Illness and ebay

I'm sick.

I hate being sick. More than I hate being sick, I hate being sick and then having to deal with the anonymity of the internet.

I haven't been sick in a long time and honestly, I am sure it is because I gave up wheat... until a few weeks ago. We've been without a kitchen for five weeks as Kwok and his brother are re-doing it and I've eaten a lot of (vegan) junk, including wheat products. 'Lo and behold: sick.

Previously, I've read that people who have (had) thyroid cancer or thyroid disorders (tick both boxes for me, please) can often have problems with wheat. So I gave it up last January... and slipped back into eating it this January and then bam! Cold city. I can't sleep properly, my nose is stuffed, my ears hurt, and my throat is in tantrums--bad stuff, basically.

Then, last night, I had not one, but two problems on ebay--one with a seller and one with a buyer. The one with the seller may actually yet be resolved; it seems to have been more of a communication problem than anything. The one with the buyer, I feel is unlikely to be resolved. (I feel ridiculous writing about this on my blog.)

Basically, I listed a dishwasher on an auction for .99p. I also listed said dishwasher for free on gumtree when there were no bids. The dishwasher quickly was given away via gumtree and I swear I deleted the listing on ebay. All I can think is that maybe I didn't press a confirm button? (Tense change approaching.) Anyway, a woman in Abingdon buys it and then is disappointed when it is no longer available. I'm horrified that the listing was still up at all--apologize and try to cancel the transaction, which she won't do--and in my impression, basically won't do so she can leave me lousy feedback (the first negative feedback I have ever received)... and here is the thing about the internet and particularly ebay, it is anonymous so people don't see the people beyond the screen.... and to be honest, even worse, it is in southern England. I'm sorry, and this may cause offence, but there is something about the lack of an identity, or the transience of the area, which seems to not only make people insular, but the whole culture a bit cold and seemingly rude.

I talked about this with some mancunians (as in, from Manchester) at a party recently. Something about Oxfordshire is difficult. I'm not saying this wouldn't have happened in the States--no, it definitely does--I'm just saying that even in-person there is something out-of-whack on the human compassion spectrum in this part of the world. Oxfordshire bus drivers, for whatever reason, seem particularly disgruntled. Anyway...

I have felt the sharp sting of the anonymity whip three times online (which probably makes lucky): once when someone left a nasty comment about a vegan slam poem I did; another time on ebay when a seller (who claimed to be a warlock) literally threatened me for giving him neutral feedback for slow shipping, and then now, when this upset woman lashes out with feedback--and she has a right to be disappointed--and yes even to leave the feedback; yet, I still feel face-to-face interactions change things.

Even worse: her name is Sophie... and I love that name... it means wisdom.

The frightening thing about ebay is that I have her address and she has mine--including email addresses. There was part of me that wanted to add her email address to a spam bot. The rest of me was horrified that the thought went through my mind--very unbecoming for a yoga teacher. Nonetheless, I am human and the upside is that I have the ability to recognize my thoughts and even accept the ugly ones as part of the human experience (without acting on them!).

At the youth centre, we're constantly keeping the kids in-check about internet-bullying, but they do it all the time. (I was bullied online once as a child; I still remember the shame of it--a few girls who has previously been my friends sent me emails pretending to be the boy I liked. Being a fat kid made the situation even worse, or so I felt at the time.) I see these twelve-year-olds at club saying nasty things to other kids online--things they would never say in person--but more frighteningly, these are kids they know. They go to school with them and then by night, torture them through facebook messages or IMs. The ability of kids to start rumors is a hundred-times worse than when I was growing up in the dawn of the internet. Now they can bully through multiple social media platforms as well as things like BBM (Blackberry Messenger) and other IMing services.

What scares me most about all of this--the young people, ebay, the internet anonymity issue in general--is it speaks to something greater--whether it is an intrinsic meanness and lack of empathy in humans or whether it is a more immediate, cultural concern regarding teaching people compassion and self-respect, I'm not sure. It is probably a bit of both, but either way, it worries me.

Many other expats in the UK and I speak of the shock we encountered at the blatant disrespect young people have for adults and especially teachers--and yet, I have spent the majority of my young adult life (hey- I'm still under thirty) in the UK, so maybe my version of young people interacting with adults in northern Michigan is not as it once was. I may soon find out, as my mother, previously a teacher and an assistant principal at a middle school is coming for ten days and she is going to come to the youth club with me. I'll be curious to see her response and how she handles it when kids take the piss out of her or even worse, me to her. The rules of respect and discipline I knew as a kid don't seem to apply. (Wow, I feel like an old granny saying that.)

