Live Intentionally

NOTE: This is an introductory chapter explaining my working title for my forthcoming book based on this blog. After WAY too much agonizing, I finally decided that my blog is about much more than eating. It's also about more than organic living. It's about living intentionally. So, that's the title (for now) - Live Intentionally. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. The manuscript goes to beta readers this Friday! 

What Does an Intentional Life Look Like?

An Intentional Life is a life that is authentic. It’s real. It can be trusted.  It means not just healthier eating, but knowing your food – where it came from, how it was prepared, and what it can do for you. It’s also enjoying that food and taking pride in the care you’ve taken in selecting or creating it.

It’s feeling good about how you spend your time and how your children spend their time. It’s taking care of your body and teaching your children to do the same. It’s exploring your own creativity and ability and not being a stand-by passenger in this life. 

Define 'Organic'

I’ve had the opportunity to lead several workshops on eating organically recently, and it has led me to think long and hard about the definition of organic. Here's Webster's take on it-

Organic, adj. 1. of or having to do with an organ 2. inherent, inborn 3. systematically arranged 4. designating or of any chemical compound containing carbon 5. of, like, or derived from living organisms 6. grown with only animal or vegetable fertilizers

I’m not sure any of those definitions fit with the generally acknowledged definition most people acknowledge these days. The first comment I run in to most often, is “too expensive”. And many people, my children included, can’t help but say the word organic without a slight sneer, kind of the way Nellie Olsen talked on the original Little House on the Prairie series. Somehow organic has gone from a good idea to a trendy idea to a snobby idea.

As I thought through the message I was trying to convey at the workshops, I kept coming back to the word ‘organic’. I think there is a danger in defining ‘organic’ as the food that has received the government’s little green label. In fact, I might even venture to speculate that most of the certified organic food you find in the grocery store isn’t nearly as organic as the food you’ll find at your farmer’s market or roadside stand.

The people defining the word ‘organic’ are the people with the most to gain from that definition (and that wouldn’t be you and me). The food manufacturers have loads of money to spend on lobbyists and plenty of political power to ensure that the definition is watered down enough to make mass production of ‘organic’ food possible and profitable. If you do a little research, you’ll quickly discover that just about all of the organic brands you find in the grocery store have been bought up by conventional food manufacturers. It’s a bit of a curse to be successful at an organic start up; it virtually guarantees your days are numbered.

Truly it’s a free for all. Just about anything can be twisted in to acceptance with the right amount of influence and legal documents. There are over 500 exceptions (probably hundreds more since my source is over a year old) for pesticides, preservatives, additives, food colorings, artificial flavorings, and stabilizers in organic food. At a workshop I led for young mothers, I was hard pressed to come up with an answer to the question, “What kind of organic snack can I give my toddler?” Fruit, being my first response, isn’t always practical. And the overpriced organic snack food being hoisted on well-meaning mothers, isn’t necessarily any better than the goldfish crackers and cheezits I raised my children on. It’s a tough call. And there is no simple answer.

Until we are all ready to go back to growing all our own food or knowing the person who grows it for us, the best we can do is the best we can do. I still keep harping on label reading. It’s pretty much your only weapon against the marketing. Much of the “organic” processed food you find in the grocery store has only a few organic ingredients, most likely just enough to qualify for the little green and white seal.

I was reading today that Horizon organics, who own more than 50% of the market on organic dairy products, keep their cows in a grassless feed lot and stuff them full of “organic” feed. They have so many cows at their manufacturing facility in southern Idaho, it’s a statistical impossibility to keep them on grass (the acreage they would cover would make it impossible to gather them in to the milking barn three times a day). I’m guessing it’s the same situation at their international facilities too. And I have to stifle a giggle at the idea of “organic” cow feed. With all the shenanigans involved with certifying organic people food, I have to wonder who’s certifying organic cow food? My guess it’s pretty much a fox guarding the hen house.

So which is better - milk you buy from local farms who don’t proclaim to be “organic” but graze their cows on fresh grass every day, or certified “organic” milk shipped to you from across the country or continent?

I’m truly getting tired of the “organic” label. I’m not sure it means anything anymore. I think we need to talk about ingredients and processes because they mean much more than the indulgent, expensive certification process that costs us as taxpayers and as consumers.

No one wants to hear this, but it’s the message I have to keep spreading – make your own food. Don’t groan and roll your eyes at me. It’s not difficult and many times it’s not even very time consuming. And for sure, it saves you money. Deciding to make your own food is a mind set. It requires moving beyond the part of you that says, “I can’t do this.” Sure, in the beginning it will take a little work, some serious research, and a rearranging of priorities.

It seems to me, as I watch the lines at the fast food drive through and the overflowing carts at Walmart, that most people are sheep. They are following everyone else, trusting that if they are eating it and the store is selling it and the government is allowing it, than it must be OK.

Sure, it won’t kill you, at least not today. All you have to do is look at our ever-expanding population to know that we can survive on artificially colored, chemically-created, pesticide and preservative laden food. We can live just fine. All we’ll need is seriously good health insurance and some major savings to support us when our bodies finally max out on the toxins and we have to pay the piper. Not to be all doom and gloom, I’m just saying.

