Sometimes you just need to bitch a little before a solution up and slaps you in the forehead. Here goes.
I’m confused and frustrated. Every day the communication gods heap another app on the technology pile and now no one quite knows how to get ahold of anyone else. I’m spending way too much time trying to figure out how to reach my friends, co-workers, etc. I just want to connect!
Not long ago my conversations were either face-to-face or over the phone. The good news is my communication choices have expanded to include voice mail, email, skype, text and facebook. The bad news is that none of these methods work for everyone, forcing me into trial-and-error mode.
I usually start with a phone call. If the person answers their phone, we have a conversation and I’m done. If they don’t answer, I leave a voice mail unless that isn’t an option, an increasingly frequent possibility. Next I try texting. If I’m close to my laptop, I can send an intelligible message in seconds. If not, I get my glasses, hunker down in a shady spot and use my 9-key phone pad to sketch out my query.
If it can wait, I make a note to either catch them face-to-face or email them later. When email doesn’t work, I try private messaging on Facebook, making sure to check it for the next couple of days. And even if I go through all these steps, a growing percentage of people will not return my call, text or PM, a natural response to communication technology overload.
Two days ago I emailed 22 volunteers a spreadsheet, asking them to review the information and confirm their commitment. So far, three people complied without issue. A fourth person wrote that they were unable to decipher the information, leading me to presume that they were looking at the snapshot of the attachment rather than opening the spreadsheet. I sent a second email to the group suggesting everyone open the spreadsheet to properly view the file and received another a reply from a person stating that the document consisted of blank lines. To fix this unfathomable problem, I created a google sheet and shared emailed the URL to the group.
As I write this I realize the folly of trying to reach everyone on their terms. The fact is, I don’t want to get a fancy phone and spend the day staring at text messages. Nor do I want to check my facebook as frequently as I do my email. So for now, I’ll answer texts with a phone call or text them back a default “Please call me” and handle email and facebook the same as always. As for sharing spreadsheets and other information, I honestly don’t know what method will work for everyone.
Communication has never been this difficult and I fear things are only going to get worse. It anyone has an idea about eliminating the frustration from modern communication, please leave a comment. Or call me, or email me, or…
Once there was a frog that lived in a well. Ever since he was a smidgeon of a tadpole, all he knew of the world came from the well’s mouth a hundred feet over his head. In his experience, the world was the sky and whatever else might happen to fly over, peer down, or fall into the well.
One day, a turtle wandered by and seeing the little frog, began to tell him about the wonders of the sea. “The sea? Hah! It’s paradise in here. Nothing can be better than this well. Why don’t you come down and share my joy?” The turtle pushed his head into the small opening couldn’t get his shell to fit so he said, “Why don’t you come to the sea instead?”
Twenty-one years ago, I married my soul mate, Bob Armantrout in Loveland, Colorado, the place where we had met and fell in love. Lucky to be born in the USA, we soon manifested our own gleaming version of the American dream. We bought a sporty black car and a little horse property and settled in.
Soon enough, our life didn’t look quite as shiny. Early every weekday Bob strapped himself into his forty minute commute to a stressful job he didn’t enjoy. After dark, he’d return and down a couple of white Russians before relaxing enough to eat dinner. Often he would confide that he had not taken so much as a bathroom break all day.
Meanwhile, I ran a little boarding business on our seven acres, working outside, riding with our neighbors and keeping house. I loved my life but complained, “I have the life, and you pay the price.” It galled me that Bob wasn’t there to share my happiness. This wasn’t what I’d signed up for, a perfect life at my husband’s expense.
The American dream felt like a trap and yet, we couldn’t imagine an alternative. My analogy at the time was that it was like being in a kitchen that had suddenly caught fire. We were panicked and confused and the only course of action that made any sense was to run out of the room.
It was a dream of the sea which finally woke us up. One morning, Bob and I both recounted similar dreams in which we were feeling trapped, when suddenly we noticed the ocean nearby. We had only to step out of our life onto the beach and we would be free.