*****On a future post, I need to write about the idea of a highly-sensitive person, which  my friend Kate told me about last night. It may be a great way to re-frame how I think of myself and the way I feel pulled down by even small things like upsetting someone on ebay.*****

Anyway, it hasn't been the best morning, but it is beautiful outside; I have a lovely husband and pet-children and we do good work. We are looked after by the universe and in moments like this, when I question humanity in general, I have the opportunity to meditate, to connect to a greater source and let go of all that bothers me....

So, off to meditate with a stuffy nose.

Love, love, love--and remember, if you find yourself falling into the internet anonymity trap, ask how you would like to be treated, or even better, ask how you would like your best friend to be treated.

Chickens in the Rain

We were told by the rescue team from BHWT that ex-battery hens, having never seen sunlight or experienced walking on grass, will be confused about simple things... like taking shelter.

Today there has been mild rainfall and all four of my chickens have largely stayed outside in it. I was worried and wondered if I should put them in their coop. Nonetheless, to my surprise, the chickens did take shelter under their coop (it is raised), so largely were only experiencing the rain when they ventured further into the run, or when the wind swept the rain against their sides. Yet, as an inexperienced hen-owner, I took to the internet. (It is so nice to have regular, fast internet access again!)

Apparently, there are myths about chickens not tolerating the rain. Yes, if they stayed soaked for days, this would be problematic, but hanging out in the rain and then going into a warm coop to dry off at night is perfectly acceptable. I was really pleased with this article, in which the blogger interviews a chicken doctor on the subject.

Meanwhile, it is Christmas Eve and my Kwok and his brother Kwok Wai have gone to the hardware store (I've lost count as to how many times we have been to B&Q this month). Josephine is still bullying and despite making FIVE food stations for the hens today, she is still, well, a bit of a bitch to the others. As tomorrow is Christmas and we will be away most of the daylight hours, I will be keeping the hens "cooped up" as a fox could easily get into their run and wreck havoc. I'm worried that Josephine is going to be horrible to the other birds (as she was when I found them this morning), so we're temporarily converting the old Wendy (play) house left by the previous owners. I plan to eventually tear this apart and either use the wood for fires or recycle the wood in some kind of way. However, today, Kwok and Kwok Wai or going to put plywood partially over the windows, and cover the rest with chicken wire (so that there is a bit of a vent and light). Then I'm going to place straw and wood chips in there, (as well as food and water, of course) and place Josephine in the converted playhouse tomorrow so that she is unable to bully the others in the coop while we are away.

According to all the chicken sources I've read, one shouldn't remove the victim(s) of the bully, but the bully herself. This will knock some of her confidence, as well as bolster the confidence of the others. According to the BHWT, in time, the bully will recognize that there is enough food, water and space for everyone--an alien concept to these industrial birds who have been kept in horrendous conditions.

On a different note, speaking of recycling or upcycling, I'm pretty proud of the shelves I just built. Yes. Me. I built them... with a bit of supervision from my brother-in-law. Last month, I purchased four old drum shells on ebay, all from the same set... for a grand total of fifteen quid. Woo! Then, I organized the shells on the floor into the pattern I wanted for the bookshelves, then I wielded a drill, utilized some screws, washers and nuts and voila! You have rock 'n' roll bookshelves. (All credit to my brother-in-law when the go on the wall, however, as he is fixing them there for me!)

I'm wearing sparkly gold leg warmers that look really silly in this light as well as a giant sweater....

All for now... Love, love, love!

Chicken Care: Day 2

I'm probably a more overprotective pet-owner than most.... In fact, I was once told that it is probably a good thing that I don't want children, as I would make myself crazy with anxiety.

I checked on the chickens about eight times today... and moved their food around, added an extra water dish, removed the bully from the other three temporarily, and even was able to hold one of the girls in my arms for a spell.

I also made a good few trips around the garden with Elu on a leash, slowly trying to teach him that the hens are friends, and if not friends, well, they're mine and he cannot have (eat) them. (Benji has yet to notice the hens ever appeared, and Janie, forced to notice by me, turned up her ears to listen to them and then ran back to the house.)

Josephine is still bullying the others. She tries to keep them away from food and water. Again, I've read this is normal, but it is distressing to witness.

