And In Atlanta, Georgia

And so there was this family of nine children who, every year for Christmas, received an orange, because oranges weren't local and during the Depression, when this story took place, something not local was still such a very rare and special treat. And when the father returned home late, late, late, in the middle of a blizzard, with the Christmas oranges, the youngest child couldn't wait to get his hands on his orange.

But then, as stories like this tend to go, he lost his beloved orange. The other children found this out and knew what an incredible sadness this was, to wait all year for something sweet and special and then lose it because of being too anxious and careless.

But when they all woke up on Christmas morning, there were nine oranges on the fireplace mantel. All nine. How could that be? Well, one of the oranges was wrapped with a ribbon. Because that orange, Frankie's orange, was made up out of a slice from each of the other eight.

And so, now, after many years of reading this story, An Orange for Frankie, by my very favorite children's author and illustrator, Patricia Polacco, I cannot look at an orange without thinking of it.

Now, as a heavy, full moon hangs over my garden, pulling moisture up to fatten my Christmas salad, and I prepare to line my mantel with oranges as well, one always made up of slices from the others, the sweet and gentle words from a song by the band Alabama waft through my mind:

By now in New York City
There's snow on the ground
And out in California
The sunshine's falling down
And maybe down in Memphis
Graceland's all in lights
And in Atlanta, Georgia
There's peace on earth tonight

Click here to hear the song (and see snow!). It's a beauty. It has played at least 14 times while I've written and edited this post (mostly correcting my million typos).

And for those of you who may be struggling this week, I offer you this poem by Mary Oliver. It was shared with me by a dear friend who is undergoing serious medical issues.

Wild Geese

By Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
Love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
Are moving across the landscapes,
Over the prairies and the deep trees,
The mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
Are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
The world offers itself to your imagination,
Calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
Over and over announcing your place
In the family of things.

For more on Mary Oliver, click here.

And finally, as yet another example of the incredible cosmic energy swirling around the world, I sat down to read the Travel section of The New York Times last night and there was a story about Adelaide, Australia. I showed the map to my younger daughter, who had drawn that exact map as part of her Flat Stanley project for school (for those who don't know, my daughter sent Flat Stanley to Kate and Maggie in Australia, who then sent Stan the Man on to Beijing, China--the experience was truly life-changing in this household). My daughter shouted, "It's Adelaide!" And for some odd reason, I knew it was not a coincidence. You can read the Times' article about Adelaide here, and for what it's worth, Pliny's Italy has nothing on Adelaide, apparently!

Okay, I managed to get Patricia Polacco, Alabama, Mary Oliver, Adelaide, and even another Pliny mention all into this post. I can't call this post complete without telling you this little story:

So I'm at a drug store getting a couple little things and the clerk says, "A dollar eighty seven."

I gasp a little and ask, "Did you just say a dollar eighty seven?"

"Yes, ma'm, a dollar eighty seven," the poor, unsuspecting young man replies.

"The Gift of the Magi! The Gift of the Magi!" I squeal.

He looks at me blankly.

"You know, Della? Jim? The hair? The combs? The watch?"

Blank. Blank. Blank.

Awkward silence.

Finally, he starts to put my items in a plastic bag.

"Oh, no thank you, " I say, deflated. "I don't need a bag."

And off I go, branded a wacko by yet another store clerk in my long list of them. (Here's the classic story by O. Henry, by the way.) Seems a fitting way to end my FoodShed Planet year, however, don't you think?

I am now taking my first break in seven months from daily posting. I have books to read and movies to watch and walks to take and things to bake and friends and family to love. I'll be back January 8, 2008. Ready to garden. Ready to advocate for fresh, simple, local, organic, real food. And ready to try to change the world for the better, even if it's just a little bit.

Sign up for the FoodShed Planet email alerts and RSS feed (see sidebar) and together, we'll see where the journey takes us.

In the meantime, I wish you a very special orange of your own. And peace--and peas--on earth tonight.

And In Atlanta, Georgia

Bless Her Heart

"In the whole world, wherever the vault of heaven turns, Italy is the most beautiful of all lands, endowed with all that wins Nature's crown . . . No land is more distinguished in regard to what man may reasonably expect to enjoy--chiefly crops, wine, olive oil, fleeces, flax, clothes and young cattle."

Yes, my friends. Pliny the Elder was a locavore--and have you heard that the word "locavore" is the New Oxford American Dictionary's 2007 Word of the Year? (Frankly, I find that word a bit awkward, but I'm obviously all behind any movement that encourages eating close to home around the world.)

Interestingly, Pliny the Elder died when the volcano, Mount Vesuvius, erupted and covered the ancient city of Pompeii in 79 AD. Even more interesting, of course, is that his 37-book series, Natural History, survived.

My older daughter, bless her heart (that's a "Southernism" usually reserved for when you are going to insult someone, by the way, but here I mean it completely endearingly) actually sought out and purchased for me this amazing collection of selected works from Natural History. It is extraordinarily readable, with little paragraphs about a wide variety of topics: Near Eastern sea routes, comets, time, trees and plants, will power, cinnamon and cassia, milk and butter, purple dye, aqueducts, and on and on and on.

So there I was this week, with my new Pliny the Elder shopping tote (I chose the one about the conscience for me, and the one about new beginnings as gifts) and my Pliny book, looking like a Pliny groupie, when I fell upon another book that caught my eye, 1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus. 1491! It felt almost contemporary!

And so I got it, and along with Pliny, it is my vacation reading for the next two weeks. I believe that the best way to prepare for moving forward is by looking back, and learning.

And I have much to learn.

(Same book, different cover)

Bless Her Heart

How to Draw a Labyrinth

How to Draw a Labyrinth

Symbolic of This Seasonal Transition--UPDATED!

And so, we're there. Finally. The shortest day/longest night of the year. The Winter Solstice. The first day of Winter. Which means, of course, that starting tomorrow, the days here in the Northern Hemisphere start getting longer. A minute or so at a time. Barely perceptably. But little by little, even as the cold winds blow and snow perhaps falls where you live, the earth is traveling on the journey it makes each and every year back to warmth.

For my friends in Australia, of course, this time of year means a totally different thing and I only need to think back to June here in Atlanta to realize that you are entering what I call "bus exhaust season," when walking outside gives you the feeling that you are standing behind fourteen idling buses at the Port Authority Bus Terminal in New York City. Not a good feeling, but at least the gardens overflow with abundance, the pools and bays and oceans beckon, and naps in hammocks can easily become daily practice.

And so I'll walk a labyrinth this weekend, symbolic of this seasonal transition. Symbolic of this moment in my life, the details of which swirl inside me, the clarity of which sometimes evades me. And like many before me for almost 4000 years, I will use my journey into the center and out again to quiet and focus my mind in a reflection on where I have been, and where I am going.

You may be surprised to find out how many labyrinths are near where you live. They are becoming more and more common at spiritual centers such as churches; community gardens; therapeutic gardens affiliated with hospitals, nursing homes and counseling centers; and even some inns. You may even find one scratched into dirt at a playground or sand at the beach, which leaves you wondering who walked here and for what purpose did they need this temporary tool of meditation? I have toyed with the idea of ripping up my front lawn and turning it into a labyrinth, but considering I can't even have a clothesline, I think I'll wait on that one.