So we sold or gave away everything, including the horse and hay truck and left the country. We weren’t going to be like the little frog trapped in a well, insisting that there wasn’t any more to life than what we had experienced. Instead, we went off in search of a new perspective.
Here’s how I think the fable should end: Said the frog to the turtle, “I will go to the sea with you if only I can figure out how to climb out of this well.” With that, the turtle went and got a long rope and gripping one end in his strong beak, threw the rest down the well. The little frog wrapped his little webbed feet around the rope and the turtle pulled until he made it to the mouth of the well. Then, together the two new friends went off in search of the sea.
Nana creating a new garden, circa 1920
I’ve been busy “Nanafesting” all week. That’s what we call it when we “manifest Nana,” usually in the kitchen. Seems like I’ve been cooking all week. I baked a cake for Jason’s birthday, made twenty sandwiches for Alisa’s moving party and five dozen chocolate chip cookies for Geoff’s birthday.
No, they weren’t as good as your cookies. No cookies ever could be. I’m still kicking myself for not paying better attention when you taught me how to make those extraordinary cookies. I could have at least written down the recipe!
For one thing, I’m not using butter these days. Was it sweet or salted butter that you used? Was the right kind of day rainy or dry? Did you use all brown sugar or half brown and half white? I do remember how important it is to cool the cookie sheet between baking, though. I can picture you putting it outside the back door on a cold day for a few minutes.
At any rate, it’s the thought that counts and my cookies were well received. The target of my affections felt suitably honored and the cookie plate was soon empty.
You would love it here. Our neighbors and co-workers are pulsing with good energy and generous to a fault. Bob and I do our best to keep everyone fed and happy and all their problems solved. It’s a lot like your neighborhood, the one where friends dropped by with garden produce or cake, where people had time for each other and shared the burden of life’s challenges.
Jason and Haruka left for Dallas yesterday, gifting us twelve pounds of tomatoes which I’ll be turning into sauce. I haven’t forgotten your sauce secrets; red wine, Italian sausage and beef stock, only I use vegan sausage and beef broth. Bob brought in a bucket of peppers, so I’ll be adding five pounds of green bell peppers. I’ve even got some celery to throw in!
I’ll use the sauce in baked ziti which I’ll bring to the Biofarm CSA dinner on Tuesday. CSA stands for Community Supported Agriculture. Piedmont Biofarm is one of our tenants at work and we get a share of their vegetables every week. It’s fun to take tomatoes from one farm (and garden peppers), turn them into sauce and share it with another farm. We like to keep it moving, spreading the wealth as it were. Surely we don’t have monetary wealth, but food and comfort are the real currency of life, and that we have in spades.
Sarah, Joe and the moving crew after unloading the outhouse
Alisa, her husband Chris and their three kids and extended family Sarah and Joe are a great addition to the ‘hood. They brought all kinds of animals too – dogs, chickens, rabbits, parrots and pigs! They’ve got a back-to-basics mindset which echoes yours. They even brought an outhouse. I know, I can hear you saying, “That’s taking things a little too far.” And they have big gardening plans for their new nine acre property.
In fact, most of our friends grow some of their vegetables out back. Back yard gardens skipped a generation or two but are now returning. It’s a good trend.
Well, thank you for teaching me how to be a good neighbor. What’s new in your world? I hope you are happy up there in heaven with Jesus, heh heh…
I imagine every small town has their Josie, the woman (or man) who benevolently staffs the window at the post office, who recognizes everyone with unreserved kindness. Josie never hurries. Her speech syrupy, she savors each and every vowel.
Thirty-five years ago my economics teacher shocked the class by observing that “Death is nature’s way of telling you to slow down.” I’ve come to regard Josie as a less drastic reminder to take it easy. The line can be sixteen deep, but Josie takes her time. I start out at the end, fidgeting impatiently and eventually surrender to the lull in my needlessly hurried day. By the time I reach Josie, with her gentle, open face I’m tempted to ask her about her lilacs. She helps me put time into perspective.