I had no intention of placing food in the coop, but I did place a dish in there for the three girls being bullied. Myfanwy ate. A lot. Gertrude ate some... and Stella? I'm worried about Stella. She seems to close her eyes regularly whereas the others are alert, even if a bit frightened. She hides in one of the nest boxes and seems to draw comfort from Myfanwy being near.

Only Josephine--brave, bully Josephine--ate more than the ex-battery crumb recommended. These poor girls have never seen real food... and despite trying to pepper their food with nourishing seaweed, garlic and mint, the other three girls wouldn't touch the food until I swapped it out for plain crumb. Josephine, however, ate the mixture of crumb plus goodness, pecked through the grass, and even ate some of the scrambled egg I made for her.

Yes. Egg.

Suddenly you think, wait... Julie and Kwok are vegans. Veeeeeegans! What are they going to do with eggs? And why the hell did they get chickens? 

The answers for these questions are as follows: Yes, Kwok and I are vegans and have no intention of eating the eggs. However, IF (and only if), my body suddenly craves egg (which it oddly seems to do in the really hot weeks of the summertime,) I would consider eating the eggs as these are my hens and I love them and know that they are receiving the best possible care.

Now, what are we doing with the eggs? Well, most farm sanctuaries hard boil or scramble the eggs and then feed them back to the hens. This is done as industry-laying hens are generally deficient in many much-needed nutrients, many of which go straight into their eggs. So, feeding the eggs back to them is a good option... except when they won't eat them... as in my case today. They have no idea what food is... only Josephine seems to have a brave palette. Kwok and I will use the shells in compost, and it may be that we do sell a few of the eggs to friends and colleagues (which will raise a lot of vegan eyebrows), but at the end of the day, once the hens are healthy and completely nourished, selling their eggs will help us to pay for their very high-quality food (including organic, raw apple cider vinegar in their water, which they do seem to drink!).

Finally, we got chickens because it is the first step to starting our much desired farm sanctuary. Also, like all creatures, they deserve happiness, freedom from fear and freedom to express their natural behaviors. We  believe in being compassionate toward all creatures and helping those we can.... After having the girls only one day, I can say I am so surprised by how much I love them already. For a long time, I thought of this as the right thing to do--the first step. The next step could be rescued goats... and later, when we get some land, bigger "and better" things like cows, pigs and horses.... Previously, I never really "got" birds. People talked about how much they loved their hens and how they were like pets... and I kind of thought, "Uh. Cool." But I didn't get it. Until today.

Each girl has her own beautiful personality and as previously noted, each girl, like all animals, has a right to live free from the horrors placed upon them inside the industrial farming industry. The girls laid three eggs today. Kwok held up the first one and said, "All that... for this." Meaning: All the pain and horrendous suffering on such an appalling scale for that, an egg.

I will post pictures below of the girls, and what you should know is that these girls were considered "not that bad" compared to many who have been through the factory farming system. You will see that they have many bald patches and that their feathers are in poor condition at best. They are still scared, but we will persevere and hopefully they will soon know that they are loved.

Love, love, love to all!

 

 

 

 

 

Myfanwy (Stella in the background) - Myfanwy probably the healthiest of the bunch by far.

Josephine - you can see how poorly her feathers are.

Gertrude

A not-so-great picture of me, but happy to be with Gertrude.

New Home, New Hens

I haven't updated much this autumn... and admittedly, my updating as been a bit patchy all year.

The thing I haven't written on this blog in fear of jinxing it is that Kwok and I bought a house (in Britain). We bought a beautiful south-facing home, full of light, that is all ours. (Well, we tell ourselves that it is all ours, but really, we have learned that the pets seem to own everything and we simply work for them.)

We moved into our home at the end of November and it will take years to get it just right... to get the garden to the place we would like to see it, to remodel certain rooms... but overall, it is amazing--such an incredible blessing. The home speaks to who we are aesthetically as well. It was built in 1950--a gift from Sweden after World War II--only one of a few hundred houses included in this gift (most are in Yorkshire and Scotland), and it is unique--not a traditional British house, but one on which we can put our mark. It isn't an Earthship (my property dream), but it is an incredible start.

With this blessing of the house came an abundant garden (backyard), where we can have a wood shed, a normal shed, a greenhouse, a pond, a chicken coop, and much, much more.

Did you catch the part about the chicken coop?

Today marks the first step I take in fulfilling my dream of owning and running my own farm sanctuary. Today is the day Myfanwy, Gertrude, Stella and Josephine entered my life.

