential bill that was coming to me. On our way past the island’s only store I ran into a couple I didn’t recognize. The couple introduced themselves to me and told me they were contemplating buying a few acres behind the store. They asked me if I knew the place. Sure I did. They guy who is selling the land did some work on our well last year – the well that isn’t currently working. I kept that part to myself.

The man said, “Yeah, I’ve been looking for a place out here where I can grow vegetables. “ The woman added, “And I want to bike somewhere without worrying about a bunch of cars.” Their words hung with possibility, each sentence swinging up in tone like a child moving from one rung of the monkey bars to the next, sure gripped and confident.

“That sounds fantastic” I replied. I know these people’s values. I share them. My partner and I bought our place a year and a half ago with the same intentions. We planted fruit trees. We put in a compost pit.

“Does the place have a well?” I found myself asking this trusting couple. I couldn’t help myself. One part of me wanted to encourage them, while another wanted to shake their enthusiasm.

“Yes” said the man , “and a septic tank, although we were thinking of putting in a composting toilet when we get around to building some place. Some place small, sustainable.”

It was almost as if I was talking to myself from two years ago. I decided not to disclose how our septic drain field needed to be replaced upon moving into our house, what a pain in the ass, excuse the metaphor, that had been. Instead I said, "Well you won’t need that much water for the two of you, for what you’re trying to do, if you’re only going to be coming up here on weekends."

The woman said, “I’m planning to live here full time.” I must have looked startled because she added, “I’m from St. Paul and I’d be coming out here to live. “ This is the part where I should have just stopped talking, let the woman find her own way, but I had to warn, had to share my own experience.

“This place is pretty quiet, especially in the winter. Only about sixty people live here full time” But I saw her face fall a bit, so I added, “But the people here are amazing, really friendly.”

The man, possibly sensing that I was undermining his sales pitch, said, “Well very nice talking with you.” It was clearly time for me to leave this nice couple alone with their dream. In retrospect, I wish I’d been nothing but well wishes. I’d love to have one more gardening, eco friendly couple on the island, tipping our balance away from those who’d like more Mc Mansions and basic services like you’d find in the suburbs: garbage, sewage and the like.

Matia and I continued our walk, on gravel roads through forests, past pastures with grazing sheep, up steep, rocky hills with sweeping views of other islands across calm steely waters. We got home just in time to help Bo greet the plumber, a fellow islander, but from another island in the San Juans. We watched as the plumber checked our pump’s electric box, listened, as he said, “Well that doesn’t sound good,” watched as he screwed the top off of the well’s shaft to get a closer look at the submerged pump hundreds of feet below.

The plumber is gone now, back on his boat, crossing to his home on Orcas Island. He’ll be back in a few weeks with his truck, this time crossing the strait on a very expensive inter-island barge in order to replace our old pump with a new pump. In the meantime, we’re out of water, so we’ll head back to Seattle, to the reliability of our city grid, to the jobs that will help us squeeze out another $3500 to fix a well pump. You don’t think these things are going to be that expensive, until you try living off the grid on an island.

Somewhere another couple will be flying back to St. Paul with dreams of a simpler life on a little jewel of an island in the San Juans. I hope they decide to move here, despite my realism. I’ll fix them a Bloody Mary when they run into trouble. As we lock up our cabin to head home, Bo says to me, “Even though we have to pay $3500 bills every once in a while, I still love our life.” It's not even the Bloody Mary talking when I agree.

Recession Sauce

2008-10-07T03:46:00Z

First there was the fear that the my efforts wouldn't fruit. Then the apprehension the potential wouldn't ripen. And finally the guilt I'd waste the bounty. Welcome to my world, or as I call it: Recession Sauce.

We planted the tomatoes early this summer, wished they would ripen during a damp August, only to be surprised by September's warm weather and an embarrassing abundance of ripe fruit.