The other day I was at Pittsboro Feed, paying for a bale of wheat straw and I overheard Christine telling another customer, “Josie’s got chickens, you can get them from her. Do you know Josie? She works the window at the post office. Stop in and she’ll get you fixed up.”
One of the things I dislike about living in the U.S. is how rushed I feel here. It’s part of our culture to be too busy for chit chat, too busy to wait in line. It’s not as bad down South here in the intimate ambiance of Pittsboro, but palpable nevertheless. “What if we lived in Boston?” Bob asks, reminding me to count my blessings.
Last night I read the following in Alexandra Fuller’s latest book, “Leaving Before the Rains Come.”
Time was the first thing I noticed about the United States. There seemed to be so little of it, and its unaccustomed short supply panicked me in the grocery checkout lines, during meals, and at traffic lights. I fumbled with my checkbook, I was unsure how to use credit card readers, I sat a beat too long at the intersection when red changed to green. I found time was jealously guarded too, as if to share any of it, or to take up someone else’s allocation, was the greatest crime. Ironically, it seemed obvious that most Americans had more time than almost any other humans in the history of the earth; they lived longer and more luxurious lives than had ever been lived before. And yet instead of slowing down to fill up all the space of their extra years, they sped up and up and up.
In Africa, we filled up all available time busily doing not much, and then we wasted the rest. We didn’t bother trying to hoard what could not be safeguarded, restrained, and stored.
Alexandra Fuller’s words fit my reality to a tee. Africa is full of Josies. The hardest thing about moving back to the States from Africa is trying to keep up with the snappier pace. Like Alexandra, I fumble in check out lines.
Those who buck the hurry up trend are regarded with annoyance and suppressed admiration. We’re jealous I think, of the people who refuse to scurry. This passage from “Horse Heaven” written by Jane Smiley 2000 has been stuck in my mind for years.
Once, when Rosalind Maybrick was still Rosie Wilson from Appleton, Wisconsin, on a school trip to New York City, she had seen a sight that changed her life….That was when things began to go wrong. The stroller caught something and began to fold. They boy began to cry. The driver opened the door and shouted angrily. “You gonna get off, lady? I got traffic here.”
The woman was magnificent. She adjusted her coat and her gloves before doing anything else. Then she righted the stroller. Then she picked up the boy. She adjusted her purse on her shoulder. Then she picked up the stroller. Then, very deliberately, holding up traffic all over Manhattan, she lowered herself and her things down the steps, pausing before stepping down onto the curb. As the bus pulled away, Rosie looked back and saw the women serenely strap the boy, who was no longer crying, into the stroller, then hand him a banana from her purse, then begin her promenade down the sidewalk. It was a riveting sight. She said to Mary, “Did you see that?”
“What?” replied Mary.
“God she was rude,” said Mary.
And from that Rosalind knew that Mary would live the rest of her life in the Midwest, which she did.
Rosalind saw that, if you had enough self-possession, you could reconnoiter, plan ahead, take your time. It went beyond being careful. Being careful was something you did if you were in a rush. If you were self-possessed, you never had to be in a rush.
On Friday, I popped in to check my mail. Josie stood at the counter without any customers. “Hey Josie, did you manage to get your hay up before it rained the other day?” I asked. “Yep” she said with a smile, “the rain kept missing us for awhile there.” A woman appeared with a package and I motioned for her to step up, “We’re just chatting,” I said. The woman smiled and said, “Josie’s great for that, isn’t she?”
As if we needed one more reason to boycott factory-farmed animal products, here comes another horror story. It all started earlier this year when the Department of Agriculture began issuing warnings to the poultry industry. H5N2 was knocking wild birds out of the sky, birds sick with highly pathogenic avian influenza. Within a few months, outbreaks began occurring in domesticated flocks.
In Iowa, avian flu spread wildly through tightly packed egg factories, prompting them to declare a state of emergency. Similar stories soon poured across the Midwest. In April, Minnesota lost 7% of its turkey production. To date close to 50 million birds have died of the flu or were killed to staunch the epidemic.
