Innisfree, Part II

“But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I have spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.”

William Butler Yeats 

On a cool, sunny Tuesday morning I peer through the window of the Innisfree Poetry Bookstore and Café. The windows are no longer papered over with fine poetry and are now clear and newly washed. There are people inside; the place has finally opened. I hesitate, but then a man stands up, opens the door and says, “Lynn?”

He’s recognized me from my blog picture. I’ve actually found a bookstore and café where everybody (or at least somebody) knows my name. I walk into a small but beautiful space with long narrow counters along the front windows and down the center of the cafe where a person can sit and sip coffee while perusing fine poetry. A shiny new barista’s station sits at the back with a chalkboard listing espresso options. The wooden bookcases are filled with a mouthwatering variety of poetry: Jack Kerouac, Leonard Cohen, an extensive selection of Charles Bukowski, and much, much more. I know I’ll be back again for a more in depth perusal.

The owner’s name is Brian. He’s Irish and has the Irish love of good poetry. He and his wife Kate met and fell in love at a poetry workshop and have had the dream ever since of opening a small poetry bookstore and café. The circuitous route toward this dream included a stint in the Peace Corp, working with Navajo tribes in Arizona and teaching language arts. Now he and Kate have settled in Boulder among friends to raise their two young children. And I find myself standing inside their dream.

Care has been taken with every aspect of the space: sun streams in through tall windows, all manner of good poetry is arranged invitingly on the warm wooden shelves, and they have chosen to serve fair trade coffee roasted by the local company Conscious Coffees, who have their own dream of sustainability and simplicity, delivering their coffee by bicycle in reusable steel cans.

Standing inside this Boulder dream feels good and right. I highly recommend that my vast blog readership check out this fine place on the Hill across the street from the Sink. Sample the good coffee and find some poetry that speaks to your heart—tell 'em Lynn sent you.

Earth Day 1970

White tents and booths with information on compost piles and solar panels have sprung up in Boulder’s Civic Park for Earthfest on this partly sunny spring day. I remember the very first Earth Day, in 1970. I was a member (I might actually have been president, I can’t recall for sure) of the Edgewood High School Ecology Club. One of our main projects was to build a large brightly painted wooden box with a hinged lid which we placed just outside the entrance to the grocery store in Ellettsville, Indiana. Here, ecology-minded citizens could deposit their newspapers and cardboard for recycling (back then, this was pretty much the full range of our ability to recycle materials, at least in Ellettsville). Periodically when the box was overflowing and the grocery store manager’s annoyance had reached its peak, we would borrow a truck, load all the newspapers into the back, and drive to the west side of Bloomington where there was a place we could unload the papers for recycling.

Today in Boulder we have three separate containers right outside our house, one for paper, cardboard, glass and plastic, one for compost material (vegetables, egg shells, coffee grounds) and one for the irredeemably unrecyclable remaining crap, which we try through good buying habits to keep to a minimum. The contents of each of these are conveniently hauled off on a regular basis as part of our trash service. We have a little white ceramic compost collector by the sink lined with a pale green compostable bag and I always feel a tiny sense of accomplishment when I carry one of these full bags of vegetable discard out to the larger compost container. We are lightweights, however, as there are other people right in our neighborhood with their own compost piles and large vegetable gardens on which they spread the compost they generate. Even so, we continue to make small strides to better honor Mother Earth and hope that the larger initiatives for renewable energy will take hold.

Another thing my Ecology Club did back in 1970 was create and perform a short save-the-earth skit at various schools in the area, and at the end of the skit as the finale we paraded into the audience singing a song, me leading the way with my trusty guitar. Our teacher and sponsor was Mrs. Wilt, a tiny bespectacled woman with long black hair whose quietly radical teaching style somehow slipped under the radar of our rabidly conservative school administration back then. She selected and helped us learn a song for our traveling ecology road show; peculiarly enough in retrospect, the song was “Suicide is Painless,” the theme from Mash:

Through early morning fog I see
Visions of the things to be
The things that are withheld for me
I realize and I can see
That suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I could take or leave it if I please…

So, “WTF?” you might well ask, children (because only my children could possibly still be reading this, and I can’t be certain of that). I think the song was meant in this context to evoke the same concept as the image of the unaware frog in the bath being slowly brought to a boil. And thus ends another strange tale of long ago and far away in Ellettsville, Indiana, US of A.