My partner Bo and I talked big talk in June about canning salsa and making gazpacho with our tomato crop. We had that kind of hopeful thinking that plants eleven tomatoes in a wet city garden just hair's breadth from the Canadian border. Fortunately, pounds of fruit ripened over the last few weeks. Now, Bo and I are both well into a fall routine of difficult busy jobs and dreary weather. Not a lot of time or interest in being in the garden.

But the tomatoes were starting to rot. All of that wasted potential. Rotting tomatoes might be eco friendly from the perspective of returning to the compost pit, but wasting food violates other moral priorities. After procrastinating for weeks, I made time over the last two nights to make good on our initial investment.

While harvesting the tomatoes, I fretted over the economy. I wrote last week how one salve for my fear is the work Bo and I have done over the last few years to make our home more environmentally friendly, which also makes us a little more economy-independent. We're still plugged in to the standard US economy through our mortgages, our spending and our jobs, but harvesting our own food, creating our own compost, and capturing water from our roof has made me feel a bit more secure in times of financial uncertainty.

It's nice to know that we have some food growing in our front yard. From an economic view, it's not enough to feed us, but enough to make a difference in our grocery bill.

Last night after work Bo and I harvested tomatoes in a light rain with a flashlight. I wouldn't typically take the time on a Monday night to make sauce, but we compromised: Bo would order pizza for us to eat while I cooked a marinara sauce that would last us weeks.

I started with nearly ten pounds of tomatoes from our garden: Heirloom, Beefsteak and Roma. I cut out the few rotting, buggy parts and briefly boiled the tomatoes in water, in two batches, in order to cool them and peel off their skins.

While the tomatoes were stewing I cut the tops off of two head of garlic, dunked the heads in olive oil, and set them in foil to roast in the oven. I should credit Bo for asked me to roast the garlic, to give the sauce more depth. However, his suggestion proved ill-informed for Bo because it led to me seeking his guidance every few minutes, on one issue or another.

I sautéed two whole onions in olive oil at the base of a large sauce pan, then added all ten pounds of the stewed, skinless tomatoes. I popped in the cloves of roasted garlic and stirred the simmering pot occasionally for the next two hours.

At bedtime I removed the pot from the stove and placed it on a hot pad in our refrigerator. First I asked Bo to taste the sauce and tell me if it needed anythiing. Bo obliged and gave me that look he always gets when he's about to offer me "constructive criticism." "It's good." Bo said with shoulders shrugging, and..."It just need's some more depth of flavor - maybe add some basil."

So off to the store I went tonight, with our puppy Matia. Leaving her for the first time in the car alone for a few minutes, I bought some fresh basil and another head of garlic. Bo was flying home from business in Portland so I had time and solitude to finish the sauce.

I believe in the sentiment of the movie Like Water for Chocolate, that food made with love tastes better. Last night making the first part of the sauce, I felt it tasted pretty good, made with love. Bo agreed, but thought that it could use a bit more depth. Maybe you can always take love to the next level. So tonight, in the quiet of the house, I reheated the sauce, chopped in the basil and added another head of roasted garlic.

I'd forgotten black pepper on my last two grocery trips and was completely out. I consulted an old recipe book abd found that I could substitute a fresh jalepeno pepper in place of black pepper. Normally, I'd have back pepper, not a fresh pepper of any variety. But this was the year of front yard abundance. We have a small bush of jalepeno peppers in our garden. I went out to the garden to gather a few peppers, and while I was at it harvested two fresh cobs of corn to go with my pasta.

I husked the corn cobs into our new front yard compost cones, the ones I installed on that weekend we stayed home specifically to harvest the tomatoes. Having everything in the front yard: the raised vegetable beds, the compost cones, the rain barrels, makes it so easy to grow food that it no longer feels like work.

The ease of this evening; the harvesting of our garden, the composting of the husks, the cooking of our home grown food, took me from economy to pleasure, to the sensuous quality of the fruit, the satisfaction of growth over time, the gratitude of garden cast aways becoming soil again. There's a pleasure in living with certain constraints, in finding the creative tension between acceptance and defiance. Had I not environmental limits to ecourage me to grow my own food, had I not had financial limits compelling me to make gallons of marina rather than paying six dollars a jar, I may not have experienced this sauce.