This is horrible on several levels. Egg consumers, especially bakeries and breakfast cafes are taking a hard hit as the price of eggs doubles. International exporters are losing money due to poultry bans from a dozen countries. U.S. Poultry farmers are starting over after being only partially compensated for the lost and culled birds. USDA officials are scrambling to determine how the disease is spread and there are murmurs of fear should the flu manage to jump species and begin infecting humans.
Not to mention the birds themselves; suffering and being put to death. No wait, that’s nothing new for them. The life of animals in Confined Animal Feeding Operations is so bad, that “premature” death is likely a blessing.
Bottom line, cramming thousands of animals into tight spaces is a recipe for disaster. To survive the stress of their environment, they are fed antibiotics and other unnatural fare. One whiff of virus and their immune systems succumb. This is no way to keep animals and a bad way to feed human beings.
Continue reading 50 Million Casualties – Bird Flu Comes a Calling
Sometimes a news story piques your interest and you have to dig around a little. On my (ten minute) commute from work the other day, I heard an NPR story about a rise in heroin use sparked by prescription drugs. From meds to needles in 3, 2, 1…
Prescription drugs have long been a cleverly disguised problem, endorsed by the feds, enthusiastically promoted by their manufacturers and embraced by the public. Modern humans trust their doctors and pharmacists with childlike innocence. However, there is mounting evidence that “asking your doctor” may not be the safest path. In fact, your helpful little pain meds may lead you straight into heroin addiction.
Here’s the scene: you have experienced a painful recovery from an ugly mishap or life-saving surgery. Your prescription for Oxycontin is a god-send but sadly, you are left with persistent residual pain. Or, more likely, you are now chemically addicted and your doctor has moved on, denying you further refills. At this point, you will do anything to get another script.
As I dug around, I found one story about a woman who went so far as to have some of her teeth pulled to get more painkillers. Another documents the 5% decrease in emergency room traffic after they began flagging repeat offenders and denying them new prescriptions. Apparently, desperate addicts were showing up with fake symptoms, seeking medication.
But for all these med-dependant folks there is another route, one that is increasingly being explored by oxycontin/oxycodone addicts – heroin. No longer able to afford your med of choice or maybe unable to convince your doctor to continue scrawling their name on that coveted piece of paper, you look for an alternative. At 1/10th the price and readily available without the hassle of faking a migraine in the emergency room or having a molar pulled, heroin is an easy choice.
Alarmingly, heroin deaths are on the rise, tripling in just three years. With the increase is a shift in user profile from fringe to mainstream, young to older. These days police officers, teachers and nurses are showing up at the detox centers. Or on stretchers in the autopsy queue.
How tempting it must be to blame the increase in heroin addiction on the legalization of marijuana. And predictable. Oh, that evil cannabis… On the other side of the fence, studies prove that marijuana “can be effective as a substitute for treating opioid addicts and preventing overdoses.”
After looking at all these stories, one statistic unites them all – both opioid and heroin addiction are on the rise. You get to decide if there’s a connection. As for me, I’m letting pot off the hook.
NPR: Emergency Rooms Crack Down On Abusers Of Pain Pills
NPR: How Heroin Made Its Way From Rural Mexico To Small-Town America
CNN: Heroin deaths up for 3rd year in a row
Washington Post: The rate of heroin overdose deaths has nearly tripled in just three years
Newsweek: Prescription Drugs Have Pushed Heroin Into the Suburbs
The Independent: Marijuana, heroin and meth spreading into Colorado’s neighboring states after legalisation of cannabis
The Week: Can medical marijuana curb the heroin epidemic?
Damned squirrel on the bird feeder,” I thought as I got up to raid the refrigerator, “Always looking for easy calories.” Oopsy! Just like me.
You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I struggle with my weight. I’m a compulsive nibbler, a secret snacker; convinced that cold leftovers eaten over the sink have no calories. Like my father, I weigh myself every day, and like him I cut back on calories after slipping into the high zone. Unlike my dad, I graph my weight on an excel spreadsheet.