I have discovered at least six that are within a short drive of my home. They are fun to compare. There are two basic types, the 7-Circuit Creatan Labyrinth, like the one pictured, which is based on a design found on ancient Crete coins; and the Chartres Labyrinth, based on the design from the Middle Ages of a labyrinth in the Chartres Cathedral near Paris, France. They are lined with rocks or bricks or even live plants. Some have arches that you enter and large stones upon which you sit once you make it to the middle.

By the way, labryinths are different from mazes because they are what's called unicursal--one path in, and one path out. No dead ends or choices to be made as to which way to go. And that is actually the main aspect of their appeal--no practical thought is needed while walking a labyrinth.

The path you walk is not logical--the twists and turns don't make sense and you find that you must give up on trying to figure it out and just let yourself follow the path. Apparently, each time you turn, you stimulate the opposite hemisphere in your brain, which supposedly gives you a full-brain view of whatever it is you are pondering. That's one of the reasons why labyrinths can be so effective in helping you solve problems in your life.

The first time you walk a labyrinth, you may find yourself rushing. You may find it painfully boring. You may be frustrated at discovering that when you thought you were just about in the middle, you ended up on the part of the path farthest from there. You may even feel as if you are never going to reach the middle, and then decide to just jump the rocks to leave instead of persevere and then walk back out again along the path. But, if you try one of these techniques, you can open yourself up to a completely different and engaging experience.

* Pose questions on your path inward, and determine answers to these questions on the way out.

* Practice controlled breathing on your journey--one breath in, one step, one breath out, one step. You will eventually find a comfortable, meditative rhythm, the pleasure of which may surprise you.

* Focus on the senses, perhaps sight on the way in and sound on the way out. It is always shocking to me how much we miss in our rushed, daily travels.

* Think of the past on the way in, and the future on the way out.

During my journey this weekend, I will reflect back on 2007 on my way in to the middle, and set my intentions for 2008 on the way out. I already know that I want to learn how to can fresh, local fruits and veggies, to care for chickens (even if they're not mine), and to connect more with my community. But how can I more fully express my authentic self? How can I become a more open vessel for the world's energy? How can I truly make a difference simply because I have lived? Not sure, folks. Just not sure.

And so, I leave you with something fun. Watch the video above (and no, that's not me--I found this video on YouTube) and learn how to draw a Cretan labyrinth. It's quite cool and I find myself drawing them obsessively (of course). You can also use this knowledge to make what's called a "finger labyrinth" out of clay (or even just on nice paper) that you can then trace while in your office or wherever your daily life takes you. A handy portable labyrinth. Now, how's that for a great last-minute gift for those who have everything?

UPDATED: Sunday, December 23, 2007

I saw an ad on my blog (I don't control the ads--Blogger adds them and they are actually often surprisingly germane, I think!) for a company that designs and installs labyrinths. The link is www.labyrinthcompany.com. Click on Garden Templates. There's a three-circuit labyrinth that seems like it might work in a suburban kitchen garden! I don't need to buy the template--I think I can do this myself. Maybe my side yard . . .

Symbolic of This Seasonal Transition--UPDATED!

More than Nothing

I'm almost jumping up and down in my chair, folks! I just checked the Ryan's Well Foundation site and the Kajiado water project is almost completely funded!

When we started our drive to raise money for Kajiado, it was about half-funded. Now, out of a total of $28,560 needed to build a rainwater harvesting system to provide water to a community of mostly-Maasai families, $27,628 has been raised. That means just $932 more and we will have met our goal--to wake up Christmas morning and know that together we have made this difference.

Here's the project summary from the Ryan's Well Foundation website:

The Kajiado Community Water Supply Program will ultimately provide a total of 40 households:

(i) a 10 cubic meter rainwater harvesting tank
(ii) a proper latrine for good sanitation community training
(iii) community training and education in regards to environment, hygiene, sanitation and the safe water chain of collection, storage and use.

Establishing these basic elements in the community will guide citizens of Kajiado towards a brighter future with the ultimate goal of working their way towards a more prosperous society. Over the long term, the Maasai people of Kajiado District are finding an alternate and honourable way to survive in a changing world.

I'm not sure how much of this effort was because of FoodShed Planet Friends for Kajiado, but I know at least some of it was. More than nothing.

And maybe that's a good way to look at the little things we can do to make the world a better place. More than nothing. If we each do more than nothing.

Wouldn't that be something?

More than Nothing

My Own Little Anti-Flu and Cold Prescription

I'm going with logic, folks, when I wonder about the nutritional value of something. And I've had a bit of a theory lately about local food. Sure, much has been written about the nutritional value of fresh food, the environmental benefits of not having to ship it cross-country or around the world, and the community-building benefits of supporting local farmers and keeping money circulating in your local community. But I also believe that local food (fruits and vegetables, in particular) is uniquely valuable because it provides the exact mix of nutrients that we need at the exact time we need them.

In other words, what grows in the summer where you live is exactly what your body needs, and likewise at the other times of the year. For instance, right now I have such an abundance of bitter and cruciferous greens, and this got me curious. What is it in arugula, kale and collards that my body needs so much, specifically now, in December?

Sure enough, a quick search of nutrition facts revealed that what's growing in my garden right now is bursting with vitamin A. And, guess what vitamin A does?

Vitamin A:

* helps maintain mucous linings (think NOSE, as in, the place where germs are caught as they try to enter the body)

* strengthens the immune system (think WARDS OFF INFECTION)

* Improves vision in dim light (think WINTER)

The greens in my garden are my own little anti-flu and cold prescription, it appears.

And so, this theory extends to all other foods. Tomatoes, for instance. They don't grow here now. Guess what? My body probably doesn't need them right now. Citrus. Same thing.

Suddenly, it all seems much clearer to me why I don't need to spend extra for avocados shipped in from across the country. For pineapples. For figs in winter. Remember when I was practically swimming in figs from a local tree in late July? Is it any surprise that figs have the highest mineral content of any fruit, and that mineral loss during heat waves (late July in Atlanta, for instance) can be catastrophic?

I'm surprised this theory doesn't get more coverage, and I'm having trouble finding research to support it. But if there were a more powerful argument for honoring native local foods around the world, in season, I can't think of it. Global availability of the same handful of travel-and-storage hardy fruits and vegetables, to the exclusion of seasonally-appropriate locally-grown food, is a dangerous direction for the health of our planet's people.

My Own Little Anti-Flu and Cold Prescription

Nine Dollars. Nine Pesticides. UPDATED

So I'm at Target yesterday (why is it so hard to find a hula hoop?) and I fell upon a series of t-shirts in the juniors section with messages like this. Support Organic Farmers. Think Global, Act Local. Every Day Is Earth Day. Save the Planet. And a nice nod to the ever-popular High School Musical, but with hands holding up the earth, We're All in This Together.

Okay, fine, so one look at the tags showed that the t-shirts are made in Thailand, are not organic, and no proceeds from the sale of them go to help any earth-friendly organization. Three missed opportunities. But. They do get the word out, and they do target (so to speak) teen girls, a demographic that can be passionate about cause-marketing efforts (if you can find a way to connect with them) (or, at least, if they are looking to boost their college applications).

I almost bought one for my older daughter--the one that said The Road Less Traveled, since that Robert Frost poem is our favorite and we recite it often as we hike through the woods. It was only nine dollars.

But.

Turns out non-organic cotton is made with nine of the worst pesticides there are, all nine of which are classified by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency as category I or category II materials in toxicity, with five of the nine being known cancer-causing agents. Non-organic cotton is responsible for 25% of pesticides used on all crops in the U.S. (25% of all insecticides and 10% of all pesticides worldwide).