My mother-in-law tells me that I need to be sure my readers know that I’m not super-woman, that I truly don’t get it right all the time. So let me tell you what I brought home from the grocery store last night for my 15-year-old’s upcoming birthday gathering this weekend. (he chose the menu) – cheezits in multiple flavors, tortilla chips, pretzels, mountain dew, sierra mist in that bright red color you know is laden with Red No. 5, and several ridiculously impossible “fruit” juices that claimed to be “100% from concentrate” (which means, what?). And on Saturday I will bake a cake laden with fat and chocolate and real cream and then we’ll order pizza from a parlor. And I promise that not once will I say “you shouldn’t eat that”!

I don’t want to be the “food nazi” as Stephen Colbert accused Michael Pollan of on his show this week. My oldest son is a huge fan (of Colbert, not Pollan) and enjoyed sharing the clip with me. Pollan took the chiding very well, but he also made his point – people need to eat real food. He didn’t talk about organics, he talked about common sense.

I think we need to remember that eating “organic” (for lack of a better word) is not an all or nothing venture. Every change we make that moves us towards a healthier life is progress, however small. It’s time to take responsibility for our food. It’s dangerous to trust our family’s health to the government, the food manufacturers, or the grocers. We need to know what we are eating. Or as my favorite quote says, “If you are what you eat and you don’t know what you’re eating, how do you know who you are?”

Defining the word ‘organic’ in terms of our food system is difficult, as it seems to be an ever-evolving claim, but defining organic as food that is real, honest, and good for our bodies might be a step in the right direction.

Don't Know Nothing 'Bout History....

History was never my strong suit. I think the turning point was the overly enthusiastic teacher I had in 7th grade who scared me so much. I struggled with the requirement in college, garnering my only C. Whenever I find myself at a historic battlefield or museum, the sight of all those plaques makes my eyes glaze over. But in the interest of making up for lost time and setting a good example for my children I do try to drum up some enthusiasm.

I recently spent five days in Williamsburg, Virginia. I will admit up front that it wasn’t my idea and I went there for reasons having nothing to do with history. The trip was a Christmas gift from my husband. He (and a bunch of other incredibly thoughtful hubbies) gave me (and four other women from my book club) five days on a beautiful plantation. So, being honest, I went there to eat, drink and be merry with friends. Oh, and of course we read a book. One of the husbands (shout out to Mark, here) picked the book, “Dark Enough to See the Stars in a Jamestown Sky” for us to read and discuss (we really did!). Despite the verbose title and somewhat dry writing, the book brought history to life. It was the journal of a woman named Joan who journeyed across the Atlantic to settle in the first Jamestown settlement, survived the “starving time” and hostile Indians, and lived to tell.

Joan’s story raised a lot of issues about self-reliance, food preservation, and just how easy we have it these days. Most of us have never been truly hungry and we’ve certainly never been in danger of starving. Reading about the struggle for sustenance and the possibility of death on a daily basis was a foreign concept for me. But it is a very present reality for many on our planet. The desperation that rearranged priorities and perspectives was clear. The plight of a mother unable to adequately feed her child was heart-wrenching. I was glad I could close the cover. While it was a lesson in history, it made the present real.

What will history say about us? The house where we stayed was built in the 1700’s - the first time. It had only resided at its current location for 30 years. The owner had painstakingly moved it, piece by piece in his Ford Pinto. (Yes, really!) It was restored beautifully and we delighted in the details we discovered – dishes, carpentry, art work, weaponry, books. The grounds were gorgeous. The whole place looked like it had been plucked right from the center of Williamsburg and placed there in the forest across the river.

In between the revelry (no kids!! no where to be!! No one will ever know!!), I managed a few trail runs. Some of the trees I passed were enormous and I wondered if they had been there while Joan was across the river starving in Jamestown. Knowing the settlers had survived by eating acorns, I had new respect for the tiny nuts as they crunched under my feet. Maybe it was my hangover, but I really felt those woods were hallowed.

Which makes me wonder – what kind of history are we making? There have been huge changes in my lifetime. The world has become a different place. I’m not sure that all of it is for the better. But what kind of history am I making here in my family? I know so little about my own grandparents, and even less about my great-grandparents. I don’t know what their lives were like, what they held as important, or what kind of dreams they had. That’s only two generations removed. What will my own grandchildren know about me?

Because I write so much, I’m guessing my grandchildren might know more than they want to know about me. I trust that my journals will prove much too boring for any of my children to ever wade through. But I hope they will know something of me. How will you be remembered? Have you given the idea any thought? Will it be for the beautiful collection of art or stamps or books? Have you preserved your stories in scrapbooks or journals? Will you leave jewelry or furniture that has been infused with your spirit? I realize that the “stuff” we leave behind isn’t as important as our impact on the lives of the people we leave behind, but being in that historic house and wondering about the stuff that was left behind made me wonder about the people who left it. It made me want to know who they were.