Myfanwy (Welsh name - think Little Britain), Gertrude, Stella and Josephine are 18-month-old hens, now called ex-battery hens, meaning these sweet little hens who were on their way to slaughter (as hens in this industry are killed very, very young) were rescued by the British Hen Welfare Trust (BHWT) and then by us. These girls have never before seen sunlight, felt rain, or even taken a breath of fresh air--and now they have experienced all these things and will continue to do so until their last remaining breath. The fear that they experienced in the egg-laying industrial farm? Vanished. They are the lucky ones. They are the saved from the cruel and callous industry.

Today, these girls have a new coop full of soft wood shavings and sterilized barley hay, as well as a long run on which they can move about on fresh grass, peck in the dirt and exhibit natural behaviours  Essentially? They have room to be hens.

As I noted on facebook, part of being a hen is being part of a pecking order, a very real and true thing. According to the BHWT, ex-battery hens will often exhibit behaviours of this dominance dance within the first few hours of arrival. As for guessing who would be top hen, I was completely wrong....

In terms of appearance, all the hens look a bit sad. I'm not anthropomorphizing. Their feathers barely exist; some of them have patches of bald skin, and they've all been debeaked (without anaesthetic). Two of them are slightly larger and two of them are small, but overall, they are in no way healthy hens. Of course, I have already been on the case, and I've supplemented their ex-battery feed with seawood, garlic, mint, and apple cider vinegar. Health is soon to come for these girls.

We named the hens as initially saw them: Myfanwy is the largest of the hens and she is the one that most frightened me every time I had to pick her up. Stella is the second largest and I have yet to decipher her personality. Gertrude is mild in temperament and she is the second smallest. And then... then there is Josephine, who is the saddest-looking of the four, as well as the smallest. Initially, she seemed the most frightened of the bunch when I pulled her from the crate and put her in the chicken coop... and yet, it is Josephine now who has clearly asserted her authority over the others. In fact, it is also Josephine who seems to be the most clever.

I'm already proud of my hens. Poor Gertrude had to be the guinea pig as she is the easiest to handle. I put her on the ramp from the coop to the run first... and then placed her directly in the run. She had no friends to join her over the first twenty minutes, as the others were hiding out in the nest boxes and I was unable to catch them. Nonetheless, it was bold Josephine who made the first steps toward the light and down the ramp . Kwok and I watched her make tentative steps down, listening to every sound along the way, cocking her head, eyeing us, eyeing the trees, eyeing everything in sight. This is the first they have heard sounds of other birds, sounds of rain, dogs barking, wind in the trees, people speaking kindly to them. Over the course of the afternoon, I had the pleasure of watching all four birds learn that the ramp was a walk to grassy pleasures, as well as a safety line back to the shelter of the coop.

Alternatively, I also had the displeasure of watching Josephine bully every single one of them--literally becoming some kind of avian kung fu legend as she grabbed onto poor Gertrude's feathers with the remains of her beak and then swung herself upward, kicking poor Gertrude in the ass. So far I've read... this is normal.

Other lessons of rescuing ex-industry hens is that they don't know much yet: fear or how to shelter themselves or put themselves to bed. As dusk began to turn to night, I had to place three of the four back inside the coop, each cooing and clucking me a little song as I did so.

Tonight there was also the task of acclimating Elu to the fact that prey now lives in his garden.... I am manifesting that this road will not be predictably long, but painless (mainly for the birds) and short.

So, this is the first day of hen ownership.... I look forward to opening the door to their coop tomorrow, so that they may run down the ramp and discover morning dew for the first time.

Blessings for all creatures of this beautiful Earth!

How Would Your Pets Vote?

Have you ever wondered how your pets would vote? Anthropomorphized them and personified them until you knew what kind of bumper sticker they would have on the back of a car? What kind of yard sign they would have out front? I have. And given that it is election day, it is time for the results. (NB: This is not a post about animal rights and how to vote for the candidates that will protect the environment and work for those so often unable to speak for themselves. This is a post of sheer frivolity... and fun.)

So. We have three dogs... and a cat... an evil cat. He is not the kind of cat that would try to take over the world in a Dr. Evil kind of way, more like the kind of cat that would nip your calf as you walked into one of Dr. Evil's death traps--the kind that would give you an extra kick in the pants before you die.

The three dogs are nicer.

Firstly, there is Benji, who will be seventeen-years-old in eight days. This puts him in the geriatric voting category.

Huh? What did you say?

