Storytelling

Began a new post writing a twice monthly online column for OdeWire.com. Who knows where I'm headed with this. Then again, as the saying goes, "how will I know what I think until I see what I say."

"We need storytellers to help us remember our errors and omissions. Sentinels to stand watch and to warn. And guardians to synthesize this wisdom, to pass it forward, and to speak on behalf of future generations who have the right to inherit clean air and water, arable soil and healthy food, too."

From my first post: Tell a New Story

Laying Track

Last night, my husband and I attempted to watch the cable news analysts debate the meaning of the Congressional debate over the federal debt ceiling. Before long, we turned off the television. And turned to gathering train tracks abandoned by our toddler. We couldn't stand to witness the cross talk. And then, ironically, began an exchange on another topic that, in hindsight, followed a similar dysfunctional pattern of crosstalk. Our impasse stemmed from my poor ability, at that hour, to focus. Or listen. Really listen. Across the differences in our own perspectives.

While in this heightened awareness of layered disconnects, I received an email about American Public Radio's Civil Conversations Project, which On Being's host, Krista Tippett, writes about here.

The Civil Conversations Project is a series of radio programs that respond to our collective disconnects, evidenced by events in Washington, in Oslo, throughout our shared, public spaces, even, in our private spaces with loved ones:

our political ways of speaking to each other, and about each other, have broken down.

This excerpt from Tibbett's blog about the Civil Conversations Project particularly struck me:

We have no prominent models, no public habits of navigating difference, that demonstrate what social healing would look like... We don't merely disagree; we demonize, making the bridging of gulfs between us unthinkable. And now we are watching this play itself out in the halls of Congress in an extreme and tragic way. So this summer we've pulled together our civil conversations of the past year as a well of cumulative wisdom. For the next six weeks, we'll offer them up side by side as a resource of ideas and tools for healing our fractured civic spaces. 

The first program, "Words that Shimmer," speaks with poet Elizabeth Alexander, who asks, "are we not of interest to each other?" "Don't we want to know one another?"

Later in the series, Tippett speaks with scholar and philospher, Anthony Appiah, who, as Tippett writes, studies the conditions leading toward "seemingly impossible social change." Appiah suggests that in times of debate we often seek agreement, but would be better served by "sidling up to difference." Tippett sumarizes his point quite eloquently. 

What we need more than agreement, he says, are simple habits of association with different others, encounters that breed familiarity. There is real social and even moral value to be had when we connect with others even on the most mundane topics of who we are and how we spend our days — whether it be soccer or football, shared hobbies or parenting. In fact, Anthony Appiah says, this kind of human exchange — as much a matter of presence as of words — is the old-fashioned meaning of the word "conversation."

In subsequent shows, Tibbett and her guests lay new track that lead toward alternate ways "to tell hard truths and redemptive stories, to sit with questions... to live forward together, even while holding passionate disagreements." 

Activist and ethicist Frances Kissling models how to live with difference by asking "what can I see that is good in the position of the other? What troubles me in my own position?"

Writer Terry Tempest Williams ponders what is vital about social struggle. She asks, "When have I changed, and why? What is the nature of my voice in the wider world? How do I use it?"

Sociologist Sherry Turkle, author of Alone Together, wonders, "What is served by having an always-on, always-on you, open-to-anyone-who-wants-to-reach-us-way of life?" What happens to civility when we our bodies are present, but our minds are plugged in elsewhere? How can we lead critical, informed and examined lives with our digital objects? (The picture, by the way, that accompanies this segment is particularly striking.)

Civil Rights leader and scholar Vincent Harding considers "is America possible?" through a conversation about history, hope and civility, and about democracy across difference.

Philospher and professor Anthony Appiah ponders, "what is it for one to have a life of significance?"

And, theologian Richard Mouw helps us probe our own thinking: "what is it about people like me that scare you so much? What is it about what you are advocating that worries me so much?"

I will be tuning in. And laying new track.  Join me, will you?

More about the Civil Conversations Project here.

Magic Beans

I'm here to report that we were saved by beans. Pole beans, to be exact.

After a day and a half of disgruntled toddler stunts, including floor art with markers, a rousing game of toss-the-baby-toys-behind-the-washing-machine, and related foul play, we already had cashed in the reserve patience banked from our recent vacation.

