We the People...

Illuminated behind my closed eyelids, a flash of blinding light. In a semi-conscious state I count...one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand...disquieting the silence, a deeply-percussive, subwoofer rumble, the distance from the lightning’s epicenter marked by time, a second per mile. Lightning and its shadow, thunder, are the meteorological equivalent of a passionate tango – hot air aloft, cold air beneath, the dance ending in a fiery finish.

Then the other shoe, rain...drops. Two songs come to mind, one by The Temptations, the other, Cat Stevens...in a mash-up I sing, “cause raindrops will hide my teardrops and no one will ever know...I've been crying lately thinking about the world as it is..”

I awakened to a pristine, cleanliness-is-next-to-godliness morning at a Rockwood, PA, lakeside campground, having arrived after nightfall. I had quickly prepared a minestrone-themed soup which we enjoyed under a really cool pavilion. We were joined by our new friends from Eco Womb, a family with whom we had dined at Seven Springs this last weekend. They have joined the caravan for this leg of the journey. Dessert was comprised of a musical jam. With Jonathon laying down the rhythm and me on guitar, Sirraum found his voice and improvised lyrics to a wicked riff.

The pre-dawn storm having washed clean the chalk, a clean slate awaits. There's a new moon and Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, starts at sundown tomorrow, a good time to release the old and usher in the new.

An hour ago, the very wise Veronica Ramirez, whose living mandalas, co-created with festival-goers, always seems to become the spiritual hub of the spaces we come to occupy, mediated a different kind of circle, a shrine at which each of us cast little scraps of brown paper into a bowl, stating that which we wish to change and that to which we aspire. Elements reminiscent of Yom Kippur, which follows Rosh Hashanah, entered into the solemn, secular ceremony. In a collective act of purification, one by one, the little hand-written notes were set aflame.

The fields of apathy have lie fallow long enough. It's time to sow the seeds of change. All this week SLR will be tooling up for the centerpiece of our tour, the Right2Know March. Drawing attention to the potential dangers of GMOs, we will be joining several hundred protesters on a two-week trek from Brooklyn, NYC, to Washington, DC, demanding that Congress enact laws requiring manufacturers to label products which contain genetically-modified organisms.

And for the second time in as many months, this American citizen will be exercising his freedom of assembly. When I set foot in Layfayette Park, it will not be for me – it will be for we.

We the people...

Ode to Fall

They say that all good things must end someday
Autumn leaves must fall
But don't you know that it hurts me so
To say goodbye to you
Wish you didn't have to go
No, no, no, no

A Summer Song, Chad and Jeremy

Yesterday was the autumnal equinox – otherwise known as the first day of fall - one of two times each year when the tilt of the Earth's axis is inclined neither away nor towards the Sun, the center of the Sun being in the same plane as the Earth's equator. From now until the Winter Solstice, the days will continue to shorten as the nights lengthen. That's the science.

Here at Seven Springs Mountain Resort, for the Mother Earth News Fair, the leaves of deciduous trees are beginning to change colors. And while there's a scientific explanation for this, too, the palette of this flamboyant display will eventually produce art that rivals the paintings of Monet. Hickory, Maple, Sycamore, Ash. Black Cherry, White Popular, Cottonwood, Sassafras. It's all part of nature's way, allowing these trees to survive the harsh winter. I could tell you while chlorophyll produces the greens of spring and summer, carotenoids and anthocyanins account for the yellows, orange and browns, reds and purples, respectively. But that would be like me telling you a conflagration of neuro-transmitters and hormones are what accounts for the feelings we associate with falling in love.

I have this eidectic memory. It is fall of 1965. I'm out for a solitary stroll in my neighborhood. There is woodsmoke in the crisp, October air. All at once, a sweet melancholia washes over me, a sad longing, an elusive sense of identification and meaning - my first awareness of knowing my true emotional nature and being in harmony with nature. And while it wouldn't be released until December 3, The Beatles Rubber Soul became for me evocative of that fall. Though I'm a dyed-in-the-wool fan of all their music, that sixth studio album of theirs will always have a special place in my heart ("but of all these friends and lovers...").