Cotton, interestingly, makes up 50% of the world's fiber. It is grown around the world, and cottonseed oil is found in many food products, including feed for factory-raised animals.

Thankfully, the organic fiber cotton market is growing exponentially. More affordable options are becoming available, but let's face it. Organic cotton is significantly more labor-intensive and the costs will be higher.

I currently own one organic cotton shirt. One. My Georgia Organics t-shirt. And frankly, I do like the idea of having clothes to wear each day. So can I really afford to stand there all high-falutin' and say I'm not going to buy that t-shirt at Target?

If it says, Support Organic Farmers on it yet does nothing to support them, I can.

I'm calling Target today. Maybe they do give back to organic farmers. Just maybe . . .

UPDATE: 12/22

Well, this is more like an anti-update, because I haven't heard back from Target yet, but I'll let you know when (and if ) I do.

Nine Dollars. Nine Pesticides. UPDATED

The Genie of Summer

If you had been in my kitchen yesterday when I was rummaging through my freezer to find things to throw in the soup, now that the cold has finally blown in and the flip flops have hung their heads and scuffed back to the closet, you would have heard me gasp out loud in shock, in joy, in total unadulterated exuberation! Because (and you fellow kitchen gardeners will appreciate how exciting this was) I found an entire ice cube tray full of pesto that I didn't know I had. Pesto! Green gold!

Pesto is the genie of summer, a power captured in a concoction with a smell and taste that transcends time. When I heated up a few cubes, the genie exploded forth and granted me three wishes.

I wish I could stand, barefoot and sweaty, on the end of the diving board while the distant sounds of "Marco!" "Polo!" fill the air.

I wish I could take a nap in the hammock, an unread, open book splayed across me.

I wish I could chop up bowls of heirloom tomatoes and drink the juice from the cutting board.

Those days will come. And no, I don't really want them now. But for a moment, on a day when I worry if the peas, oddly flowering in December, will survive, it feels good to warm my heart with memory.

The Genie of Summer

Their Own Little Kid Nation

It had been going on for a month or so with the kids at school and their obsessive desire to run into the woods right after the bell rang at the end of the day. The parents knew vaguely what was happening in there. There were two teams, apparently, and they were building forts but then destroying each other's, in a tag-you're-it sort of exchange. It was a game, but of course, there were tears and fights. Although a few parents got involved briefly, it had already become abundantly clear that what was happening in those woods simply didn't involve grown-ups.

Then, finally, one weekend three of the children came and built for hours. When the opposing team saw what they had built, they knew. Intrinsically, they just knew. This was something good, something not to destroy. Something to keep, to care for, to love.

And the two teams joined forces and collaborated on making the world they had created in the woods even better. They assigned jobs. They strengthened the structure. They started doing water runs to the creek to make clay pots out of the red Georgia soil. They designated a spot for celebrations and decorated a Christmas tree. The shouting stopped. The tears stopped. The running at each other with sticks stopped. And their own little Kid Nation emerged.

Nothing prepared me for the beauty of the structure, which I saw for the first time last Friday. These kids hadn't been part of the reality TV show, Kid Nation (which, by the way, I absolutely adored). They hadn't read Richard Louv's book, Last Child in the Woods, about the fact that this generation spends little time in nature and suffers in many ways as a result, or seen the site for the Children and Nature Network, a non-profit organization working to reconnect kids and the outdoors. They had given no thought to the need for a daily Green Hour, as advocated by the National Wildlife Federation. They had been simply given time. Free time. Without parents hovering. And this is what happened.

My daughter was not part of this effort. She saw this secret world for the first time with me. As we stepped over tree roots and walked down a trail to leave the woods, she pulled me aside and whispered, "Ask how people can join, Mom."

I thought for sure the kids would say that it was a closed club, that they had built it and it was just for them. But no. When I asked, open, kind faces replied, "Anyone can join, as long as they don't knock down what we've built."

Don't knock it down. When you see something good, my friends, just don't knock it down.

Their Own Little Kid Nation

Change Is an Act of Faith

So I've been thinking about a comment Kate wrote on one of my posts about a week or so ago, where she said she doesn't buy processed food with more than one ingredient. One ingredient. Does that even qualify as processed? How does she do this?

I went to Whole Foods and got my usual fruits and veggies and bulk grains (millet, quinoa, amaranth, bulgar) but then, as I was about to swing down the frozen aisle for some veggie burgers, I said, "No. Only simple, real food." I can always throw some beans and oats and other things into a food processor and make my own veggie burgers, can't I? It's time to break the processed food habit, no matter how small it may be for me.

And so, it was with great joy that I fell upon this book the other day (at Ten Thousand Villages, no less). Turns out the Mennonites have asked each Mennonite household to reduce overconsumption in order to help the world's poor by eating and spending 10% less. And to help them do this, this cookbook, More-with-Less: Recipes and Suggestions by Mennonites on how to eat better and consume less of the world's limited food resources, gives short recipes (the shortest I've ever seen) that reflect basic sustenance habits from cultures throughout the world.

Additionally, the book contains some of the best articles I've read on this subject, about world shortages, overspending, overeating and overcomplicating. Ultimately, the Mennonites believe that change is an act of faith. And as someone who borrows freely from many religions and spiritual practices, I'm adding that one to my repertoire. I love that. Change is an act of faith. For me, that means believing that actions I take can make a difference, even if I don't know how.

As we embark on our final week of increasing darkness to the longest night of the year (the Winter Solstice next Saturday), I finally feel I have achieved something close to balance during a time of rampant commercialism. And I begin now to look forward to the New Year, and the lengthening of the days, and the opening of my heart to let more light in. In a way more simple. And more real.

Now, that's a short recipe that works for me.

Change Is an Act of Faith

Ten Thousand Villages

And so the email solicitations keep coming, with more and more cause-marketing or eco-gifts to tempt me. I almost ordered a book called If the World Were A Village, a children's book which boils down the statistics of the world's 6.2 billion people into a village of 100 (22 people speak a Chinese dialect, 20 earn less than a dollar a day, things like that).

I almost ordered earrings from a a site called Nest, which quotes the naturalist John Muir, "Everyone needs beauty as well as bread" and which is dedicated to helping women in developing countries around the world.

I actually did order a couple things from a site that makes gifts from recycled, reused, and natural materials, specifically a bracelet with five New York City subway tokens from different time periods on it, and a cell phone case made of recycled highway billboards.

But, ultimately, today I save my raves for the amazing store I fell upon yesterday, hidden away in a newish shopping center in Sandy Springs, a suburb of Atlanta. It's called Ten Thousand Villages. A non-profit organization started in 1946, Ten Thousand Villages has relationships with over 100 artisan groups in more than 30 countries. There are about 100 store locations in North America right now (only two in the state of Georgia--the other one is in Atlanta's Virginia Highland neighborhood, on Charles Street). You can also order from the website, but my goodness, why would you want to if you have the chance to go in there and see? To hear stories? To touch?

Even though it is a little store, Ten Thousand Villages took me at least a half hour to make my way around. Interestingly, the store is staffed by volunteers. Lynn, the volunteer I met, could not have been nicer in digging out the stories that go with each of the items I bought. This necklace, for instance, was made by artisans living in Bogra, five hours outside the capital city of Dhaka, Bangladesh, out of a natural fiber called kaisa, which is a locally-grown grass. A woman named Asheda Bibi is one of the artisans, and she uses the money she makes to send her children to school.

