Don't Think Too Hard

In my experience, having an adventure is as easy as speaking before thinking. We're not taught to speak before we think; quite the opposite. We're supposed to measure our responses before verbalizing. But if I had considered the ramifications of a journey on horseback before agreeing to participate, I may never have said yes. And if I'd really spent time consulting my bank account and worrying about sunburn, I probably wouldn't have ridden a bicycle across the country with Andy last summer. If I'd thought long and hard about the risks of traveling through India alone and had tried to develop an itinerary beforehand, my plans would have withered from the start. All of my adventures have started with impulsive commitments to things I knew nothing about.

Once I make a commitment, I am typically steadfast. I don't even consider bailing, unless things are looking really positively dangerous. And then, it's usually too late to bail, anyway, so it's only ever a fleeting consideration, nothing more.

Yesterday Andy and I watched a documentary called "Ride the Divide" about a group of cyclists participating in the annual 2,745-mile self-supported "Tour Divide," a race along the continental divide from Banff, Canada, to the New Mexico/Mexico border. Andy decided immediately that he wanted to do the race. I thought I'd probably have to spend a year or two mountain biking before making an attempt, since I'm such a roadie, but agreed it looked outrageously appealing. Snow drifts, grizzly bears, gravel slides, herds of cattle, rain, injuries, wilderness, isolation, you name it. The winning time is usually 17 days and change. And half of the participants usually drop out. The documentary showed cyclist after cyclist collapsed alongside the road weeping. We also saw some mean looking blisters and wounds. The cyclists who go fastest don't carry tents and ride 15-20 hours per day.

Andy and I thought about the race all day today. Somehow, it wasn't until we were eating dinner that the stupendous realization dawned.

"ANDY!" I gasped. "WE COULD DO IT ON OUR TANDEM!" He looked at me with widening eyes and grinned. I launched myself across the table at him, almost overturning our soup bowls, grabbed his shoulders, shook him, and yelled again, "ON OUR TANDEM! WE COULD DO IT ON OUR TANDEM!"

From there we sprinted to the computer to Google the race's website. We clicked on the "contact" link and wrote a quick email to the race organizers. "Would we be allowed to participate on our tandem?" we asked, and clicked the send button.

Then we decided to take a look at past race results. There on the 2010 results page we saw a tandem bicycle listed -- the first and only tandem bicycle team to complete the Tour Divide. We would be allowed! We were psyched. We could take a train to Whitefish, get a ride to Banff, haul ass on our bike to the Mexico border, and then rent a car and drive home. We could leave our family in charge of our business while gone. We could do the whole thing in a month. We could save every penny and dime from now until then to pay for our emergency chocolate milk fixes and super-insulated sleeping bags.

And then we saw the date of the race. It's supposed to start the second Friday of June. And June 23rd is the date we're supposed to be hosting that big wedding party at our house. As in, our own wedding party.

Back while the soup was simmering before dinner, before I thought of riding the tandem, I spent a few lazy moments scanning over Facebook. I clicked a link somebody had posted to an article about the five most common regrets people express in old age. I've been worrying about mortality lately, so I had to take an indulgent peek. One regret was not living a life true to oneself; another was not making the conscious choice to be happy. A common regret men expressed was working too hard. Andy is always talking about working harder and making more money, and I'm always telling him it's far more important to do the things we want while we can.

After dinner, I told Andy about the article I'd read. "We shouldn't worry about taking time off from work or about whether or not we can afford it. We'll never regret it." Then I reminded him how happy we were when we rode across the country. "We were saying all the time how we wouldn't rather be doing anything else!"

"But what about our wedding?" he asked. Fortunately we were already married in Tennessee in October. But we were going to have a big party on Midsummer's Eve in Pennsylvania, with all of our friends, and even be legally married again.

"We can change the date," I said. "We can get married whenever we want."

He stills seems hesitant.

I think that if we think about it too hard, we'll decide it's too much trouble.
So I think we should just go ahead and commit. We can deal with the complications as they arise. The important thing is the blind, impulsive, happy commitment.

I'm ready to go.

To Keep Up or Not to Keep Up?

A crashing downpour replaced the patches of sunlight in the time it took me to trade my pajamas for my gardening clothes this morning. The poppy transplants will have to wait for another day.

I've been thinking about technology more than usual since Steve Jobs died. I began using computers at the same time the American mainstream did, I think. We didn't use a television or video games in our household, but we did get a word processor in the early or mid-nineties. I remember learning how to type properly, and I remember setting up an email account at least a year or two before starting high school. I got a cell phone shortly after I started driving. I passed my cell phone on to my younger brother when I started college, and didn't have a cell phone again until around the time I got my car, about half a year after graduating from college. I didn't register on facebook or begin my blog until 2008; both were preparations for my long distance horseback trip.