In our environmental and financial constraints, we have the possibility of creative new ideas, of the pleasure of experience, we have: Recession Sauce. And Bo was right. The extra depth in flavor is worth it.

Digging In

2008-09-28T00:54:00Z

Walking by WaMu on my way to work Friday, I saw the news van, and then the headline: Feds Seize Bank. These are scary times and I have to admit I was unnerved and saddened by the fall of a major bank, a place I'd considered working as recently as two years ago. Friday was a day of being thankful for having a job and for running through worse case scenarios. My partner and I pay two mortgages, what could happen to us? I ran through all of the numbers in my head, but didn't start feeling any better until I put a shovel in the ground.

Bo and I have been trying to figure out how to compost our food scraps in a way that doesn't fatten the local rat population. Rodents can find their way into all but the most secure containers so I ordered two food waste cones the city promised would bar their entry. What I didn't realize when I ordered the green plastic cones online is how much work it would be to install them. The cones are screwed on top of a plastic basket, which is about the same size as a circular laundry basket. Installation required me to dig a hole two feet deep and two and half feet across to complete submerge the basket, but after about an hour's labor I had a place to put my rotting tomatoes without worry.

This sub-prime financial crisis makes me rethink economy, along the lines of the the term Bill McKibben uses in his book, Deep Economy. Economy is a system of caring for things of value. Where does value come from - the earth. For example, value comes from food we grow or trees we cut down. There are all kinds of secondary processors that derive value from these original sources, companies that process the trees into paper, or companies like mine that ship the processed goods from one place to another, but ultimately value originates in the earth. McKibben argues that we need to strengthen our local economies, understand where value originates within our communities and nuture it.

Our tomatoes, after an initial cold scare, are a bumper crop. We've got more than we know what to do with, more ripening every day. When I come home from my downtown job I can't resist popping a few yellow Sun Sugar cherry tomatoes in my mouth on the way to our front door. We've got corn, squash, strawberries and blueberries, such abundance that my partner and I run the danger of squandering our good fortune. Many weekends we head to our cabin in the San Juans (that second mortgage I mentioned), but this weekend we had to stay home to do something about all of these vegetables. While I was digging in our compost system for handing food waste (and yes, rotten tomatoes), Bo was pulling fresh tomatoes off the vine to start cooking them down into pasta sauce to freeze for later in the year.

I've read a lot of scary books over the last several years, ones that say we're going to run out of oil, ones that say we're overheating the planet, ones that say we're building big homes on top of rich farm land - all of these books indicate an economy removed from the real source of value, an economy that doesn't respect the natural limits of an ecosystem, a neighborhood, or a family.

Tonight our friends Kirby and Erin are coming over for dinner. I'm making a salad of heirloom tomatoes and serving corn on the cob - all from our garden. Kirby is cooking salmon that he caught in Alaska. We'll be eating our meal in a house paid for by our global economy. None of us knows where we will end up, but tonight I will enjoy the harvest and be grateful.

Tomato Trinity

2008-09-16T01:15:00Z

What do global warming, tomatoes and the trinity have to do with each other? Keep reading. It comes together in the end.

A few weeks ago I attended the wedding of two dear friends, Brian and Laura. It was one of those big Catholic weddings, the kind where the priest is actually related to the family and where an aura of goodness seems to hang over everything. The kind of wedding that makes you feel blessed just by being part of it.

The priest gave a short, sweet homily that managed to explain something I've never completely understood: the trinity. In a few minutes he laid bare this mystery of my Catholic faith. He said, and I'm paraphrasing here without his eloquence, that the trinity of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit can be understood in terms of three things: faith, hope and love. He illustrated his point with the love that Brian and Laura share. Their relationship started from a place of faith that more was possible. This faith reached out in hope for love, and ultimately love grew in their hearts. In similar fashion, if people of faith are to understand the trinity, we begin with faith that God is out there and that he cares for us. Our faith reaches out in hope that we believe and our hope is answered with God's love. It's an act of God's grace that completes a choice we make to move from faith through hope to love.