And then it was time for dinner, which was, as my toddler declared, "yuck"--a point neither my husband nor I could contest with straight faces.

The dish admittedly flopped on account of some overzealous additions. The end result was a sink stuffed with dishes and an unhinged, hungry toddler. And a tantrum of epic proportion--a spillover of pent up emotion that seemed, at the time, bottomless.

On a whim, my husband offered: "let's go pick Grandpa's beans," at which point, my toddler desisted, jammed his feet into his shoes and bolted for the door. His despair evaporated. Just. Like. That.

And did he ever pick beans. A box full of 'em. And when I asked whether he'd like to cook them, he gladly followed me inside, averting another wave of crises that could have stemmed from the usual "it's-time-to-go-in-dilemma."

In he marched, bean box cradled to chest. Up to the counter he climbed. Out came his knife.*

He cleaved and chopped and hacked. Then, into the boiling water went the bean parts.

And when they were barely tender, a quick rinse, a dash of pepper and salt, olive oil and vinegar. Down the hatch they disappeared, save for a few samples proudly handed out to all.

*     *     *

And this is how I came to appreciate all the more the genius of those working to get kids in the garden, like Alice Waters and the Edible Schoolyards she inspired. Or Sharon Lovejoy. Or the Growing Chefs program to name a few.

Much like the genius of Grandpa and Grandma, who planted these pole beans for us in the first place.

Much like the genius displayed by anyone who has ever broken ground and gotten little hands involved, a movement flourishing now as more people convert previously fallow land to grow food (see these links for more on the proliferation of community and urban gardening, the Food Not Lawns and Edible Estates projects, the rise of small-scale farmers farming other people's backyards, even farming of urban rooftops).

Getting kids into the garden surely yields more than teaching them about growing food. Or even knowing food. Or getting kids to fill their bellies with good food.

There's something even more basic at work. Something with a direct line to their emotional and social well-being. Though I know not how to name or measure or quantify it, yet. (In my attempt to explore this question, I stumbled on an interesting exchange in The Atlantic about assessing the value of school gardens and kitchen classrooms.)

As for cranky toddlers, I'm left wondering what else these beans can do.

*     *    *

We tumbled into bed grateful that, of all things, getting to the garden righted what felt wrong to him, gave him a place to dispense and redirect the static that accumulated in him over the course of a busy day. (And that he ate something green.)

Earlier that night, for story time, he chose Jon J. Muth's retelling of Stone Soup, where a trio of monks hoodwinked alienated community members into making vegetable soup together. When we reached the part where everyone contributes to the pot, he announced he'd like to add beans.

And also, poop. At which point, I realized that the magic had run its course.




*By knife, I'm referring to a beat-up blue plastic knife my Mom gave me a decade ago. It was billed as safe for the Teflon pans I do not own, so it was converted into a "training knife" for little fingers.

Strawberry Fields Forever

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. 

A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. 

"A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment to pause, savor and remember." 

Inspired by Amanda Soule.

Off for an adventure. Enjoy the start of July!

Staying Connected

On the days I actually make it to a desk, this is my begin-the-day-ritual: I scan the headlines at Environmental Health News.

It's my homepage. My home base. My life line--one essential way I stay plugged into what's happening around the world. How I stay plugged into the hurry-up-and-wait-world of environmental health science and policy. Scanning the top stories at EHN helps me transition from launching littles into their days with full bellies. And appropriate attire.

There, I can scan the top news and editorials on issues related to health, justice and the environment. And remember why I've plunked myself into the middle of this maelstrom. Why being in the midst of all these issues is among the most important places a mother could be.

Here, too, one can read up on the latest science that trained EHN fellows translate for those of us who still break a sweat when too many numbers follow decimal points, or when acronyms and chemical names--like 2,2',3,3',4,4',5,5',6,6'-Decabromodiphenyl ether (BDE-209) (see what I mean?)-- outnumber familiar words. The EHN fellows take the latest research and parse it into: what you need to know; what the researchers did; what they found; and what it means. And they use standard language to do so. Language that this beleaguered mother only three sips into a blessed cup of coffee can read.

*     *     *

Today, the headline that reached across the screen and rattled me was this one. About Japan issuing radiation detectors to pregnant women and children who live near the Fukushima Nuclear Power Plant.