Tonight I painted with food. I can't help myself, I'm an artist. Some will tell you cooking is not a legitimate art form. Don't you believe them.

Picture this. Woven wood bowls. Pumpkin and butternut squash soup seasoned with yellow curry. A melange of florets of broccoli, yellow and green beans, julienne strips of red bell peppers, yellow summer squash.

It was my Ode to Fall.

My Continuing Education

 

There is nothing wrong with your television set. Do not attempt to adjust the picture. We are controlling transmission. If we wish to make it louder, we will bring up the volume. If we wish to make it softer, we will tune it to a whisper. We will control the horizontal. We will control the vertical. We can roll the image, make it flutter. We can change the focus to a soft blur or sharpen it to crystal clarity. For the next hour, sit quietly and we will control all that you see and hear – The Outer Limits' opening narration

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain – The Wizard of Oz

The other day, while at the Rodale Institute for Research and Education, I dropped by their little retail store about closing time to fill up (product placement ahead!) my stainless steel, Kleen Kanteen beverage container. A little ironic, don't you think, their ground water is non-potable due to excessive amounts of calcium, the result of natural limestone deposits. The young woman behind the counter offered me chilled, sparkling water. Chit chat segue to talk of shrub - a fruit, sugar and vinegar concoction dating back to colonial times - which one mixes by adding still water or two cents plain. The back of the little bottles of Raspberry Shrub on the shelf contained a brief description of its contents and instructions for its use. Though originally in reference to the proper proportion of government in our lives, the clever writer of the back label brought into service a quote of Thomas Jefferson's: “a little goes a long way”.

I almost hesitate to speak the word for fear of being labeled an alarmist or conspiracy theorist, but here goes anyways: the matrix is real. Maybe not exactly as portrayed in the movie of the same name, but our lives are manipulated by forces unseen, so pervasive we no longer realize we're under their spell.

Does anybody really believe George W. won fair and square in Florida? That Pearl Harbor was truly a surprise attack? That on the morning of 9/11, forty minutes after an airliner has inexplicably crashed into the North Tower, United Flight 175 somehow slipped past flight controllers and NORAD's dragnet? Or that the Twin Towers collapsed solely as a result of the two plane's impact?

Alright, okay, I can tell I'm losing you. I can see that faraway look in your eyes. You're thinking...man, the next thing you'll say is that Lee Harvey Oswald wasn't a lone gunman. Or that Jack Ruby was aided and abetted. Can't you leave anything just be? You troublemakers are always...always...making trouble!

Fair enough. For the moment, let's put aside these inconclusive and controversial Big Ticket items and move onto something a bit more tangible, a tad more manageable. Things we can know for sure, things we can do something about. We're not just puppets, you know, dangling under and at the mercy of some faceless evildoers. We live in a democracy, right?

Okay, let's take a sober look at two myths of recycling - these findings (reproduced here verbatim) from a Berkeley, California, pilot program, as reported by the Ecology Center's Berkeley Plastics Task Force. They prove the old refrain: if you can't reduce landfill there, you can't reduce landfill anywhere. It's up to you...

Misconception # 1: Plastics that go into a curbside recycling bin get recycled.

Not necessarily. Collecting plastic containers at curbside fosters the belief that, like aluminum and glass, the recovered material is converted into new containers. In fact, none of the recovered plastic containers from Berkeley are being made into containers again but into new secondary products such as textiles, parking lot bumpers, or plastic lumber – all un-recyclable products. This does not reduce the use of virgin materials in plastic packaging. "Recycled" in this case merely means "collected," not reprocessed or converted into useful products.

Misconception # 2: Curbside collection will reduce the amount of plastic landfill.

Not necessarily. If establishing collection makes plastic packages seem more environmentally friendly, people may feel comfortable buying more. Curbside plastic collection programs, intended to reduce municipal plastic waste, might backfire if total use rises faster than collection. Since only a fraction of certain types of plastic could realistically be captured by a curbside program, the net impact of initiating curbside collection could be an increase in the amount of plastic landfill. The Berkeley pilot program showed no reduction of plastic being sent to the landfill in the areas where the curbside collection was in operation. Furthermore, since most plastic reprocessing leads to secondary products that are not themselves recycled, this material is only temporarily diverted from landfills.