And now Global Warming.

Global warming has preoccupied me for the last several years. The intensity of this preoccupation waxes and wanes, but is a persistent current in my daily life, motivating me to act on a scale ranging from leading volunteer efforts, to planting vegetables in my front yard to reading really scary non-fiction. The environmental book that scares the hell out of me right now is Thomas Friedman's Hot, Flat and Crowded. After reading Friedman's last book, the World is Flat, I knew what I was in for. I've actually been avoiding scary books lately, but my partner Bo picked this one up for me. Typically Bo prefers that I don't read scary books, because he doesn't like to hear about them. I took his unusual gift as a sign.

I'm only sixty pages in, but already Friedman's depressed me with warnings of "America's" popping up all over the globe, millions more people moving gratefully out of poverty, but dangerously into an over-consuming life that we American's have advertised to the rest of the world. We can't fault anyone for wanting what we have, but the planet will not sustain all of these mini-me's looking to replicate our middle class. What to do? I'm sure Friedman will provide answers. He tends to doom and gloom in the beginning of his books to get our attention, then offer solutions at the end. Well I haven't gotten to the end yet and right now I'm scared.

Enter Hope.

My faith teaches me to hope. It's morally wrong for me not to hope. I have to have faith that God cares for me, for all of us, for his creation. I have to have hope that even though I, you, we continue to act in ways that harm the planet and each other, that God wants us to be happy, wants us to be co-creators in His creation here on earth. I have to reach from a place of faith toward hope, and believe that God's love will fill in the gaps.

And finally Tomatoes.

On a dreary June day this summer Bo and I made a trip to the local nursery and bought ten (that's right ten) tomato starters to plant in one of our large front yard beds. Seattle is not a place you associate with tomatoes. Tomatoes don't normally grow underneath Douglas Fir or in puddles. But we threw caution to the wind. We had faith in our tomatoes. We reached out from our faith in hope for a hot summer and...

Today is September 15th. Hundreds of tomatoes hang heavy on their vines. A couple of them are actually red. Most are big, beautiful and a trend setting hue of... green. Although the cherry tomatoes are all fantastic, a cold rainy snap in August doomed our heirlooms and it's not looking too promising for the other larger fruit baking in our current hot (if 70 degrees is hot) weather. So where is the love? I started with faith, reached out in hope, now where is my big red tomato love?

Sometimes God's love is rotten tomatoes. Or an abundance of green ones. God's love urges us to find creative solutions. Make fried green tomatoes. Compost the rotten ones. God's love urges us on to be co-creators. To look honestly at the mess we've made of His creation. To search our hearts as we do this work and root out the anger, pride and greed that got us into this mess. To finally learn what it means to share God's creation with each other. Planting a vegetable garden is one small way for me to explore this mystery, to get in touch with my food, and it's larger social justice implications to the planet and the poor.

We're going to screw things up as we try to make things better. My faith is what helps me make sense of it all. Without faith, hope and love Thomas Friedman would scare the hell out of me. My faith teaches me to sow the seeds and hope for an abundant harvest. My faith hopes for love. My faith dishes up fried green tomatoes.

P.S. If you're interested in the connection between faith and the environment, check out Earth Ministry's St. Francis celebration October 4th.

Abundant Harvest

2008-09-04T03:25:00Z

My garden is overflowing with volunteers. Not volunteers of the work party variety, but little volunteer seedlings the wind planted, squatters of the plant kingdom plotted by chance or divine intervention. Often I speak in terms of scarcity, with carbon footprints stepping all over my conversations, but this is a harvest season, a time to celebrate abundance.