Then, there is Janie, the sweet little Boston Terrier, also known as my daughter-dog. She will be eight-years-old on Christmas Eve. This makes her a middle-aged voter.

Hi, I'm Janie.

Finally, there is Elu--a Tibetan Spaniel more obsessed with himself than Kayne West. A total diva.. and five-years-old.  According to DogBreedInfo.com, this makes Elu about 36-years-old.

Elu!

Oh yeah. And here's Vian (the cat).

I'll probably try to kill you at some point--right after I snuggle you just so you least suspect it .

Over the years, I've given too much thought to my dogs' political leanings and aspirations. Yes, aspirations. I have convinced myself that Elu is the kind of dog that would work in Washington (D.C.). He would wear high-class business suits, work himself senseless and drink vintage red wine. He would leave wine stains on expensive satin sofas and then blame the cleaning lady. He would also be a gay Republican. Me, being his mother, would never understand this and therefore, keep quiet and occasionally pay for his dry-cleaning to proffer signs that I still love him and support him and his love of Armani. Despite being British-born of Tibetan ancestry, Elu would live and die for the United States. In fact, he wanted me to show you this:

Janie, on the other hand (paw), is Elu's unassuming, often shy (non-biological) sister. Janie could live in Washington... but she'd probably be a secretary (not as "of state"). She would also likely be utterly non-partisan and on the day her boss is up for re-election, she would probably forget and opt for a nap.

ZZZzzzzz.

Then there is Benji... and as Benji is British-born of mixed ancestry, reared by a Spanish woman for the first fifteen years of his life, I'm pretty sure Benji would not care much about the US elections... but if given the opportunity to vote, he would probably be done for voter fraud as he wouldn't be able to hear the polling station clerk ask him for his ID. Instead, he would probably grumble at her and push his way forward while barking at a young, exuberant first-time, eighteen-year-old voter. After being charged with assault at the polling station, his new mother (me) would bail him out from jail and promise him a nice long walk, after which he would forget everything that happened.

Someone said "walk." I definitely heard that.

Finally, I'm pretty sure Vian would not vote. In fact, I'm pretty sure that Vian is a total anarchist, though an anarchist of a lazy disposition. So on election day, he would instead stay home, write an angry blog post, eat some raw poultry, and comb his hair (even some anarchists like to stay groomed).

So... now it is your turn. How would your pets vote?

On being a yoga teacher

I have always held myself to a high standard. For many years, this was an academic standard--one that simultaneously drove and broke me--still haunts me--the back of my mind occasionally playing out PhD possibilities, followed by a palpitating heart and a stilted breath. 

There were other tendencies toward perfection too. As a teenager, my bed was always made despite that fact that I have never once in my life heard my mother say, "Make your bed." My closet was a work of art--the shirts, for example, were divided by length, color and fabric. They had very specific locations... and the hangers could never touch. Ever.

At my parents' Christmas party in 2000, when I was fifteen, my (still) friend, Mike Cortez, rearranged the closet as a prank. When I returned to my room and saw the door of the closet slightly askew, I knew something was very, very wrong. I looked at him, saw his face and knew. I opened the closet, yelled at him, ran upstairs to my parents room and cried as my best friend (his then girlfriend) chided him, repeating that it was a terrible idea.

A bit OCD? Yes, probably. In fact, most definitely. Had I had better math teachers in middle school, I may have become a mathematician due to this love of order and organization. (I'm sure I will now receive numerous emails from my mathematically-inclined friends explaining that math is actually chaotic.) Unfortunately, I didn't get the highest marks in math class despite still creating and solving (and enjoying) an occasional long division problem in my spare time. (You think I'm kidding. I'm not.) So, I veered toward English where I could uphold my high standards. There is organization in English as well... and just like any great subject, once you know the rules, you can break them--re-write them as your own.

Somewhere in rolling years, scattered across dark English fields, I learned to break other rules--to share a closet with my husband where ALL the hangers touch... to recognize my previous academic standards as a neurosis... to let go of things associated with ego, which were really just based in fear--associated with the mantra I played in the back of my head for decades: Why am I not good enough? Why am I not good enough? 

When I started to let go, I also stopped trying from time to time--having never really let go. I pretended to let go, when really I shoved the feelings, the "standards" aside... and by not trying, I could never fail.