I feel like I kept up with internet technology for a little while, at least on the dragging tail of the curve. By the time I was in college, however, I was beginning to resist the speed of developments. I learned how to use some basic programs I needed to use to get through college, like Excel and PowerPoint. When I arrived in Oregon and began working in a bookstore in 2008, I had to use a computer again. We used Constant Contact for our store emails, maintained a webpage, and started blogspot, facebook, and youtube accounts during my employment. By the spring of 2010, I was back on the road again.

Now I have a very plain pre-paid cell phone which doesn't work very well and is usually powered off. I can't take, send, or receive photos, but I can and do send several texts every month for ten cents each. My computer is the same as I took to school -- a 2003 mac laptop. It hasn't been able to connect to the internet for years, so I use it solely for photos, music, and word processing. All of the writing I've done over the years is stored on this computer, but I haven't backed up my documents or photos very consistently. Mostly I use Andy's computer; I don't know how to describe it. We still don't have a television, and I have trouble controlling them when I do encounter them.

I listen to NPR several mornings and several afternoons during the week. Because I listen pretty consistently, I feel fairly caught up on the current major global news events. Every several days, however, I hear stories focusing on specific information technologies. This week there's been considerable discussion about Blackberries. Apparently, they weren't working this week. I'm not exactly sure what a blackberry is or what it's best at doing. I understand that they are preferred by many business people for security issues. I don't know if it makes phone calls or if it's just a data storage device. I think it uses the internet, because I think the recent problem had to do with the devices not being able to access the internet.

Andy had an android phone for a few months last winter until I accidentally broke it and we couldn't afford to replace it. I don't know what "android" signifies. I know that it wasn't an iPhone, because Apple makes iPhones. I also don't know what a "smartphone" is. I would assume "smart phone" could refer to any phone that has a big screen and can do "smart" things like use "apps," but I think I must be wrong. A few days ago, during a meeting, I surreptitiously asked Andy if there was a difference between a smart phone and an iPhone, and he gave me a long look and whispered "we'll talk about that later." We haven't talked about it, yet.

I've also harbored a longstanding confusion about the relationship between the terms "mac" "Apple" and "i---." I think I finally have it figured out. Apple is the company name. Its computers are called macintoshes, which I think is kind of funny, since macintoshes really are a kind of apple, usually used for pies. I think that Apple now names its products with names beginning with a lowercase "i," including its laptops. Does Apple still make desktop computers, and are those still called "macintosh computers?" I can think of iBooks, iPods, iPads, iMacs, and iPhones. I have not owned an iPod, but have used them. Programs also have lowercase "i" prefixes, like iPhoto and iPhone. Does the "i" stand for "internet?"

I understand the concept of twitter but haven't used it and don't really know how it works. I'm barely able to use facebook.

My concern is that I'm already behind and that I'll be hopelessly behind in a few short years if I don't make an effort to keep up. Furthermore, my children will dismally behind unless I expose them to this technology. As a prospective business owner and parent, I wonder what elements of IT (information technology) I need to keep a handle on. At the same time, I don't want to expose my children to cell phones or computers until they're approaching school age. I don't really even want to expose myself. I believe that filling a home with electronic devices is unhealthy in tangible and intangible ways.

Last week, Andy, my father, and I rode a shuttle to the airport. The bus was pretty full of people, and most of use were sitting elbow to elbow along the sides. I was sitting across from Dad and Andy. I looked around at the other passengers and noticed that most of them had their heads down and their hands on their laps holding various miniature communication devices -- their thumbs and fingers were all jabbing away. I thought this was pretty funny, so I pulled out my own cell phone, which is quite small and old-fashioned looking, and held it out in front of me like everybody else was, and began pushing buttons very quickly with my thumbs as if I were perhaps sending text messages or surfing the internet. My phone was, off, of course, like usual. When I looked up to wink at Dad and Andy, they both pretended not to know me.

The rain has passed and I see patches of sunlight again. I'm heading out to plant the poppies.

Settling In

Andy and I have been talking about what we want to do to become more involved in the world. We're comfortable in our little corner, but I feel as though I've been taking a lot without giving much back. I know this is the standard model, but I don't want it for myself. I guess I'm thinking of my relationship with the world, and I want it to be conscientious and reciprocative on my part.