Should these revelations alarm you? The simple answer is yes, they should. The more complex, scientifically-informed answer? Fuck, yeah!

There is a prescient scene in The Graduate, the 1967 Mike Nichols film written by Buck Henry. In the scene, where a party has been thrown in honor of the recent college graduate, the lost and rudderless Benjamin Braddock, played by Dustin Hoffman, is pulled aside by an older, wiser friend of his parents, with some business acumen. “Ben.” “Mr. McGuire." “Ben.” “Mr. McGuire." “Come with me for a moment, I want to talk to you...” (Ben is led outside to the pool)... “I just want to say one word to you...just one word.” Yes, Sir.” “Are you listening?” “Yes, Sir.” “Plastics.”

Yes, Sir. Plastics.

Turns out that was some damn good business advice. That is, if you want to reduce manufacturing costs of just about anything and everything. Make products that wear out sooner and easily break. Replace durable materials like aluminum, rubber and steel. In other words, perfect for a Disposable Society. Why pay a lot of money for something that will last a lifetime when you can pay so much less. Never mind that you'll be buying another one before the year is out. Certainly by next year. Especially when those newer versions, models, what have you, will be smaller, larger, cooler, hotter, faster, lighter.

So, what's the big deal. Well, actually the big deal is a little deal. Think molecular. Are you listening, Mr. Mcguire? Plasticizers. Also known as phthalates or phthalate plasticizers, these chemicals made from fossil fuels which give plastic its plasticity, can be toxic and carcinogenic, whether in production or off-gassing as VOCs (Volatile Organic Compounds). Plastic is everywhere. You don't even have to look up to know it's all around you. Your computer? Full of plastic. Pen in hand? Plastic. Paper coffee cup lid? Plastic. And for all intents and purposes, plastic does not decompose and if and when it does, it persists in the environment, like, forever? (Yes, even Valley Girls know this.) How many millions of tons of plasticizers are dispersed in the ocean and waterways, like so much background radiation, is incalculable. If nothing else, your takeaway from today's entry is this – plasticizers are known endocrine disruptors – they mimic hormones like testosterone and estrogen, wreaking havoc in the body of humans, not to mention fish, fowl, amphibians, reptiles and insects.

At your earliest convenience...say...immediately following this blog and before returning to your regularly-scheduled program, google plasticizer. You don't have to be a conspiracy theorist, you know, to be alarmed. And just because you're paranoid doesn't mean you're not being followed. File closed.

Now, what's up with those barium chem-trails?

 

Deja Vu

I got turned on to organic gardening at UC Santa Cruz, at the feet of Alan Chadwick, a brilliant horticulturalist credited with inventing the French Intensive system of cultivation. The English-born, former thespian integrated the Chinese method of double digging the soil with cluster planting (similar to French postage stamp gardens - small urban plots with high yields). The densely-populated space forces plants to compete for moisture and nutrients, creates a micro-climate under the resultant canopy, and conveniently minimizes weeds. Aside from adjusting the pH with lime, the only soil amendments were well-aged horse manure, bonemeal and wood ash.

That was back in 1970. I was twenty years old and had only just moved to NorCal from SoCal. My roommate that first summer was Bob Eder, also from LA and attending the University. I had been renting a one room studio carved out of a Victorian on Washington Street, a few blocks from Pacific Avenue, the main drag in town. He asked if I'd like to go in with him on a summer sublet a few blocks down on Maple. I said yes. My share of the rent was fifty bucks. I know. Seems beyond the realm of possibility, doesn't it? I know it was four decades ago, but still. Anyways, he needed someway to get from town to campus. I had a car. Another deal was struck.