I met the new manager of the store, Melanie. Her dad was in the air force and she grew up all over the world. It's no surprise how that works, that a child exposed to world cultures would find her way to a job like this.

I found something for everyone there. Fair-trade organic chocolate and coffee. Jewelry. Candles that match my mother's new moss green walls. A little elephant to add to another relative's collection.

I even found something to covet (and coveting is one of my favorite hobbies--I love to want something and not get it--the wanting is so pleasurable to me). It was a journal made of recycled Chinese newspaper that was rolled and glued together in a way I cannot explain. AND it had a CHICKEN in the middle of the cover! It would be immediately ruined if it got wet. Yet. Yet. I stood there and held it. Ahhh, it was so wonderful.

Ten Thousand Villages appears to be in a horrible location. It is hidden deep in the shopping center, with no prominent signage at the entrance to alert you as to its presence. And it is clear across the parking lot from a Kroger, which seems to do the major traffic in the center.

"People have bags of frozen peas--they don't want to come spend time in here," a man named Steve from the Home Office in Akron, Pennsylvania told me. "And no one else knows we're even here. We have to get the word out."

And so, here goes. Get the word out. When in north Atlanta, go to Ten Thousand Villages in the CityWalk shopping center right off Hammond Drive (across from Whole Foods--and don't miss The World Peace Cafe! That's where I had that amazing Peace Burger and vegan chocolate almond cake a while back!).

Not in Atlanta? No problem. Visit the site and find a store near you. Or shop online and see if you don't find something for everyone on your list.

As well as something to covet yourself.

P.S. Don't forget about Pliny the Elder Quote Totes! Five bucks from every bag ordered goes to Ryan's Well Foundation--specifically, to the Kajiado rainwater harvesting system initiative. I checked the Ryan's Well website and I see that there is more than $22,000 in that fund now (up from about $15,000, when I first posted about it in November). Only another $5,800 to go for that project to be fully funded! I'm not sure how much of this effort is because of FoodShed Planet Friends for Kajiado (write that in the comments section when you donate), but I know we've helped. Let's push it over the edge now and wake up Christmas morning knowing we have worked together to make it happen.

Ten Thousand Villages

Team Chicken--UPDATED!

"Who, or what, is Team Chicken?!" my younger daughter asked as she glanced at my to-do list for the week sitting there on the kitchen counter. Make doctor appointment. Mail gifts. Finish writing cards. Contact Team Chicken.

"Oh, Team Chicken," I answered, nonchalantly. "yeah, we're gonna join for a month, starting in January."

"I am not joining anything called Team Chicken!" my older daughter chimed in from the living room, where she was curled up with a book on the couch.

"Oh, come on. It'll be fun!" I said.

"What exactly is this Team Chicken?" my younger daughter asked again, her interest clearly piqued.

Well, turns out when I went to that Chicks in the City Class a month or so ago, Allison Adams, the singer-chickenkeeper, mentioned that the Oakhurst Community Garden's chickens are cared for by Team Chicken, which is a group made up of dedicated families who take turns feeding the chickens and cleaning the coop. She said it was a great way to get to know how to care for chickens--and to see if it's something you like to do.

I had cocked my head at that (so to speak) and jotted it down in big letters in my notebook. TEAM CHICKEN.

"But we can't even have chickens in this neighborhood, remember, Mom?" my younger daughter reasoned.

"But ya' never know, hon," I went on. "Maybe one day things will change. Or we will move, although, of course, I have no intention of leaving my lovely soil anytime soon! Or when you get older and you get chickens of your own, you'll know what to do."

I could tell she was on board with the idea. One morning a week. Four weeks. Team Chicken.

The older one's nose was still deep in her book. She was wearing a cute black t-shirt that she had gotten as a gift recently and seems to particularly love.

"We could get t-shirts," I suggested, in desperation.

"I am not wearing a t-shirt that says Team Chicken on it!" she answered. Please keep in mind that she was currently wearing a t-shirt that said Cut the pickle.

"But you'll wear that?" I countered.

"This is an inside joke," she said, glancing up from the pages briefly.

"So Team Chicken can be an inside yolk!" Yes! Aren't I brilliant?

Pause. Long, long pause.

"That is not even funny."

Back to the book.

As Chicago debates the possibility of an urban chicken ban (the issue was supposed to be voted on this week but the vote has been temporarily delayed), I continue to try to work chickens into my life. Even if Team Chicken, rather than Team Baker, is the closest I ever get.

UPDATE: Slightly later in the morning, after Older Daughter reads this!

"Can you change that, Mom? It makes it sound like I'm not into these things. I'm just not into chickens. I mean, if it were goats or ducks . . . "

Team Chicken--UPDATED!

As I Kicked Off My Flip Flops

Look at that. Look at that! Is that not a feast for December eyes? This is what came in my CSA bag yesterday (the last one until next May). It was so heavy that, out of curiosity, I came right home and weighed it. Fourteen pounds. Cost me 25 bucks. That averages out to $1.78 per pound, for fresh, local, organic, seasonal food. And folks say eating this way is unaffordable?

I left this basket on my kitchen table all day yesterday, like a still life, and I tell ya', no red and green display of holiday lore could have made me happier. Or so I thought.

But then, last night we got our Christmas tree (and it is the first time in my life that I got a Christmas tree while wearing flip flops, I might add), and no, we didn't chop down a Leyland Cypress at a local tree farm this year (as we have the past two years). But as we were driving home with our Douglas Fir, no doubt from clear across the country in Oregon (where 80% of all U.S. Christmas trees originate), my kids reminded me of how we also cut down a little Charlie Brown tree the last two years, really nothing more than a tiny shoot with a few tufts of needles, and frankly, that they missed it this year.

And so you know, of course, what we did next. We pulled over at the first site of scrub brush on the side of the road. By the power lines. Where we had found the wild blackberries and morning glories during our two-part harmony walks to camp this past summer. And we spread out among the little tiny saplings until we found the one that "talked to us." And we pulled it up by its roots and brought it home and planted it in a pot and sat it on a coffee table in the living room.

While I was stringing lights on the big tree, my kids disappeared. They returned about twenty minutes later, with a song they had written, and they performed it for me. My older daughter was the Big Tree. My younger one was the Little Tree. The words went like this:

(Little Tree)

I am just a little tree
Some even call me scrawny
I might be small
But that ain't all
I got spirit

(Big Tree)

Back in my prestigious land
Where all the best decor is planned
I am the true heir
To the best holiday lair
I got more than you

It goes on and on, with the trees arguing back and forth until they finally work together, in the spirit of Christmas.

As I kicked off my flip flops, chomped on an apple from the CSA box and basked in the glow of the Christmas lights, I had to agree. It all somehow works together. In the spirit of Christmas.

As I Kicked Off My Flip Flops

Talk About Hallucinations

So I'm out in the garden yesterday, in tank top and flip flops on a record-heat day yet again, and I notice a row of little lacy leaves, clearly planted by me intentionally, at some point that I don't remember.

"Dill?" I say, wondering why I would have planted dill over there, so far from the herb beds. I nibble the leaves. Not dill. A slight licorice flavor.

""Fennel!" I realize. I have a vague memory of planting it. Since I don't write down what I've planted or mark the spots with little sticks with seed names on them, it is always a bit of a surprise to me to see what happens out there.

I've never grown fennel before, but a little research leads me immediately to . . . you guessed it . . . Pliny the Elder!