It has seemed, lately, that anything I want is available for the taking. Country roads, cities, transportation, disposable commodities. Commodities, particularly. I keep asking myself, "where did all of this come from?" And, of course, it's all been manufactured somewhere on earth from some combination of materials found on earth. And if all I give is a few dollars for whatever I want -- I'm paying a person, aren't I? I'm paying for labor, but I'm not reimbursing the original source, and I can't, directly, with paper currency. At this moment I'm surrounded by wood, sheet rock, paint, plaster, slate, glass. I'm sharing a room with a piano, a computer, dishes, tables, shelves of books, a bicycle, a dulcimer, a guitar, light bulbs. And I can't escape the underlying feeling that I'm living amidst stolen goods. Or, more kindly, as though I'm living amidst unreciprocated gifts. All of these items were acquired fairly according to our cultural guidelines. So, in the human realm, all is well.

Yet I must have taken advantage somewhere along the line, because how could I possibly have acquired all of these belongings for nothing more than dollars? I feel I owe something to the forest where this lumber was cut, and the quarries where this stone was mined. Is there any place on earth where communities are saying "look how comfortable we have made our lives, and how easily; let's reciprocate by planting some trees, cleaning up our waterways, respecting the cleanliness of the air, and behaving responsibly and conscientiously from here on out?" Instead, it seems the default behavior is to fail to recognize the true origins of our goods, and to return, instead of gifts and caring, landfills, oceanic islands of trash, and global pollution. If this relationship were modeled by two people, we would describe the relationship as appallingly abusive.

I don't wish to under-appreciate human creativity; I realize that when I buy a table, I am paying for craftsmanship. When I buy a computer, I am paying for ideas, components, and assembly. But it seems wrong to me that my return payment stops with the designers, manufacturers, and marketers. What do I owe the earth for a computer? What do I owe the earth for a house? What about food? What about water, and air?



I've been trying to imagine how I can most significantly contribute to the planet. Andy conceives of a distinction between behaving as a humanitarian and an environmentalist, and feels pressure to choose between disparate paths. I feel it's possible to fulfill both endeavors on the same path. My simplistic example to Andy, put irreverently, was to preach family planning worldwide and to encourage small, late families.

Many very easy lifestyle decisions can reduce our demands on the earth. In today's world, these are all decisions we're able to make for ourselves. By tomorrow's world, I hope these decisions will have become default behaviors. These are some major, fairly obvious, not terribly difficult, high-impact personal lifestyle decisions that stand out to me:

1. Diet -- preferring, local, vegetarian foods, and mostly abstaining from seafood. We'll be way healthier and require less health care and pharmaceuticals. We'll save energy by abstaining from meat, save fossil fuels by eating local foods, and save our planet's lungs by keeping the ocean alive. Local foods are often unpackaged and fresher, saving food from being wasted and packaging from going to the landfill.

2. Where we live and how we get around -- remodeling instead of building, and choosing to live in a place well located for self-sustenance or alternative transportation. Andy and I feel that if we choose to live so far in the country, we need to find ways to seriously reduce our fossil fuel dependency. I drive a grease car, but still spew particulate matter into the air. We've discussed renting a prius or something similar. We try to combine our errands and use our bicycles, but we have a lot of improvement to make. We both feel very nostalgic for our downtown lives in Corvallis, where we were far less dependent on vehicles.

3. Family -- let's move average childbearing age up a few years. Let's have three generations span a century rather than four. My grandmother was born in 1919; I probably won't wait until 2019 to start my family, but it might be close. Both my grandmother and my mother waited until they were around thirty to start families. And, yes, I've dreamed of having half a dozen or so kids. Instead of having a gazillion children to help me with farm labor, however, I think I'd rather just live next-door to my siblings and their kids; that way I'll just feel like I have fifteen kids, but they won't really be all mine.

4. Be healthy -- let's grow our own food and trade with our neighbors. Don't eat more than we need. Be physically active. Stay outside. Keep our kids outside. Stay healthy and keep our bodies strong so we can take care ourselves.

Andy and I are talking about ways we can participate on a larger scale, beyond our own personal decisions. Last year we volunteered with one of the local 5th-grade envirothon teams, and we're thinking of doing that again this school-year. It seems like a pretty small gesture of thanks to the planet, though. We also heard about a fellow in town who collects bicycles throughout the year and tunes them up to give to children for Christmas -- we're planning to help him with some of that mechanic work. But really, we keep saying, we'd like to actually bike around with the kids.

So much needs to be done, it's silly for us to waste our time trying to decide where to jump in. When we married last week, our vows included building a peaceful, compassionate home, and nurturing our family and fellow humanity. Now that we're contemplating our vows for next summer, when we'll be remarried in Pennsylvania, I feel we should include a mutual vow to share a simple, globally conscientious lifestyle.

Honeychild

Garden

Summer in Laurel

Joe and Yen-Yen Take Tea

(Yen-Yen cracking up)

Today

The slate and stone steps leading from the patio to the garden


Heavy snow broke the sour cherry tree

Yesterday

Baby leeks, and snow on the woodpile.