Bob had a work-study involving a garden project, so that's where I took him on that first Monday. The garden was across the way from Stevenson College, one of the first five colleges established at the time. Rather than terracing the steeply-sloping hillside plot in the traditional manner, Chadwick had chosen to create long, gently-mounded beds about four feet wide which ran down the hill toward Glenn Coolidge Drive, with perpendicular paths at the top, middle and bottom. There was a small chalet, on the other side of which, a chicken coop, a greenhouse/potting shed and a small orchard. That's a lay of the land. The first impression, and the one I still vividly recall, is how amazingly well everything was growing. Alpine strawberries, Red Oak lettuce, Chantenay carrots. Scarlett Runner beans, Early Wonder Beets, Fairy Tale eggplant. Seed catalog photo-perfect. All accomplished without the benefit of chemical fertilizers, pesticides or herbicides. Oh, and the flowers! Perennial and annuals alike, also ready for their close-ups. Mr. Demille, please take note! Blooms were snipped, bunched and deposited adjacent a bus kiosk early each morning for administrative staff to pickup for to adorn their work spaces. Gratis.

I wasn't there in any prescribed or official role that summer being neither student nor staff – it didn't matter – by the end of the week I had found my niche, that of breakfast cook. There were twenty mouths to feed and that's what I was going to do. And did. All summer long. In addition to the stovetop and oven, there was an upright piano whose ebonies and ivories I lovingly caressed along with the spoons that stirred hot cereals in their pots, and spatulas that flipped pancakes in their pans. It would seem I had found myself and it was good. If we're going to subscribe to the phenomenon of imprinting in ducks and geese, and I do, then I ask you to consider the possibility – no certainty! - that that summer at UCSC making breakfast, playing piano, harvesting vegetables, made more than just a lasting impression. It planted the seeds of destiny for this young 61 year old.

I call your attention to the reality of the present.

This morning, at SLR's encampment at the PA Renewable Energy/Sustainable Living Festival in Kempton, Pennsylvania, I awakened before my alarm and began preparing breakfast. I rang the chow bell promptly at 8:00 AM. The twenty something solutionaries with whom I have been traveling these seven weeks were welcomed with Red Rice Johnny Cakes with Maple Syrup-Infused Agave.

They were seriously, yummy flapjacks.

As Yogi Berra is oft-quoted: This is like deja vu all over again.

Apples and Oranges

 

In the late 1930's, Jerome Irving (J.I.) Rodale stood at a crossroads. Although a success in the family-owned, electric parts business, he found himself in failing health. His doctors were not optimistic. Unwilling to accept their opinions, he sought out his own counsel, purchasing 64 acres of tillable soil in Pennsylvania's Lehigh Valley and began raising his own food to get better. And better he got. The account that follows is the story of how a father and son changed the course of agriculture, the final chapter of which is still unfolding even as you read this.

The words organic agriculture appeared first in 1940 when the senior J.I. with chalk in hand wrote them on a blackboard. Up to that point, farmers grew fruits, vegetables and grains in what we now refer to as the conventional way. Anyone shopping at a Whole Foods Market is familiar with this designation. The USDA was and has been the driving influence behind mainstream farming, advocating the use of chemical fertilizers, herbicides and pesticides as the predominant means of providing nutrients and dealing with weeds, insects and blight. In stark opposition, J.I. and his son, Robert (Bob), emphasized biology rather than chemistry. Through research and education they hoped to convince farmers that organic practices were a superior means of growing food for the nation. They approached Rutgers, Cornell and Penn State - only to be given a cold shoulder. Their self-published Organic Farming and Gardening magazine was shortened to Organic Gardening when farmers rejected affiliation. Despite this push-back, they marshaled on. In 1947, the Rodale Institute for Research and Education was founded. Always on the cutting edge, Bob became the voice of the organic movement in the United States, spear-heading lobbying efforts in Washington and introducing the term sustainable into the dialogue.

So determined were the Rodales to prove organic agriculture superior to conventional means, they invited the USDA to a a friendly little competition. The Farming System Trial, a 30-year, give-me-your-best-shot, side-by-side experiment has recently concluded. The verdict? Organic produce was shown to be more nutrient dense than that which is conventionally-grown. In other words, it's a healthier choice. The Institute's logical slogan sums it up: Healthy Soil, Healthy Plants, Healthy People, Healthy Planet.