Pliny says that snakes eat fennel after they shed their skins in order to restore their sight. Other medicinal properties attributed to fennel include (supposedly) its ability to relieve gastrointestinal pain, to stimulate milk production in nursing mothers, and to suppress hunger. There is talk about hallucinations in high doses, however, so as with much that's good in life, it is recommended that you use caution and moderation (and, disclaimer, disclaimer! Nothing I say can count as medical advice!).

Cooks love the stuff. You can use all parts of the plant--the roots, the leaves and the seed. It apparently pairs perfectly with fish, is delicious served raw in salads, and is used commonly by many cultures as a flavoring in breads and other baked goods and confections.

I wonder if I need to cover it, if it should really be growing right now in December in Zone 7-pushing-8 (I mean, it will get cold at some point, won't it?). I think I'll build a little row cover/hoop house/cold frame thing out of wire clothes hangers and cover it with my bioterrorism plastic sheeting (I have an enormous roll of it that I bought on 9/12/2001 and I've been using it in lots of innovative ways ever since). A fennel kennel, so to speak.

And so I wonder. What other seeds are waiting right below the surface of the soil, and the surface of daily life, for just the right conditions to grow? What other surprises await, both in the garden--and beyond?

Talk About Hallucinations

Tchaikovsky and a Couple of Shlumps

Kate wrote about the smell of chestnuts flowering right now in Australia (a smell I can't imagine), but that took me back in time, 19 years, to the smell of chestnuts roasting, yes, on an open fire, on the sidewalks of New York City the December I fell in love with the man who was to become my husband. We met on a blind date and we were engaged six weeks later. That's how it happens sometimes.

But that December. Ahhh. Let me just visit my MemoryShed a minute. Because if you ever have the chance to fall in love at Christmastime in New York City, do yourself a favor and let it happen. The memory of it will sustain you the rest of your life. The tree salesmen on the street corners smiling broader when you pass, arm in arm, the vendors with hats and purses and books that line the avenues knowing you're a sucker for a sale, the shoppers with bags bustling past you, the singers, the shows, the lights, the pretzels. The unpreceded joy of tapping out the notes of Tchaikovsky's classic music in each other's palms during the first magical Nutcracker together.

It's as if Central Casting had supplied them all for your singular joy and amusement. And then a light snow falls. And a restaurant with a lit fire beckons. And the chill of night and the warmth of your heart commingle until you feel as if you are going to explode with happiness.

And so all this ran through my head the other day as I went to empty the "pumpkin people" we had made from old clothes and wheat straw that had been sitting on our front bench for Halloween with pumpkin heads that have since rotted. I moved the bodies to the back because I wanted to spread the straw in the garden, but then I saw them sitting there outside my window and I laughed.

"It's us!" I thought. My husband and me. Nineteen years later. A couple of shlumps. No, I don't think we look like that--at least, I hope not. But we feel like that. But in a good way. Settled in. Comfortable. Relaxed. We laugh more. We're easier on each other. We understand why I don't like loud conversations and why he can't stand clutter in the garage. We know who can solve the technology problems (him) and who can solve the spatial ones (me). We scribble notes to each other all over the newspaper. And we know that if we go somewhere that says events will occur both indoors and out, he will dress light and I will dress warm.

And as I stood there with these swirling thoughts, like snow that comes here once a year but skipped last year and doesn't look too promising right now, I heard it. The strains of our daughter's violin.

Playing selections from The Nutcracker.

Tchaikovsky and a Couple of Shlumps

Let It Go

It was 78 degrees Fahrenheit yesterday (a record high, apparently, with another record high expected today). To the sounds of children whizzing down the hill in front of my house on bikes and a neighbor tossing a football with her son, I alternated between hanging my Christmas lights and thinning my lettuces, visions of my Christmas Day salad dancing in my head.

Back and forth. Climb ladder, string lights. Kneel, weed, dig, plant. Cover bushes with lights, plug in, stand back and check. Drag red buckets of shower and kitchen water outside.

"The lights waste water," my daughter said. Hmmmm. That report on how the electric company is the biggest user of water clearly got through to her.

"Well, that's why we waited until December 9," I answered. "And we'll be sure to turn them off at night. And we don't have all that many lights."

Rationalization? Or should we skip holiday lights now? Is nothing sacred?

And then there's the whole "why is it so warm in December?" issue. My friend emailed me that he can barely enjoy the weather because it's just another sign of nature gone crazy.

I had flung the windows up, opened the umbrella over the table on the patio, pulled out my summer sandals and a tank top, and even tossed some chicken on the grill. I found myself humming this holiday favorite, adapted for a glorious summer day in December here in Atlanta:

Oh, the weather outside's delightful,
And the grill is cooking a biteful,
So as long as there's no chance of snow,
Let it grow, let it grow, let it grow!

Or perhaps, for just one day, one day when I take a little holiday break from the pressing issues of the world, let it go, let it go, let it go.

Let It Go

Helper Fish

A few years ago, my younger daughter asked me if we could get an aquarium. We had had one years before, before she was born, when my older daughter was maybe four. Our conversation went something like this:

"Well, we didn't have much success with it, hon, I'm sorry to say, " I answered gingerly.

"What happened?" she asked, her eyes wide.

"We could just never get that tank clean, and the pH balanced, no matter how hard we tried."

"Oh, Mom," she answered, the voice of wisdom in a three-foot package. "You needed to get yourself a helper fish."

A Helper Fish? Turns out her friend Haley had a Helper Fish in her aquarium, which I was finally able to figure out was a bottom-feeding catfish that would eat the junk in the tank and keep it clean and balanced.

No, we never got the tank. But I sometimes think about how much I need a Helper Fish, like something out of a Dr. Seuss book that will whip around my life and put things in order again. When the house is a mess. When my work piles up. When the garden overwhelms me. When my dreams and goals and plans and schemes are bigger than the time I've been given in a day (which is the same 24 hours that we all get, apparently).

And so, now, during the holiday season, I see neighbor after neighbor, friend after friend, whose eyes are bleary with exhaustion, trying to get everything done, to buy and make and wrap and get packages in the mail by the 15th, to write at least a little something on holiday cards, to get and decorate the tree and hang the lights and go to ballet performances and bake the cookies. And to celebrate eight days of Hanukkah as well in the middle of all that, not to mention the Winter Solstice coming right around the corner. And Kwanzaa, for some, as well. (Oh, and add in those December birthdays, which, frankly, should be illegal.) All while working all day and running around all night and God forbid the oven breaks or someone gets sick.

And as I was riding my bike home from my daughter's school the other morning, I ran into a neighbor middle-schooler who was waiting for the bus, holding this bag with two little catfish in it, that she was bringing to the aquarium at her school.

"Helper Fish!" I exclaimed when I saw them. "You have Helper Fish!"

And she lit up immediately, a day full of classes and tests and assignments and reports ahead of her, perhaps knowing intrinsically that that's what we all need. Especially now.

Helper Fish.

I have realized over the years that a Helper Fish doesn't really put my life in order. It puts my priorities in order. And so, here are my Helper Fish for this very busy month:

* Yellow days, of course. I've already said no to at least four things because they involved yellow days.

* Simple expectations (this one takes all year to manage and starts with no commercial TV!). The house is never all that clean. The gifts are not wrapped quite so beautifully. And Dance Dance Revolution with double mats and disco lights? Ain't happening in my house.

* Friends who agree to share the gift of precious time, a few minutes on the phone, a quick cup of tea, a walk around the neighborhood, an evening caroling together, rather than material gifts.