As a teenager, I morphed from Twiggy-esque 12-year-old to plump 14, but quickly lost 25 pounds after I started dating, placing myself back into the fashionable underweight zone. Since then, my weight has been a yo-yo of highs and lows. I dance on the high side of BMI Normal, seldom resting in the coveted under-21 range. Of late, I’ve been stuck in a five-pound spread.
It irks me that I so frequently sabatoge my desire to eat sensibly. It’s not about the pounds, it’s my chagrin when I realized I just eaten something I wasn’t even hungry for or worse, the queasy bloat of an overloaded stomach. I’m smarter than this, disciplined in every other area of my life, and yet I continually lose control when it comes to food.
Sure, sure – it’s understandable. Easy calories are everyone’s bugaboo. We’re genetically programmed to eat, and unprepared to deal with an endless buffet of rich food. My culture is lousy with food, it’s all around me and ridiculously affordable. You can’t walk into a room without some free treat staring you in the face. No one goes hungry in a country where the impoverished are obese.
“Better than Before” to the rescue! I just finished reading Gretchen Rubin’s chapter on loopholes and learned that I’m especially adept at “moral licensing” (I earned it), “lack of control” (I can’t help it) and “this doesn’t count” (cold leftovers, chips and dip, food no one saw me eat – you name it.) So much food, so many excuses! “My friend made this for me.” “It’s free.” “We’re celebrating.” “I’m in a restaurant.” “Everyone else is eating it.” “I skipped lunch.” “We’re on vacation.” “I’ve been working SO hard.” “Loosen up.” “I’m starving.”
My challenge is to spackle up those pesky loopholes by making it hard to do the wrong thing (padlock the refrigerator?) and easy to do the right thing (drink more water.) Other strategies include going outside before reaching for a snack, doing yoga before meals, and no desserts in the house, ever.
I raise a glass of water in a toast to my own resolve. Here’s to leaping over the cheap calorie trap. Here’s to mindful eating. Here’s to freedom from temptation, an end to squirrely behavior, and lowering my five-pound spread to the coveted 20 BMI zone.
As part of Self-Care month and inspired by Gretchen Rubin’s “Better than Before.” I decided to tackle the habit of staring at my laptop screen for hours at a time.
The first step was to get a feel for how many minutes, hours actually, I am tapped into my browser. This was easily done by opening my browser (I know!) and looking at history. Turned out I averaged four hours of screen time a day over the past week, a third of it after dinner.
“I’ll bet I can cut my screen time in half and still get my work done, keep up with my friends and read the news,” I said to myself.
Changing a habit always begins with a decision. I decided to stop using my computer after dinner by turning off my laptop before I ate.
The first evening, I glanced at my To Do list after shutting down my computer and nearly turned it back on when I saw the word “Write.” I wondered if I had enough willpower to open a document without also opening the browser. The little voice in my head chided my search for a loophole with “Screen time is screen time” and I left the laptop off.
That blog post would have to get written the old-fashioned way, with pen on paper. I started scribbling.
My father who is also a writer, told me years ago when I first began writing on a computer that he preferred to use his typewriter. It kept his mind sharp, he said, to have to think out what he wanted to say and write without editing.
I found myself feeling a little lost on my first day into my new habit. I actually had too much time on my hands. I wondered who I might be letting down by not checking my email at 8pm. I had gotten ready for bed, scoured the kitchen sink, taken out the compost, pulled some weeds and dead-headed the petunias. I flirted with laying in the hammock for a spell but thought it a bit too reckless. Besides, it was a chilly evening and I would have had to put on a pair of socks.
I’m optimistic about using my new-found time wisely. I believe my writing will improve and the weeds will suffer. The next step will be waiting an hour before turning my computer on in the morning. I may try writing in my journal while I sip my cocoa. Heck, I may even do a little reading.
I’ll let you know how it goes. But I’ll probably tell you to your face rather than post it on my facebook.