The front yard vegetable garden I planted with my partner is abundant enough: our corn crop grown tall with silky ears, fat green tomatoes falling over themselves, cucumbers and pumpkins creeping out into the sidewalk, threatening to violate, again, the city weed ordinance that some unknown neighbor monitors. Ripe fruit is joyful enough, and worth celebrating, but I am consumed with the stuff we didn't plant, the gifts growing up through our wild strawberries, the surprises waiting for me if I'm willing to look closer: alder, cedar, elderberry, piggyback plant, big leaf maple.  My parking strip is going the way of a second growth forest, right here in the city, with no help from me.

Was this abundance here all along, underneath layers of lawn, held back by a weekly trim?  Was removing this turf all I needed to invite this natural abundance? It seems so. My partner and I pulled up the lawn a year ago. In its place we built raised veggie beds and put down ground cover of wild strawberry.  The strawberry formed a quick blanket, but not so thick to keep out the native volunteers.

But what to do with these little trees, this abundance? Left to their own devices, I would soon have a forest in my "parking strip."  I don't doubt there's an ordinance against such unrestrained wildness in such a restrained three foot wide spot.

I have the happy predicament lately of wild, extravagant abundance. The work that I've done over the last few years, plus unbelievable grace is currently showering gifts down upon me, at a rate and in places, that I'm not sure how to handle, how to steward these gifts. Perhaps I will dig up these seedlings, put them in pots, and take them a few hours north to our cabin, where they can reach their full potential. Perhaps I will clear more obstacles from my life that have kept me from noticing and welcoming so many gifts.  Perhaps I will give into practical impulses and pull those seedlings for the weed bin before they get too big to remove.

One thing is for certain: in this harvest time, I will praise this abundance, celebrate it and enjoy the hell out of it.

Four Seasons

2008-08-31T18:11:00Z

Summer’s come to a premature end this year. Some would say that it never really started, but I remember distinctly a two week stretch of “hot” weather in early July and another week and a half of sunshine in June. In this moody part of the world we have to take what we can get. It may be pouring rain this Labor day weekend, but the silver lining in these heavy clouds is a chance to reflect on our first four seasons in our cabin on a little island in the San Juans. I’ll have a hard time selling this PollyAnna perspective to my soggy friends and neighbors, but perhaps you’re reading this from someplace sunny and dry, and have more patience for rain as a blessing.

Before the rain set in this morning, I walked our garden with our new puppy Matia. This is my morning ritual at the cabin: brew a cup of green tea, add some honey from a local farm, and wander around our property until my tea is gone. On this particular morning, Matia and I navigated tall, brown grasses looking for all of the trees Bo and I transplanted last fall. A few of the seedlings had died, but most of them were hanging in there, had put on an inch or two of new growth. They weren’t thriving, but weren’t suffering either. The first year with plants is all about surviving. The roots need to take hold. It’s the second year where the new growth really takes off.

A little over a year ago, Bo and I bought this acre and a half by the sea after the owners had bulldozed the whole understory to bare earth. They were getting it ready for someone who wanted a lawn. I’m not big on lawns. After we got over a bit of heartache and apprehension about the big rehabilitation task ahead of us, we spent that first summer getting the lay of the land. Looking out at bare earth and a few small weeds, we figured we’d buy hundreds of native plants to give Mother Nature a hand in the reforestation process.

The locals saw it differently. They were split into two camps, one camp seeing a great opportunity to put in a nice green lawn and keep it cut with a riding lawn mower. The other, significantly larger camp, told us that if forest was what we were after, we didn’t need to do a thing. “Give it a year and you’ll see.” They told us. Bo and I weren’t convinced.

A year later we see the local wisdom. Where a bull dozer once tread, now thistles, nettles and grasses stand over my head. There are many trees we planted that I cannot even reach, let alone find, because the thistles and nettles are impenetrable. I think in the end we’ll both be right. The land will heal itself quickly, and the Fir, Alder and Hemlock we planted will give nature a head start in shading out all of those grasses to create better conditions for the native understory: ferns, salmonberry and salal. Bo and I talked about planting another round of natives this fall: oceanspray, wild rose, ferns, but now I’m not so sure.