About 300,000 children and pregnant women in Fukushima Prefecture will get dosimeters to monitor their exposure to radiation spewed from the hobbled Fukushima No. 1 nuclear power plant.

For some time, I've been drawn to the science of monitoring bodies in an era when we, as a society, are growing more attuned to the fluid relationship between what's around us and what's in us. How, as Sandra Steingraber has written so eloquently, our bodies are living scrolls, telling the history of where and how we've lived.

Photo:  Rebecca Gasior Altman (2007)
Body casts of pregnant women symbolizing implications of exposures for future generations. 

I'd root myself among the camp that believe people have the right-to-know about what's in their bodies, despite all the attendant uncertainties about what it means to know.

Or, for that matter, what's in their food. My friend, Carolyn Raffensperger at the Science and Environmental Health Network, once told me about the radiation detectors issued to women who foraged for food near Chernobyl.

But I often wonder about what it feels like to know. Or to submit to knowing.

I recently came across these striking photos and personal account posted last March by National Geographic photographer, Karen Kasmauski. As she came to find out, Kasmauski was contaminated with the legacy of Chernobyl fallout while sharing traditional foods on assignment, she thinks, in Sweden. Herein, she describes the click--click-clicking of geiger counters, the experience of undergoing whole body scans, the handing down of an unknown destiny:

“Because you are contaminated,” he replied. “You’re registering cesium-137 in your whole body count. The signature of the isotope is from Chernobyl.”

And then the waiting. And not knowing. "Watchful waiting," I've heard it called.  Of "Living with Radiation."All-the-while realizing the possibility of never knowing what the numbers might mean. Of perhaps society never knowing, as Kasmauski wrote, the "long-term consequences and hidden costs of nuclear power."

*     *     *

So, this morning, I'm thinking about those parents who, like me, packed bags for their kids to go off to school or to camp or to a friend or relative's. And like me, they might have packed extra socks and a snack. But unlike me, they also slipped in their child's radiation detector.

What must this feel like?

Is there relief in being able to check, to have access to a number? Does that relief, at some point, give way to an uneasy mix of questions that have only partial answers: for what do these numbers mean, and how, as a parent, to respond?

Epigraph

"Civilization's values remain rooted in philosophies, religious traditions, and ethical frameworks devised many centuries ago. Even our economic system, capitalism, is a half millennium old. So our daily dealings are still heavily influenced by ideas that were firmly set before anyone knew the world was round. In many ways, they reflect how we understood the world when we didn't understand the world at all. Our economic, religious and ethical institutions ride antique notions too narrow to freight what we've learned about how life works on our sparkle dot of diamond dust in the space. These institutions resist change; to last this long, they had to. But they lack mechanisms for incorporating discoveries about how life operates. So they haven't assimilated the last century's breakthroughs: that all life is related by lineage, by flows of energy, by cycles of water, carbon, nitrogen and such; that resources are finite, and creatures fragile... In important ways, they poorly correspond or respond to a changing world... [And] though we are fearless about revolutionizing technologies, we cling to concepts that no longer reflect realities."

Carl Safina (2010 The View from Lazy Point, pp. 15-16) 

I find this true on many levels, from the institutional to the individual. At least for me, as I bumble my way through parenting young children or putting food on the table, and stumble across the same themes in the study of health, society and the environment. To the Scratch is one space to explore the interface between old and emerging patterns of being in the world, whether personal or political. Or both.

To the Scratch

A scratch. A mark or line drawn to signify a starting place. A place to start. To start from the scratch is to start from a beginning. I imagine many possible beginnings. 

To reverse course, and begin again despite the outcomes of previous attempts. 

A starting place where one might draw advantage from previous experience or wisdom. Or, one might not. 

 *     *     *

“There was once a village along a river. The people who lived there were very kind. These residents, according to parable, began noticing increasing numbers of drowning people caught in the river’s swift current. And so they went to work devising ever more elaborate technologies to resuscitate them. So preoccupied were these heroic villagers with rescue and treatment that they never thought to look upstream to see who was pushing the victims in.”

 Sandra Steingraber from Living Downstream (2010 De Capo Press)  

 *     *     *

"Food is never just food. It's also a way at getting at something else: who we are, who we have been, and who we want to be." 

Molly Wizenberg (2009 A Homemade Life, p. 2)