my new window
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
on upcycling
Upcycling is the new, or at least relatively new to me, phrase for using something that might otherwise be thrown away. It’s another one of those things, those words, those ideas that I stumble upon and say to myself, “self, that’s great! That’s radical! That’s the way life should be!”. Then, after my total excitement about how “new” this great idea is I realize how far we’ve strayed, and how far we have to go.
Upcycling is a new word for making do, using up, not wasting, being frugal. Upcycling is what every family history story I’ve ever heard was all about. My New England ancestors upcycled, but would have laughed at the word. They didn’t do this on purpose, they just did it because it’s what you did. How silly is it to travel crazy lengths to buy something for a lot of money that you could make yourself for free with what you find around the house in an hour. It was probably entertainment and adventure before the days of 24 and Lost.
In the very recent past I thought I had to move, today, immediately, or at least as soon as life would allow it. There are too many reasons for this to understand or fully explain, but a huge one was that this house, this lot and this place couldn’t do what I wanted and needed to do with my home right now. It couldn’t. It just couldn’t and I was weary from trying to figure out a way AROUND being able to do these things I needed.
I needed to grow some food. Because I think we all should (I recently read that the average American grass lawn could provide over 50% of the food for the family inside the house). Plus, it’s cheaper which right now is a plus. And it gets me outside… which just makes me better.
I needed nature and had no transportation to go find it, and the birds sitting on the power lines just weren’t doing it. Yes the morning dove seemed to try it’s best to sooth me with it’s coos, but when I looked out at it I just saw the power lines. I needed nature. I needed peace and quiet. I needed to be away from here.
But then, a month later, after we bushwacked, arms scarred from the feisty wild rose thorns, arms covered with a modern art fresco of tan lines, one arm filled out with large shoulder muscles (one side looks like pop-eye, one side still looks like me), and with a few too many new slug friends… I don’t need to leave, at least not right now, not immediately.
An overgrown, thorny, thick, ugly, and I thought completely inaccessible lot behind and to the side of the house has been burrowed through, and I can again get excited about seed catalogs. Yesterday walking through I was amazed we did this in a month, especially since the in-house projects have continued.
Today it would seem that it’s often easier to throw away than to keep. It’s easier to move than to make it work. It’s easier to quit than to deal with it. I don’t think this is always true. It’s easier to think about these things. It’s harder to think about staying with something, keeping something that’s causing pain, anger or frustration. But putting the same energy into staying, making work, upcycling as we do trying to move away or throw away, seems to accomplish about the same. The later is less wasteful, and maybe, at least sometimes, more fulfilling. While sometimes we do need to quit, move or leave, maybe sometimes we really should stay.
Upcycling is a new word for making do, using up, not wasting, being frugal. Upcycling is what every family history story I’ve ever heard was all about. My New England ancestors upcycled, but would have laughed at the word. They didn’t do this on purpose, they just did it because it’s what you did. How silly is it to travel crazy lengths to buy something for a lot of money that you could make yourself for free with what you find around the house in an hour. It was probably entertainment and adventure before the days of 24 and Lost.
In the very recent past I thought I had to move, today, immediately, or at least as soon as life would allow it. There are too many reasons for this to understand or fully explain, but a huge one was that this house, this lot and this place couldn’t do what I wanted and needed to do with my home right now. It couldn’t. It just couldn’t and I was weary from trying to figure out a way AROUND being able to do these things I needed.
I needed to grow some food. Because I think we all should (I recently read that the average American grass lawn could provide over 50% of the food for the family inside the house). Plus, it’s cheaper which right now is a plus. And it gets me outside… which just makes me better.
I needed nature and had no transportation to go find it, and the birds sitting on the power lines just weren’t doing it. Yes the morning dove seemed to try it’s best to sooth me with it’s coos, but when I looked out at it I just saw the power lines. I needed nature. I needed peace and quiet. I needed to be away from here.