Although J.I. and Bob aren't around to savor this sweet justice, the legacy of their steadfast belief and tireless endeavors lives on. Someday soon, tethered to your shopping cart, you'll have at your disposal a hand-held device allowing you to determine the nutrient density of any fruit or vegetable. Comparing apples and oranges? We've got an ap for that!

To the broken-record, all-too-common plaint Why does organic food cost so much? there is a simple answer. This is the price of food. It costs that much to grow nutrient-rich, healthy food. You may have every right to subject your children to toxic chemicals - that's your privilege. But when your son or daughter, God forbid, is diagnosed with cancer, ask yourself then if that buy-one-get-one-free pint of conventionally-grown strawberries was such a good deal after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Along with ten other members of Sustainable Living Roadshow, I spent yesterday at the Rodale Institute's 333 acre facility in Kutztown, right in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch Country. We got a cogent history lesson from out host, Romanian-born Maria Pop, Outreach and Education Manager, and a prospectus of organic farming in America from Mark “Coach” Smallwood, Rodale's recently-appointed Executive Director. For the rest of the afternoon, we rolled up our sleeves and helped them get ready for their annual Organic Apple Festival this Saturday.


One of our tasks was ground-harvesting apples for an activity which I'm told involves a sling-shot. We were encouraged to sample the fruit still hanging aloft. And sample we did. Reader, I can't say with any certainty that they compared with those in Eden, but these crisp, firm, sweet-tart gems were to die for. A fitting expression, I would think, since in all respects I felt as if I'd passed away and gone to heaven.

In the Middle of Somewhere

 

There but for the grace of God...

It is a testament to the efficacy of Alcoholics Anonymous and following its suggested program of recovery I have effortlessly held on to my sobriety with but a few meetings since departing the San Francisco Bay Area. I had not planned for that to be the case.

90 in 90 is the strongly-recommended regimen a beginner should adopt - going to ninety AA meetings in ninety days. This alone will not keep you sober, but not conforming to this now standard practice would constitute a half measure and, like it says in Chapter Five, will avail you nothing. You must be willing to go to any length. And to any length I went.

The beginning of the end of my active addiction began the morning of October 11, 2010. Having admitted to myself that I was trapped and at the end of my rope, I called Kaiser Hospital and set in motion a series of events that would change my life. The little Dutch boy could at last take his finger out of the hole in the dike. It had been a very long night, indeed.

One thing led to another. I was seen that afternoon by my newly-assigned physician, an internist named Sarah. I poured out my soul to her. There was a telephone consult with someone from the chemical dependency program, and in short order an appointment with a psychologist. By 8:00AM the next morning I was in an early recovery group that met five times a week. Then on Thursday of the following week I attended my first AA meeting. Between the Kaiser program and AA, I probably went to about 120 meetings in those first 90 days. Not bragging, here, you know. Just telling ya what worked for me.

To the religious-like attendance of meetings - morning, noon, and/or night - I added the requisite literature: Living Sober ( a handy guide for newcomers), the Big (Blue) Book (AA's bible), Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions (the 12 x 12), and the nearly-exhaustive series of free, FAQ pamphlets.

Within this framework came the fellowship - secretaries, speakers, strangers that seemed like long lost friends, some with 24 years of years of sobriety – others with only 24 hours. In time, I met Mike, who I asked to be my sponsor, to guide me through the steps. I started taking service commitments (kitchen cleanup, chair breakdown, greeter), arriving at meetings early for the camaraderie and staying long after the Serenity Prayer to grab a slice o' pizza with new friends.

That was my life in AA for some nine-plus months. I cannot say which of the above was keeping me sober. So to play it safe I kept everything in play. And mixing it up to confuse my disease, like the house-always-wins, sidewalk game of three-card monte.

“Does your sponsor approve? Have you told him?” “What are you going to do about meetings?” “Do you think it's smart to undertake something like this so early in your recovery?” All good questions posed by friends and family when I told them my plans to go on a nearly four-month tour across the country.