The Existential Garage Sale Manifesto, Part 2

If you can resist the urge to acquire stuff you had no desire for before you woke up this morning, garage sales (existential and otherwise) can be a good way to simplify; you can unload unnecessary stuff or obtain necessary stuff without feeling you’ve directly contributed to the stuff crisis. In fact, lots of little daily actions give me a small measure of well being in the face of the stuff avalanche: filling the small green biobags with egg shells, vegetable nubbins and coffee grounds and leaving them out in the compost bin for pickup; religiously recycling paper, plastic and glass each week; observing the ever-decreasing amount of actual trash we discard from our house each week as more of it goes into recycling and compost; using the library or buying used books rather than new ones where possible; resisting purchase of plastic crap, or stuff over packaged in plastic crap; reveling in the clean, peaceful look of a room with a few beautiful things in it and no clutter; walking and riding buses instead of driving, and retaining the job with the 7-minute commute.

But of course the guilt trip is alive and well: for two people we use way more electricity than seems humanly possible—no doubt too many devices are on all the time despite their stand-by modes; lights are left on to lend some psychological security at night; juice flows to keep the icebox cold and the hot tub hot (not luxury, but medical necessity to deal with neck and back pain after sitting too long in front of the electricity sucking computers). Always the tradeoffs.

Hand-waving Ensues

So, over the holiday break my company, in a green frenzy, installed motion detector light switches in all of our offices. Now when I enter my office I don’t even have to flip on the switch; the motion detector smartly senses my entry and turns on the lights for me. Of course, it turns on all the lights when it was my habit before to have only some of them on. And as I am working away diligently at my computer late into the evening, motionless in my intense concentration, the lights helpfully blink out, since the sensor thinks I have left for the day.

When I am working at our California site in a smaller office with the same setup, I deal with this sudden and sometimes startling darkness easily by raising my hands over my head and frantically waving them in the air (much as you are instructed to do if you suddenly encounter a bear in the woods and need to make yourself seem larger), until the sensor sees that I am indeed still in the office and turns the lights back on. However, in my regular office here, my seat is too far away from the sensor and regardless of my hand-waving energy, I can’t get the lights back on unless I get up, walk toward the light switch, and either turn it on manually or move vigorously enough that it notices me and turns itself back on.

Of course, my chiropractor would be thrilled with this office improvement; it guarantees that in the evening after a long day, I will get up periodically and stretch briefly. Just goes to show there is always a silver lining in every cloud.

I am thinking about going over to Target and buying some of those toy guns that shoot rubber bands to hand out generously to all my co-workers – then we can shoot at the light switches to turn them back on without getting out of our seats.

At the Farmer's Market

Boulder’s Farmer’s Market is in full swing each Saturday now, and jam packed with people looking for fresh organic vegetables, flowers, seeds, jellies and jams. People of all ages crowd into the market, including babies in backpacks, children and teenagers in tie-died t-shirts, musicians, and older people of the gray-haired variety like us. After our morning walk we stroll through to find the fresh asparagus we have in mind for dinner. “Just picked this morning,” says the cheery lady behind the counter.

Mark points out that usually when he buys organic vegetables they are more expensive and don’t taste as good. Bah, humbug. We pay 5 solid dollars for the bunch of thick asparagus spears in the spirit of sustainability, and hope they will not be too tough.

We get points for low food miles when we buy the locally grown asparagus. I heard this concept on NPR this week in their new series on sustainability, although I think it is not completely new to me. The concept of food miles is the number of miles a food must be transported to get to you. The assumption is that buying locally produced food is more sustainable because less energy is used. Of course, transportation is not the only measure of energy used to produce food. So if the tomatoes or asparagus at the Farmer’s Market today were grown in a hot house requiring electricity produced from a non-sustainable source, all bets are off on feeling noble about the food miles.

I would imagine bananas a very bad, since they don’t grow in the United States. My strawberries-in-the-dead-of-winter habit is also an issue.

Is there even the smallest sacrifice we are all willing to make for the Earth?

Mark and I are faithful recyclers at least. The Farmer’s Market had several Zero Waste Stations set up. Some of us are trying, but we need to try a lot harder

Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone -
Paved paradise and put up a parking lot. - Joni Mitchell