But then, a month later, after we bushwacked, arms scarred from the feisty wild rose thorns, arms covered with a modern art fresco of tan lines, one arm filled out with large shoulder muscles (one side looks like pop-eye, one side still looks like me), and with a few too many new slug friends… I don’t need to leave, at least not right now, not immediately.
An overgrown, thorny, thick, ugly, and I thought completely inaccessible lot behind and to the side of the house has been burrowed through, and I can again get excited about seed catalogs. Yesterday walking through I was amazed we did this in a month, especially since the in-house projects have continued.
Today it would seem that it’s often easier to throw away than to keep. It’s easier to move than to make it work. It’s easier to quit than to deal with it. I don’t think this is always true. It’s easier to think about these things. It’s harder to think about staying with something, keeping something that’s causing pain, anger or frustration. But putting the same energy into staying, making work, upcycling as we do trying to move away or throw away, seems to accomplish about the same. The later is less wasteful, and maybe, at least sometimes, more fulfilling. While sometimes we do need to quit, move or leave, maybe sometimes we really should stay.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Wendell's nature
"The human definition of the natural world is always going to be too small, because the world's more diverse and complex than we can ever know. We're not going to comprehend it; it comprehends us. The question is whether we can use it with respect. Some people in the past who knew very little biology were able to use the land without destroying it. We, who know a great deal of biology, are destroying our land in order to use it."
Wendell Berry in July's Sun Magazine
Wendell Berry in July's Sun Magazine
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
things that are slightly different if you're causing a ruckus
If you are renovating, remodeling yourself, doing demolition, gardening, homesteading, roofing, bushwacking, farming or generally causing a ruckus more days than not, there are a couple things that are probably different about your life...
1- you shower at 5, because you can't eat over the smell of your own stench. In the mornings, there's no reason to be clean and fresh.
2 - you are excited when your weekend is over, because you get to sit behind a desk, or stand still and talk to people
3 - you are genuinely excited when new construction books arrive at the library
4 - you dream about having goats, because they would eat the lawn and almost everything else... so you wouldn't have to
5 - you crave lemonade, sandwiches and pasta at every meal
6 - you own more pairs of overalls and boots than you do pants and shoes
7 - you don't understand why people need to go jogging
1- you shower at 5, because you can't eat over the smell of your own stench. In the mornings, there's no reason to be clean and fresh.
2 - you are excited when your weekend is over, because you get to sit behind a desk, or stand still and talk to people
3 - you are genuinely excited when new construction books arrive at the library
4 - you dream about having goats, because they would eat the lawn and almost everything else... so you wouldn't have to
5 - you crave lemonade, sandwiches and pasta at every meal
6 - you own more pairs of overalls and boots than you do pants and shoes
7 - you don't understand why people need to go jogging
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Fog
One reason I think photos and songs are so powerful is that they are singular. A photo of a flower lets you see the flower, the petals, the slight touch of moisture on each rise of the leaves. A song, especially sung by a beautiful voice lets you hear each tone, each melody, each word with such focus that no other sounds can be heard.
It is hard to savor each moment of life. It is hard to notice all the small things that are out there to be noticed. Because there are so many. Every backyard has almost an infinite number of photo opportunities, quiet moments and details worth distinction. It’s just difficult to focus on them with so much there. Every moment passes quicker than we can fully process it. Every twig of grass completely hides amid a lawn. Every day becomes one pretzel in the big party mix of life.
Unless we’re really paying attention.
There are some things which demand presence, or demand to be noticed. It may be a screaming toddler in a grocery store while a mother is just looking for a nice bar of soap. Just a bloody bar of soap. It may be the car as the engine starts smoking on a hot day on your way to a meeting. It may be the downtrodden shingles on your roof, as water drips down onto the dinner table. It may be a butterfly, landing in your laundry basket as you hang clothes out to dry. Or maybe it’s just a breath, in the middle of the storm of life, that lets you feel where you are again, and maybe even why.