 

We are six weeks into the tour and I have attended, on average, one meeting every two weeks. This would have been unimaginable back in the dark, difficult days of the fall, winter and spring. First there was the impromptu Trucker's Chapel episode, with my recitation of Ecclesiastes; next, the 25th anniversary gathering of Friends of Bill at the Philadelphia Folk Festival; and most recently, the gift last Friday in Saugerties, New York, the day before their Bicentennial Kids and Family Day. Thursday night, upon arrival at Cantine Field, an impressive sport's complex, I went online to find a meeting in town. Sure enough there were noon meetings held at...you're kidding me! at the Kiwanis Ice Rink? It's just a few football fields in distance from our encampment!

God, have you been following me?

...I thought as much.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today marks eleven months of being clean and sober. Hold your applause. Having time does not a tool for sobriety make. Recovering alcoholics with many years under their belt inexplicably go out. I can only speak for today. And right now I have never been happier and more grateful in all my life.

To any readers of this blog who are on the same page as me, I hope to cross paths, sometime soon, as we trudge the road of happy destiny.

Saugerties, New York

 

“To err is human.

To forgive, divine.”

I had woke up on the wrong side of the bunk. Of course my lower bunk only has one side, so it's impossible to wake up on any other side. Unless I were to squeeze through the teeny exterior window that lets in fresh air - be it cool, warm, humid or rainy. I had a case of garden variety grouchiness. My effort to be sunshiny all the time, especially when the humidity is thick enough to cut with a knife, had reached an impasse. In sobriety I've learned to pause before agitated - letting emotions pass overhead like so many clouds. But let's face it, at the end of the day, I'm only human. Very human. And as I've before and I'll say again, I'm no saint. Far from it. Sometimes, my well-constructed, personal paradigm just gives out from under me. Such was the case yesterday morning.

The DIY Oatmeal Breakfast is our default morning meal, but the bays of the bus were locked and I was unable to gain access to a huge stock pot into which we had transferred 40 lbs. of rolled oats when the bag tore and got wet at he bottom. We had a tight schedule, so for efficiency’s sake I'd prepared a large pot of polenta. Although the cornmeal dish is more associated with dinner, it also makes for an elegant, porridge-like breakfast. I can't remember what set me off, but at the least provocation I went into a richly-lathered rant with instructions clearly written on the bottle. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. It was as if...

God said: Go forth Michael, I release thy from the Bondage of Patience, from the Shackles of Tolerance. Enter the House of Baser Instincts, cast out thy Higher Self.

I'd had it up to here [writer indicates with hand] with mapping errors, navigation missteps, abrupt shifting of plans, the ridiculously-chronic rain, subsequent mud, wet clothes and cramped quarters. The tendency for personal items to disappear and never be heard from again. The finicky tastes and unrealistic expectations at mealtimes. The mechanical problems which are becoming commonplace. So, in a moment of weakness, I loosened the reins and let the horse race ahead. It was quite a gallup.

All you need to know was the last thing I said: “This is not a fuckin' diner!”

And though a short-lived tempest, it must've came off as being totally out of character for me. And it was. Out of character. For the way I choose to live my life these days. That person yesterday morning? that was the old me, letting self-will run rampant. The new me takes into consideration what others may be experiencing, how they may be feeling. Yes, even if feelings are ephemeral. We're all in the same boat, aren't we? Subject to the same vicissitudes.

My conjugation of thought reached a head late this afternoon when Derek candidly shared on facebook how he was feeling about being on tour. Although I had noticed him being circumspect for a day or so, I hadn't paid it much mind. After reading his wall posting and now seeing him looking down in the mouth I approached him sitting off alone, asking if he'd like some company. He said hat he could go either way. I sat down.

Boy, was I in for a big surprise. Turns out it was I, or more precisely my behavior, that had contributed to the way he was feeling. While my rant wasn't meant to be personal, as Derek put it, he's a person who got caught in the crossfire of my salvos, so it was personal.

I then did what I do. I made an amend, apologizing for my thoughtless tirade, asking him how might I set things right. Nothing more was required except a much needed hug. For both of us. To see the mood of this smart, lovable guy brighten was beyond compare. Reminding me once again, that which is written in the 10^th Step. We practice these principles in all our affairs. And when we are wrong we promptly admit it.


Period.