* Exercise. There's nothing like it, especially if I can do something outdoors. Or dancing around the living room works in a pinch, too.

* A good, long, lazy meal. It's counterintuitive, I know, to spend a couple hours lingering over candles and music and a warm meal and wine, and stories of the day told by people I love, when there is so much else that needs to be done, but frankly, you can keep the rest if you just let me keep having this.

Who, or what, are your Helper Fish during the holidays?

Helper Fish

It All Somehow Starts with Food

Food. It occurs to me that I haven't written about food in a while. And considering this blog is titled FoodShed Planet, I thought, hey, that might be a good idea!

Eating close to home. Okay, let's start there. Because, frankly, I'm apparently avoiding talking about local food because it's December and it's a drought here, and that lethal combo means pickin's are slim, slim, slim. But here's my daily salad from my garden, including French breakfast radishes that I gobbled up yesterday, meaning perhaps that I now, finally, like radishes. It's gotten so that I can eat the most bitter of greens, happily, but that means a basic little restaurant salad tastes like cardboard to me now.

I have some local meat from Gum Creek Farms in the freezer (for my family), plus the last of my pesto ice cubes and some summer veggies that I blanched and froze. And, of course, there are the ubiquitous sweet potatoes from my CSA box, and a lingering delicata squash. But that's it, folks. I didn't can. I didn't "put up" a root cellar's worth of root vegetables. I have no chickens (as you know) for daily eggs. The farmer's market ended, and I have one last CSA delivery next week. Oh, and, as you can well imagine, that big box of locally-made chocolate is long gone.

So yes, these are the dark days of eating local. But soon, I will shift to my sister foodshed, Florida, because that's where winter comes alive. Finding organics is the challenge, but together we'll see if this year shows improvement over last.

Around the world. Okay, I do have to draw your attention to a post by my friend Kate in Australia. In fact, I'd like to invite you to spend some time on the Hills and Plains Seedsavers blog in general, since it is springtime there and the gardens are all vibrantly alive. Kate's post is about eating feral (wild) animals. Goats. Pigs. Deer. Kangaroos. That kind of thing. She posted it the day after my long vegetarian post earlier in the week (or the same day, depending on how you view world time!). I joked that she restored balance in the world.

And other food for thought. And that brings me to balance, and the world's energy. Did you know that Kate bought a unicycle for her husband for his 40th birthday (a number of years ago)? And I learned to ride for my 40th? Don't you think that is a weird coincidence? And yesterday I talked to my friend Richard about what Pliny the Elder wrote about labyrinths, and he had just received an email about labyrinths from a friend in California moments before I saw him?

This world is small, folks. Every action we take or thought we have is somehow connected by some intricate, invisible web of humanity. Or so it seems to me.

And it all somehow starts with food.

It All Somehow Starts with Food

Remains of the Day

When I walk out in my garden to cover up my cold frame for the night, I find it, the remains of the day, of the afternoon hour or two (a Green Hour, I suppose, as recommended by the National Wildlife Federation) that one or both of my kids spent frolicking out there.

There's a hula hoop hanging from a tree, for reasons I don't know. The table that is usually over there, under the Carolina jasmine, has been dragged to the middle of the yard and is covered with little plates of bright green moss, as if there had been a fairy luncheon. A basket of dominos mingles with rocks. The hammock, empty of leaves and other fall debris, holds a forgotten book and a pair of socks that came off feet that are almost my size now, warmed by the sudden afternoon sun. That hole on the edge of the yard seems to be getting larger and now has a bridge across it built from sticks. And the shells, gathered at sunrise morning-after-morning on our annual trips to south Florida, sit in carefully-arranged circles as if they were Stonehenge itself.

I clean up none of it, nor do I ask the kids to clean it up. For, by now, I know, that the remains of today are the starting point of tomorrow. And a well-thought-out game that has sprung from pure imagination is a beautiful thing.

And so another day passes where I know one thing for sure. The toy stores have nothing over my backyard.

Remains of the Day

Baking Soda Could Help Save the Planet, and Other Things That Caught My Eye

So, it started with the baking soda article that I found a few days ago on CNN.com, titled Baking Soda Could Help Save the Planet. Caught my eye, of course. Turns out that a company named Skyonic has developed a way to convert carbon dioxide, a major greenhouse gas, into food-grade baking soda. Now, think about folks using all that baking soda to clean their homes instead of toxic chemicals, and we're on to something totally synergistic here. Love it, love it, love it.

But here's the part of the article that has had my head spinning. Skyonic CEO Joe Jones supposedly thought up this baking soda solution to the carbon dioxide problem while watching a show on the Discovery Network with his kids. And this is the part that excites me--solutions surround us, and nature holds many of the answers, if only we can take the time to see, truly see, and to make the connections that will make a difference.

Case in point--our little drought situation here in Georgia. An article in the Atlanta Journal Constitution yesterday said basically that folks don't need to worry, that we probably won't run out of water, let's just wait and see how very bad the spring and summer will be (they are predicted to be catastrophic, by the way) and even if we do totally dry up, there are plans to truck in water.

Truck in water! This is our big plan? We have mere months left of potable water and this is the big news? And what state exactly is going to be so willing to share their water? And how long will that water last? And how much fuel will it take to get it here? And what happens after that? Where is the thinking? Where is the ingenuity? Where are the true roll-up-our-sleeves changes? Where are the ideas?

Baking soda, my friends. This innovative idea, which is currently being pilot-tested at the Big Brown Steam Electric Station in Fairfield, Texas, is my guiding light for today. I am going to place a box of baking soda on my desk to remind me of the kind of thinking the world needs right now.

As for other luminaries, my friend Judy recommends a website named TED, which stands for technology, entertainment and design and which has videos of "inspired talks by the world's greatest thinkers and doers."

I'm also always blown away each year by Fast Company's Social Capitalist Awards winners, which are featured in this month's issue of the magazine.

And finally, I draw your attention to my favorite book on creativity, famous choreographer and dancer Twyla Tharp's The Creative Habit. I reread it every year between Christmas and New Year's, like clockwork, and I get something new from it each time.



More innovative thinking. Less trucked water, please.

Baking Soda Could Help Save the Planet, and Other Things That Caught My Eye

The Big Dog

I used to walk to school every day, and as an obsessive Virgo my whole life, I always made a point to arrive early, even after kicking a rock the whole way (which was not easy down those stairs and through that tunnel under the Long Island Rail Road tracks).

In the dead of winter, we'd line the hallways with our snow-covered boots and they'd drip into puddles until the whole hallway was a bit of a sloshy mess. Our gloves and hats and scarves would lay across the radiators in the classroom, crusting up with hardness and cracking when we again put them on. But getting to school early meant I would be the only person in the hall, and I loved the quiet and stillness of that time of the day. Still do.

When I was in third grade, I got to enjoy an extra treat, because my teacher would display a famous poem on a door-sized piece of butcher paper, which she would change each month (which was as good as Christmas to me). I would stand in the hall in my wet boots, alone and happy, and memorize it.

And so, it is with great joy that I walk my children into each of their schools. And every so often, I see something new in the hallway that makes me stand there, gape-mouthed with wonder, as if I were back at Corpus Christi School in Mineola again. And the other day, this was it. Simple sheets of black construction paper, on which children had stuck those little gold star stickers and used chalk lines to connect them to form the constellations. Each star had a hole poked in it, and through it were Christmas lights that connected down the line, from constellation to constellation.