For me an occasional, and sweet-natured, reminder is the fog horns. I live near the ocean. I try to go see it once a week. And while I wouldn’t want to give up my proximity to it, to be honest I rarely see it and sometimes forget that it’s there. Some days I’ll start to realize it’s foggy outside. The other day I was working outside, fighting back the overgrown and thorny bushes, sweating and not feeling the cool, salty, heavy dampness of thick fog. The kind that only really happens near the ocean. Then the low and quiet foghorns sounded. Boats talking to each other. Guiding each other through the fog. Surrounded by trees and birds, it sounded like a birdcall. Well, maybe a Buddha kind of monk of a bird, with a very deep, clear, quiet, completely omniscient voice. Fog horns are sounded to give direction and a sense of place. They’re sounded to give whoever might hear them a sound map, so they can hear where they are, because most other senses are blinded. And the fog horns do just that. Something about their call makes me immediately present and aware of the weather, aware that I’m on a mountain, in the backyard, above the town, by the ocean, where boats and sea guide each other through the fog. Everything is connected in that the sound puts me on a map where I know I am here, and the sound is there, and here we both are going about life.
And when I quiet myself down enough to notice that. Notice it for just a minute, I can almost distinguish each blade of grass, and feel the fog all around me. And when I’m aware of where I am, and when I’m able to notice things, I wonder why did I ever think I needed to travel the entire world, when there really is a world on this mountain, in the town, near the ocean, and where my feet stand.
It is hard to savor each moment of life. It is hard to notice all the small things that are out there to be noticed. Because there are so many. Every backyard has almost an infinite number of photo opportunities, quiet moments and details worth distinction. It’s just difficult to focus on them with so much there. Every moment passes quicker than we can fully process it. Every twig of grass completely hides amid a lawn. Every day becomes one pretzel in the big party mix of life.
Unless we’re really paying attention.
There are some things which demand presence, or demand to be noticed. It may be a screaming toddler in a grocery store while a mother is just looking for a nice bar of soap. Just a bloody bar of soap. It may be the car as the engine starts smoking on a hot day on your way to a meeting. It may be the downtrodden shingles on your roof, as water drips down onto the dinner table. It may be a butterfly, landing in your laundry basket as you hang clothes out to dry. Or maybe it’s just a breath, in the middle of the storm of life, that lets you feel where you are again, and maybe even why.
For me an occasional, and sweet-natured, reminder is the fog horns. I live near the ocean. I try to go see it once a week. And while I wouldn’t want to give up my proximity to it, to be honest I rarely see it and sometimes forget that it’s there. Some days I’ll start to realize it’s foggy outside. The other day I was working outside, fighting back the overgrown and thorny bushes, sweating and not feeling the cool, salty, heavy dampness of thick fog. The kind that only really happens near the ocean. Then the low and quiet foghorns sounded. Boats talking to each other. Guiding each other through the fog. Surrounded by trees and birds, it sounded like a birdcall. Well, maybe a Buddha kind of monk of a bird, with a very deep, clear, quiet, completely omniscient voice. Fog horns are sounded to give direction and a sense of place. They’re sounded to give whoever might hear them a sound map, so they can hear where they are, because most other senses are blinded. And the fog horns do just that. Something about their call makes me immediately present and aware of the weather, aware that I’m on a mountain, in the backyard, above the town, by the ocean, where boats and sea guide each other through the fog. Everything is connected in that the sound puts me on a map where I know I am here, and the sound is there, and here we both are going about life.
And when I quiet myself down enough to notice that. Notice it for just a minute, I can almost distinguish each blade of grass, and feel the fog all around me. And when I’m aware of where I am, and when I’m able to notice things, I wonder why did I ever think I needed to travel the entire world, when there really is a world on this mountain, in the town, near the ocean, and where my feet stand.
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