A year ago today, I was three days into my Kripalu training--still convinced that I was "too fat" to be a yoga teacher. Oh yes, those years when academic standards were pushed aside, new physical neuroses took their place. My teacher-training at Kripalu is probably one of the single, most defining periods of my adult life. Just like the Vitamix changes everything, so does Kripalu.

I was able to let go--to hear that desperate mantra sweeping through my skull--and to let it go. To let go. To let go. To let go.

And to breathe.

To accept.

To accept emotions like anger and feel them through until they pass.... Ironically, it is still difficult to accept love and gratitude sometimes. I undersell myself. When I get compliments about things on which I still remain uncertain, I must force out an awkward thanks. I can give massage after massage after massage... but when someone gives me one, I tense up. The pattern of Why am I not good enough? parallels the negative affirmation of I don't deserve this. 

So when I teach yoga and tell students to change the negative words in their mind--to make them positive even if they don't believe them at first--I speak from experience. I speak from present experience often. Occasionally I tear up as I offer closing words. The energy becomes intense.

During our yoga teacher training, we received advise and directives--were told that occasionally students would look to us and put us on pedestals, not see us as people, but as gurus. I am not a guru. I am not a Zen monk. I am a twenty-eight-year-old girl still striving, still breathing into life and trailing the patterns of energy. I am a good yoga teacher, largely in part because I am very, very human--full of curiosity, feeling, and love. When I first started teaching yoga, I distanced myself from my students--fearing they would find me a fraud, a sham--realize that I am not Zen all the time, that occasionally I loose my breath. Now, I am learning to be open to students, to be vulnerable, to open the spaces for connection. Each time we unblock a blockage, we make room for grace.

Love, love, love.

Today's Writer's Almanac

A Prayer among Friends

by John Daniel

Among other wonders of our lives, we are alive
with one another, we walk here
in the light of this unlikely world
that isn't ours for long.
May we spend generously
the time we are given.
May we enact our responsibilities
as thoroughly as we enjoy
our pleasures. May we see with clarity,
may we seek a vision
that serves all beings, may we honor
the mystery surpassing our sight,
and may we hold in our hands
the gift of good work
and bear it forth whole, as we
were borne forth by a power we praise
to this one Earth, this homeland of all we love.

"A Prayer among Friends" by John Daniel, from Of Earth. © Lost Horse Press, 2012.

Where did August go?

I have to admit, my blogging consistency this year has been rather pathetic. If there once were regular readers, they may be gone now. I accept this.

I'm writing now with nothing specific, but simply for the sake of typing on the keys again, getting the words to flow again in the veins.

Life and the universe continue to move in mysterious waves. Rolling. Tumbling. The energy shifts. Fortune changes. Through it, the breath remains.

At the present moment, my energy is moving outward... five years I have spent largely inward... staying inside our cottage, working in various capacities, ruminating... now, there are more yoga classes... even an undergraduate literature class. I feel so blessed to still remain part of academia--to teach an undergraduate travel writing course. Blessings upon blessings.

My advice (as yoga teacher): Open the heart wide to the sky. Ground the feet. Open the palms. Receive, receive, receive... then... give, give and give....

Love. Love. Love.


And a poem. Sent to me by Dr. Palmer when I was diagnosed with cancer in 2004.

First Lesson

by Philip Booth

 

Lie back, daughter, let your head
be tipped back in the cup of my hand.
Gently, and I will hold you. Spread
your arms wide, lie out on the stream
and look high at the gulls. A dead-
man's-float is face down. You will dive
and swim soon enough where this tidewater
ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe
me, when you tire on the long thrash
to your island, lie up, and survive.
As you float now, where I held you
and let go, remember when fear
cramps your heart what I told you:
lie gently and wide to the light-year
stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.

"First Lesson," by Philip Booth from Lifelines: Selected Poems 1950-1999 (Viking).

Inspiring work

It has been a pitifully long time since I updated this blog. Since my last post, I travelled back to the United States, further helped my mother pack, sell or give away all our belongings, started a few campfires while sporting cute summer dresses, had a bad reaction to bug spray that pre-vegan days would have never bothered me, and came across one of the most fantastic and inspiring places I have ever visited. (Oh yes... and I also travelled back to the UK, and have somewhat successfully managed my three part-time July jobs, which seem to add up to about two full-time ones. I have also successfully envied friends who stalked Bill Clinton in Oxford today and spent twenty minutes chatting with him in a pub. Details on this story here.)