My daughter's teacher, seeing me standing there and perhaps recognizing the little girl in me, took the plug from the lights, which was dangling near the door, and plugged it in just inside the classroom. As Canis Major and the others came to life, it literally took my breath away.

The bell now rung, children poured down the hall. If we had been up North, it would only have been moments until the Boot Puddle formed. One after another, the children stopped short and gasped along with me. They pointed. They grabbed their friends to show them. They oohed and aahed.

My daughter's teacher smiled broadly beneath her glasses. Because, after 42 years of teaching, she knows. The lights are not just going on for those constellations. The lights are going on--and staying on--inside these children. With or without boots.

Canis Major is the Big Dog in the Sky, who follows the hunter Orion. The brightest star in the sky, Sirius, forms its nose. The three main stars of Canis Major are called The Winter Triangle in the Northern Hemisphere, and the Summer Triangle in the Southern Hemisphere (another shout-out to my friends in Australia here!)

As a special gift to my daughter's teacher, my third grade teacher, and teachers and poem-lovers everywhere, I share with you this poem by Robert Frost:

Canis Major

The great Overdog
That heavenly beast
With a star in one eye
Gives a leap in the east.
He dances upright
All the way to the west
And never once drops
On his forefeet to rest.
I'm a poor underdog,
But to-night I will bark
With the great Overdog
That romps through the dark.

--by Robert Frost

For us Northern Hemisphere folks, the dead of winter may have us huddling inside more. But this poem reminds me to head on outside on a starry night. And look up. Because even though many of us are celebrating holidays punctuated by lights and candles right now, I am humbled by the great show of lights that happens each night in the sky, which we can all enjoy together, whatever it is we celebrate and wherever we are.

But right now, I have something special to do, something I should have started doing a long time ago.

And, yes, it involves butcher paper and a fat magic marker.

The Big Dog

Transparency in Labeling

This stir fry of local, seasonal root crops and greens has nothing in it that would surprise you. No human hair from barber shops in China. No feathers. No ground-up boiled hooves or cockroaches, or extracts from the anal musk glands of beavers.

Processed foods you buy in the supermarket, even organic ones? Can't promise you they don't have these items. According to a truly shocking, and dare I say, potentially life-changing article I read last night in the current issue of VegNews, these are all accepted on the Code of Federal Regulations as "natural flavors," along with an oil extracted from sheep's wool (lanolin), an enzyme removed from the tongues of calves (lipase), and many more ingredients. I kid you not.

For me, knowledge is power, yes, but it's also unforgettable. Once I read something like this, that's it, it's locked in my head forever, completely changing the way I see the world in which I live, and the way I interact with that world. Now, add to this mix that I am in my ninth month of my "Nothing with a Face" year as a vegetarian, and then you can understand that now I face a whole new set of food choice decisions. For instance, now that I know that the Vitamin D3 added to milk is derived from lanolin (sheep wool) or fish means that milk with Vitamin D3 is no longer vegetarian (forget vegan). (Vitamin D2 is from yeast, so that one is okay.)

But let's not stop at the implications for vegetarians of these animal-derived additives. (Ambergris is a flavoring agent from the intestines of sperm whales, for instance.) How does it make you feel, anyone, no matter how you eat, to know that these things are added to your food without you knowing it? Without you having any way to know it from reading most labels? (According to the article in VegNews, Europeans have it even harder than those in the United States because the ingredients are listed with numbers instead of names, however vague, on labels, so this isn't a U.S.-screwed-up-food-system-only problem.)

Long-time readers of FoodShed Planet know where I stand on labeling--I want transparent labeling that enables me to make fully informed decisions about the food I buy, eat and feed my family. Yes, the trans fat labeling regulation helped. Yes, the allergen labeling requirement helped. But we're not done yet, folks. We deserve to know when there are growth hormones (and when there are not). When there are antibiotics. When there are GMOs. And, yes, when there are animal-derived additives (enzymes from pig's stomachs, rendered beef fat, coagulating agents derived from cows, and so on) without needing an advanced degree in chemistry.

Apparently, the FDA has approved about 2800 food additives and 3000 chemicals as GRAS (Generally Recognized as Safe). The examples I've given are some of these. And so I ask you, these are generally recognized as safe for whom? For vegetarians? For those interested in animal welfare? For those with religious restrictions? For anyone who doesn't want beetles in their food, or any other additives whose derivation you just don't know or can't figure out easily by reading a label?

As I see it, there are several choices regarding taking control of the food we eat:

1. Vote with your dollar. Just say no to processed foods that contain additives you don't want in your diet, or whose labels are not clear. Buy whole foods and buy foods grown and prepared by folks you know, close to home.

2. Get involved. Read about food labeling issues. Write letters to your government representatives. Do research. Talk to friend and neighbors. Find out everything you can so that you can make informed decisions--and help change the system.

As for me, I'm up a creek without a paddle. Now, I'm back on the "milk detective" trail, so to speak, to try to find an organic milk that does not contain vitamin D3. Or do I even need the milk? The rice and almond "milks" that are available are not organic, so no, thank you. And although I do drink organic soymilk, I continue to be concerned about the estrogenic effect of too much soy so I'm not sure I want to go 100% that way yet.

I've had it with big business. I've had it with our commercial food supply, and that includes Big Organic, too. I've had it with what has happened to us as a society--and the fact that we have somehow, unknowingly, let it happen. I've had it with feeling like I'm tiptoeing around a mine field every time I eat, and that I can barely talk about what's happening to most people because I'll "ruin their appetites."

I just want food. Real food. Whole food. Simple food. Is that too much to ask?

Transparency in Labeling

Keep Pedaling

I get some personal emails as a result of FoodShed Planet where I have truly moving conversations with people who were strangers not long ago. And some would say, we are still strangers, having cyber-relationships which are nothing more than mirages, false connections in a disconnected society.

But I beg to differ. And here's why.

Six weeks before I turned 40, I got a unicycle. Leaving the bike store with that unicycle under my arm was one of the happiest moments of my life. The possibilities! The challenge! The sheer silliness of it all! The morning of my birthday, at precisely my birth moment, I rode halfway around the track on that unicycle to the thunderous applause of my family. While learning to ride, I literally found out what balance truly means in more ways than one. In fact, I've learned a bunch of lessons since then.

1. Get over the fear of falling by learning to fall gracefully.

After learning how to just sit on the darn thing, the next thing you learn on a unicycle is how to fall. You sit there, with your hand on the previously-white wall in your hallway, and let the seat drop forward, falling effortlessly, miraculously, on your feet. Then, you do it again, letting the seat fall backwards. Again, you’re on your feet. You practice this for hours so that when the day comes when you finally leave the wall and pedal an actual rotation or two, you can fall with ease and confidence, knowing you will land on your feet. Okay, fine, it doesn’t always work out that way, but you learn. Fast. Especially that it’s far less painful to fall forward.

When I get book rejections or lose a potential client opportunity now--which I do, a lot—I try to remember to fall gracefully and to use whatever knowledge I acquired from the experience to move me forward in my career, and more importantly, in my life.


2. Relax your back, remember to breathe, and keep pedaling.

When you stop pedaling on a unicycle, you stop. Period. There is no coasting. Pedaling must be constant. And when you’re focusing on teetering up there on that seat and basically trying not to kill yourself, it’s sometimes hard to remember to keep those leg pistons going, like a duck in water.