Fall is the season of making big plans. If you were reading this blog a year ago you may have noticed that as the leaves turn color my grandiosity heightens. In addition to transplanting about 50 baby trees last fall, I also transformed our Seattle lawn into a vegetable garden, started a large Environmental project at my corporate job and attempted to grow our eco justice group at St. James Cathedral. I could chalk up a lot of this energy to grieving, my way of dealing with the loss of our dog Kinsey, but it’s also just how I’m built. I tend to think big and take rather large bites that I can’t necessarily chew. Matia stares up at me, bored, from under my feet as I write. Looking at her, I think I won’t make any additional grandiose plans this fall. Take things in small bites.

Back home in Seattle we have more vegetables than we can eat. Strawberries rot on the vine before I can pick them, our spinach goes to seed. Our front yard vegetable garden is a site to behold for its sheer abundance, but it too is an indicator of my larger than life thinking. I think the challenge this year will be in navigating this abundance, these tall grasses, the hundreds of green tomatoes bending their wire cages in our front yard. Why did we think we needed twelve tomato plants? Why would we think we need to buy a hundred more native plants?

In the winter we returned to the island only a handful of times. It’s such a different place with no leaves on the trees, and hardly any people. Only sixty people live here full time. You have to steel yourself for winters here. I don’t think I could take it full time. It’s dark before five and doesn’t get light until seven.

Winter’s a time for working in an office, surrounded by artificial light, storing money away for sunnier times. In these corporate times, we’ve basically reversed the old circadian rhythms of work and harvest in the warmth and light, then rest in the cold and dark. Since my work is of the indoor variety, I’d rather do it when the weather is crap, and I’m grateful in a way to the northwest for its dreary weather. I’m not sure I would have started writing, or playing guitar, or half of my volunteer efforts if I lived in say, Los Angeles. Think what you will of Microsoft, but surely it never would have started in Miami.

Spring came early to the San Juans. Bo and I watched in wonder as all around us brown mud yielded little seedlings of rapid growth. The nettles got so tall so fast that I had to give up on another big plan, harvesting baby nettles for profit. Admittedly, this was a stupid plan, harvesting an obscure weed, that is painful to the touch, but, after cooking the sting out, has some nutritious value - to hippies. Bo and I took hope in our property’s rebirth and decided that perhaps we should have an orchard. Really this idea was just the hatching of a big plan laid back in the fall. Bo read plant catalogs, visited nurseries, ordered bare root plants on line. Soon we were packing a charter boat full of trees: apple, pear, cherry, peach and even an almond.

Rebirth is a metaphor rich with water, which was not lacking at our place. We dug a few holes, deep per instructions, and struck water every time. We dug a few more holes looking for drier homes for our trees and finally found some good compromises at the higher elevations of our property. Based on this wet discovery we were back to the store for blueberries and raspberries in hopes that they could handle wet feet. Our orchard is surviving, if not really thriving. But the few blueberries we’ve gleaned are delicious enough to give me hope. And finally summer arrived, in brief fits and starts.

Bo described the lesson this summer has taught him: take advantage of every sunny day. For Bo this means saying yes to any invitation to hang out with friends outside in the sun. Although I crave a bit more solitude than Bo, I plan to heed his lesson next summer. I’m beginning to appreciate the seasonality of life. Summer is for enjoying the fruits of your labor. Summer is for celebrating the abundance of life. The spectacular growth all around us tells us to enjoy ourselves, as does the weather. Typically summer is much drier, which means it doesn’t make any sense to put new plants into the ground. The bright skies and warm weather invite us to put away our big plans and work for another drearier time. Perhaps this is why summer can be unbearable for me. When will it be time to make big plans again? When can I put some more plants into the earth? When can I get back to work without feeling guilty for missing the sunshine? Oh, rain you are a blessing!