So... my post... today... for anyone who has not migrated to the Bill Clinton post (or has successfully migrated back to mine): my focus tonight is on MRC Industries, a nonprofit I visited last month in Kalamazoo, Michigan--which I have to admit, may in fact outdo Ann Arbor now in terms of diversity and dedication to art and community. (This is probably irrelevant for most of the population, but for Michiganders--or Michiganians--I think it is noteworthy.)

I went to Kalamazoo to visit my friend Jessica (as well as meet my grandparents for lunch), and during this visit, I was reminded of why I love thriving downtown areas in US cities: a) they are not neon, blinking shopping malls packed with corporate stores, b) they are often beautiful--think hanging baskets and street lamps, and c) they have some unique stuff--not to mention people. On this particular Thursday, it seemed every street corner either had a community music group (trying to encourage us to join them on the bongos) or an art exhibition of some kind (leaving me wondering if the statue was of the kind that moves... as in the human kind). On our stroll, I managed to acquire smoked sea salt (who knew?), a new dress (which I, of course, did not need, nor could really afford), some overpriced stationary made from sustainable wood (so maybe not so-overpriced), and... $100 worth of artwork (the only truly worthy part of this unplanned spree). NB: In my mind, when I spend this type of cash in one location, I convert everything to pounds, so it then doesn't seem too bad... until I get home... a week later... and see the look on Kwok's face.

So... this $100 of art work... actually topped anything my favorite contemporary painter, Sandro Negri, could have ever done for me... and this is saying something, as I once stood in front of the below painting for at least an hour in Florence. I find his brush strokes mesmerizing.

Sandro Negri painting of women collecting lavender

How could MRC be better than one of Italy's best contemporary painters? Well, admittedly, it started with me being a bit of a bitch and then feeling very, very foolish.

It goes something like this: Jess and I walked past a shop and I noticed paintings in the window. There were some nice ones... and then there was one, marked at $35 that seemed, well, rather blah. I made the snide comment to Jess, "Why do people do this? Sell this kind of stuff? I could have painted that in an hour." Jess, very calmly and very compassionately, explained to me that it was an art co-op... for... wait for it... the mentally-handicapped. (Roll out the red carpet of shame for me, please.)

(Did anyone else notice that I am loving the parentheses tonight?)

Once my I'm-a-total-ass face dissipated, we went inside as there was one painting in particular that I really liked (and later purchased). Inside, we realized that the front 1/3 of the space was a shop and the back 2/3 was used as the studio for people to paint, sculpt and create.

There were two non-handicapped workers, but we were not approached by them. We were approached by  one of the artists who also acted as a bit of a sales representative--at one point saying to me, "I don't know why you are choosing between the two--I think you should buy them all." (At this point, I probably already had about $75 worth of stuff.) Later, when I bought a painting for my mom--a small square of a sunset and sail boats fitting for California--he said to me, "Oh, California. I've been there, but it is too hot." He then proceeded to tell me that the worst place he had ever been was Atlanta, Georgia and that in Atlanta,  "You can't wear pants." The British in me giggled profusely. Yes... I've migrated further toward the dark side.

Did I mention that the co-op aims to use as many recycled materials as possible? All their paintings were on recycled wood....

Jess and I wandered in the space for about 45 minutes--meeting the artists, some of whom showed us their work and their personal studio space, and others whom only wanted to know our names and tell us theirs. I thrived so much on that experience that it lasted weeks--and I even periodically check their careers' site.

I bought many pieces that day--including the small painting for my mom, a collage/painting for my grandparents, a cartoon owl painting for the office at work, and the dancing painting that initially intrigued me, as well as some other odds and ends. It was perhaps some of the best money I have ever spent (and Kwok would be hard-pressed to make a face over that).


So... does that compete with Bill Clinton? I'd like to think so....


Love to all!

Veganism and Honey

Following yesterday's post of the Chinese lettuce wraps, a friend asked me, "How do I know if I have ethical honey or not?" The question opened up the honey debate in my own mind again, hence, this post....

Firstly, I must say that veganism has bred in me a new understanding of compassion, as well as a new sense of awareness and mindfulness. This is why I find it so shocking when vegans respond venomously to questions posed, such as questions about the ethics of consuming honey. On one blog, a fifteen-year-old vegan asked about honey, having recently consumed some honey from bees a friend's family kept. One of the responses was so obnoxious and so self-righteous that I literally felt sick to my stomach. The comment even attempted to spit in the girl's face by saying, "You vegetarian."

I'm sorry, what?