When I first started riding, I had to sing songs to remind myself to pedal on each beat. This required so much thought that I would forget to breathe and would tighten up my back until it was a total knot. Yoga techniques help with both these problems, which is why I often refer to unicycling as uniyoga—besides, it’s the ultimate balance pose! If you want to be truly challenged, try tree pose on a unicycle. And when life tenses me up now, my breath is the first thing I think of.

3. Lean into the wind or get blown right over.

I used to ride several mornings a week, all year long, through all kinds of weather. Rain, snow flurries and scorching sun were no problem. Wind was the problem. Here, I had to remember what I learned in that church basement in New York City where I took those budget sailing lessons many years ago. The instructor walked in with a fan and said, “Today we are going to learn about wind” and he proceeded to blow it at us from various directions and attempt to teach us the proper ways to jib and jab.

So now, when the wind blows, I try to figure out which way the fan is pointed and react accordingly. My arms are the sails. I raise and lower them slightly, making minor corrections, until I once again maintain equilibrium. When the wind blows straight at me, there is only one defense, however. I must lean forward into it and keep on pedaling. Likewise, when adversity hits in life, I see it as wind to which I must simply react by either making adjustments or leaning into and plowing through.


4. Keep your focus on where you want to go, not where you are.

I heard once that heads weigh something like ten pounds so if you keep moving your head around, you throw off your balance. Focus is everything. On the unicycle, I lock my eyes on a mid-distance point ahead of me and go towards it, although my ears stay tuned for sounds in the Now so I can tell if a dog runs up behind me (never fun) or respond to a jogger who wants to chat (which is often).

In my daily life, I keep mindful of my big-picture intentions—to fulfill my purpose for today, to honor the abilities I’ve been given by using them for good in the world, and to be a positive bridge to future generations.

5. Don’t worry about how silly you look. Who really cares?

I’m a mini-van driving suburban mom (although, didn't I used to be sort of hip at one time?) I live in a neighborhood where we have to get the color of our shutters approved before repainting. I don’t know how many people ride a unicycle in this country, but here in my town, no one does but me, as far as I can tell. Riding a unicycle is a little out there. But, you know what? Once I got out there, and once the high school kids stopped heckling me from the windows that overlook the track, unicycling became the most normal thing in the world for me. I was free. Truly free.

I can skip wildly down the street, sing out of tune while washing my car, jump awkwardly off the diving board at the community pool, laugh from deep in my soul, and even allow myself to be vulnerable to criticism and yes, even rejection. It’s okay. It’s part of living my life out loud. Even though my shutters are a lovely shade of blue.

6. Celebrate the joy of achievement, no matter how truly useless the skill.

I can do something today I couldn’t do a few years ago, and something most people have never tried to do at all. Each time I have a setback in my life, I remind myself, “Yeah, but you can ride a unicycle” and it always make me smile.

I took this photo after riding my unicycle in a nearby basketball court. And when I looked back at it, I saw this freaky shadow. You have to admit--it is most definitely a gardener with a shovel. A little, alien-looking one of course, but a gardener. And for me, the message is clear. My gardener friends around the world are reflections of who and what I am. They are ways that I find support in an unsteady, challenging world. And through our connections, we are not alone. We can keep pedaling, awkwardly, on one wheel, as the world spins out of control around us. And we can celebrate the freedom we have found with each other.

Yes, reaching out to strangers was a risk for me, and believing our relationships are real is probably even riskier. But, when I see the good it has brought to my world--and the good I hope we are bringing collectively to the whole world, I ask you, what's not real about that?

Keep Pedaling

This Little World We Call Our Neighborhood

A survey conducted by Dreyer's Ice Cream asked Americans how well they knew their neighbors. It found that:

-- Three out of ten Americans (27%) don't know their neighbors' first and last names.

-- Six in ten Americans (59%) who aren't friendly with their neighbors say it's because they're just too busy to create meaningful relationships.

-- Fewer than half of Americans (48%) have borrowed something, like a cup of sugar, from one of their neighbors.

Supposedly, according to the experts, kids do better in school, people live longer, and crime rates are lower when people who live in the same community have a basic familiarity with each other. It doesn't take an expert to know that feeling at home in your own community means knowing some of the folks who live near you.

When we first moved to our neighborhood shortly after it was built, no one had fences, many people walked after dinner, there was a shocking number of babies in the neighborhood out in strollers almost all the time, and somehow we all got to know each other. Over the years, many people moved out and new people moved in, fences divided every home, the kids grew older and got over-involved in activities, and garage doors opened and closed, spitting out and sucking in people we never really saw anymore outside their cars (with the exception of the always-magical evenings of Halloween and July 4th).

And so, it was a breath of fresh air what happened in my neighborhood the last two years, and for it I thank my friends Kelly and Carol. I invite you, as the last Sunday of our FoodShed Planet Kids suggestion, to do what they did and invite the kids in your 'hood to a very casual evening of caroling from door-to-door.

They arranged the caroling on an innocent weeknight, when people were home from work and tired and basically not suspecting a group of cherubic children to ring their bells and sing to the heavens from a selection of boundary-crossing holiday classics that made everyone feel welcome.

Moms with pajama-wearing toddlers clapping in their arms stood weary at the doors, smiling in recognition that one day that child in their arms would join the children of the neighborhood in song.

Elderly couples reluctant to open doors, especially at night, heard the singing voices up the road and stood anxiously awaiting their unexpected guests.

Children we didn't know the day before asked their parents if they could join us.

And the whole thing ended with hot chocolate in Kelly's garage and the warmth of knowing just a little bit more about where we live, and with whom we share this little world we call our neighborhood.

Not interested in caroling? Then perhaps it might work better for you to simply take a moment during this busy holiday season and get to know one person who lives near you better; or start waving when you pass those dog-walking, cellphone-talking neighbors; or maybe even head on out after dinner for that jog you've been meaning to take.

You never know who might join you. And you never know when you're going to need that cup of sugar.

This Little World We Call Our Neighborhood

I'm Dreaming of a Rainbow Garden

No, King Harry isn't a friend of Pliny the Elder. It's a variety of potato (organic, non-genetically engineered) that is supposedly highly resistant to Colorado potato beetles, potato leafhoppers and flea beetles. And Corinna Garmon, owner of Cutie the Duck and the farmer manager of the farmers market I attend, discovered it after reading about it in Mother Earth News. WoodPrairie Farm in Maine is the only supplier of it that she can find. WoodPrairie Farm, owned by Jim and Megan Gerritsen, is pretty much the last stop before Canada in Northern Maine.

And so I tossed the slick holiday catalogs that keep coming with the daily mail into the recycling pile and I pined away an hour or so thinking about King Harry, and All Blues and Red Clouds and sweet, buttery Yukon Golds. And then, on the bottom of the mail, I discovered the Seeds of Change 2008 Professional Seed Catalog. As if I am a professional. As if I have a farm and not a backyard kitchen garden.

And I felt my knees go weak, even though I promised myself I wouldn't order from Seeds of Change again because of how messed up and ill-handled my last two orders had been. Yet Orange Fantasia Chard! And Deep-Purple Dragon Carrots! And Dakota Black Popcorn! And my favorite little summer team, Genovese basil, Lemon Cucumbers and Yellow Pear Tomatoes. Oh, and look at that--Love Lies Bleeding Amaranth--"graceful ropes of cascading deep red, lavish plumes. Stunning in bouquets, reminiscent of aristocratic times." King Harry would be proud.

Other people can dream of a White Christmas all they want. I'm dreaming of a Rainbow Garden.

I'm Dreaming of a Rainbow Garden