Where is the vegan's compassion for other humans? Admittedly, I was one of those girls in school that cried during films if there was an animal death scene, though I could sit relatively painlessly through films about war or scenes of human death. A friend of mine once chastised me for this, saying, "It's a horse. Why don't you care about the people?" Of course, I could have easily spun this on its head: "It's a person. Why don't you can about the horses?" The truth of the matter in my heart, however, is that we should care about all creatures. This includes the humans that are already here. Berating and placing oneself "higher" than others will by no means encourage veganism or breed compassion in others. In fact, it makes veganism seem like a dogmatic joke.

An article in Slate seems to argue the same point. Daniel Engber writes:

From a practical perspective, all this back-and-forth doesn't help anyone (or any animal). You either eat honey or you don't; to debate the question in public only makes the vegan movement seem silly and dogmatic. According to Matthew Ball, the executive director of Vegan Outreach, the desire for clear dietary rules and restrictions makes little difference in the grand calculus of animal suffering: "What vegans do personally matters little," he says. "If we present veganism as being about the exploitation of honeybees, it makes it easier to ignore the real, noncontroversial suffering" of everything else. Ball doesn't eat honey himself, but he'd sooner recruit five vegans who remain ambivalent about insect rights than one zealot who follows every last Vegan Society rule.

I am grateful for the perspective of Matthew Ball. One other shocking pattern I noticed on vegan forums was that of zealot-like, judgment-laden pronouncements against those who did not follow "vegan rules." Honey is one example. Another is the wearing of animal products. There are vegans out there, myself included, that continue to wear old leather or wool products--items accumulated before the conscious shift to veganism. I have never bought a leather or wool product since becoming vegan (not even if it was from a thrift store). In fact, I am deeply in love with companies like Vaute Couture, and I find ethical, environmentally-friendly fabrics like bamboo to be some of the softest and comfiest I have ever known. However, I retain three leather belts and a pair of leather shoes I acquired many years ago. The belts (and I am serious) are over twelve years old. The shoes, nearly ten. Stating this, I am not saying that leather is superior or lasts longer. I am writing this because I believe it would be wasteful of me to rid myself of these products only to go buy vegan alternatives, which would come with their own carbon footprint--utilizing water and oil to produce, transport, etc. When my husband needed new belts last year, did I buy leather ones? Of course not. I bought vegan ones... but the point I am attempting to make is one of mindfulness. Yet, there are many vegans who in the anonymity of the internet would berate me for such choices, point a finger and say, "You're not a vegan." My gut response is how dare you? However, my mindful response is to let it go and know that my choices are felt in heart and mind and that what I do impacts this world positively.

*Yoga break* Take a big inhale through the nose. Exhale with a sigh. Do that as many times as you need until any tension built up releases.

As for honey... I'm glad Shana asked me the question (though she likely did not realize how much it would renew my interest in the subject). For quite some time, I believed that supporting local beekeepers was a benefit to all--a benefit to the bees, to the local economy, as well as to my own health. (Admittedly, there are many health benefits to consuming local honey--especially for those who suffer allergies.) While many vegans advocate for agave syrup in place of honey, I'm reluctant to do the same as agave is actually not a health food, no matter how it may be promoted. (Diabetics may be the one exception to this notion.) In 2010, the Fresh Network stopped selling agave nectar due to the incredibly high fructose content of agave. High levels of fructose not only increase uric acid levels, but can also wreck havoc with insulin levels. Ultimately, agave syrup is a processed food. I haven't bought it in years--preferring maple syrup, which also is not a health food, but my choice of sweetener should I need it. Anyyyyyyyway... I believed supporting local, small-scale beekeepers was the ethical choice. After more research today, I realize it may not always be the case.

Thank to Shana's question, I discovered the views and work of Phil Chandler, or The Barefoot Beekeeper. Chandler is a champion for bees--working to increase wild bee populations and end unnatural, unethical beekeeping practices--whether at the industrial or individual level. This article in the Telegraph beautifully describes Chandler's work on "natural beekeeping." To answer the question of if Chandler consumes honey--he does, but only if there is a surplus in the hive. (He constructs hives not for human benefit, but for the bees' benefit.) He is working to revolutionize beekeeping in Britain and I have to say, I support him. It looks like I may not be buying honey anytime again soon... but I remain open to what exists in the universe... and I refuse to point a finger at anybody in condemnation. Compassion leads us forward. Compassion begets compassion. It is my hope that the vegan community infuse compassion into their dealings with all animals--humans included.

Love, love, love.