Most of us don’t stay long enough in one place to allow our gardens to be our legacy. Our first house was 150 years old. The garden in the foundation of the old carriage house was probably at least 75 years old. I loved to work in that garden and wonder if the peonies (there were hundreds) were descended from peonies planted by someone who gardened at the turn of the century. We found a collection of old tobacco cans in the crawl space and my husband and I laughed at the idea that someone used to hunker down in the pump room for their daily fix. What are we leaving behind?

I do believe we will leave some kind of history, however sketchy. If we don’t want our legacy to be the hours we spent watching reality TV or reading profiles on Facebook, it would behoove us to consider what we will pass down. I hope my grandchildren get a few of my freckles, but I also hope they use my bone china and mismatched pottery. I hope they read this blog. I hope the tomatoes I grow this summer will pass along their seeds in to the next century. Imagine.

Like the settlers at Jamestown, we need to prepare. Maybe we don’t have to crush acorns for flour, but we do need to think carefully about what we teach our children. What we arrange our lives around. We are living history. As I read the story of Jamestown, it wasn’t so much the survival of Joan, but the thousands that didn’t survive that haunted me. So many people traveled so far, only to perish. We know nothing about them but a name on a roll, and sometimes we don’t even have that since many women and children tagged along unaccounted.

Make sure someone remembers your name. Think about the legacy you will leave behind, including the “stuff”. This is the only life you get, don’t squander it. Start collecting acorns.

What Do Organic People Look Like?

What do organic people look like? By organic people I’m talking about the kind of people who live green, eat healthy, and care about local sustainably grown food. After finishing our Buy Fresh, Bike Local Ride on Saturday we arrived for a lovely catered lunch at Dickinson College Farm. The food was freshly picked from nearby farms, the chefs were local farmers and caterers, the plasticware was compostable, and everything tasted scrumptious. But as we lingered over our triple berry pie with homemade ice cream, we looked around and my dearest husband pointed out that we didn’t fit in. Everyone else was a Boomer or a Gen Y (is that what those young whipper snappers with all the tattoos are called?), but there were very few of us between the ages of 35 and 45.

I wouldn’t for a minute suggest that this is because my generation doesn’t care about the earth, the local farmers, or their health. I just think they are busy. I know we are. It took no small amount of finagling to free up the day, secure child care, and squeeze in the training rides, to make this lovely morning possible. We may not have time to tote the Buy Fresh, Buy Local banner at public events, but we are carrying with us as we shop. People of all ages are making small decisions every day add up. As they say, “no snowflake ever feels responsible for the whole avalanche.” The times are changing and most companies are taking notice and making changes of their own.

People are becoming more and more aware of the need to eat better food (and I’m not just talking calories) and live more socially responsible lives. How and where your food is grown has become a concern of people from every generation (well, maybe the under 10 set doesn’t care so much where that cheese curl came from). This is good for all of us. The economic impact of people choosing whole grains, locally grown produce, and grass-fed meat is becoming apparent. The Money section is Sunday’s paper reported that whole wheat bread has finally overtaken white bread in sales. Our grocery store circular has an entire column on the first page devoted to the locally grown produce they sell. Grass fed, locally grown, certified organic, no GMO, antibiotic & pesticide free have all become part of the common language for many of us.

Sure I can still stroll through my Wal-Mart and observe lots of people who are not worried about where or how their food was made, let alone what it’s made of, but their numbers are shrinking. And yes, the cynic in me questions whether to trust big business with the organic label. But I believe we’ll get there. This is just gonna take some time. All real change does.

I’m consistently surprised by the types of people I meet who share my concern for the health of the planet and their family. They’re no longer the crunchy-granola type, left-leaning folks – they are people from every walk of life. Being organic is not red or blue, it’s green. Some people have come to it because of health concerns, something they read or watched that changed their view, or by the clear evidence around us. For many of us it’s just an awakening to the impact we have on the future – ours and our children’s.

I always cringe when a friend or acquaintance who knows about my passion/obsession (depends how you look at it) for organic living apologizes for their choices – “I know I shouldn’t be eating this” or “I’m sorry I brought the Styrofoam” or “This isn’t organic” or the worst, “I feel awful I feed your child this - fill-in-the-blank- chemically laden, artificially created- treat.” I don’t want to become known as the organic nazi, because I’m not. My kids scarf up the unnaturally colored freezer pops and transfat filled snacks as fast as the next kid. I totally get the need to balance the what you children want with your budget and your conscience.

I understand that this organic life is not a priority for everyone. It wasn’t always a priority for me. It’s taken quite a few years to arrive at this level of commitment. I’m not here to judge anyone. I’m just here to offer information, encouragement, and maybe a little nudge to your conscience. Any change, no matter how small, is good in my book, and even no change is fine too as long as the level of awareness has been raised. So when my priorities irritate someone or make them feel guilty that’s a sign that change is afoot. If we feel guilty, we must know that there’s a better way.

What kind of people live this organic life? All kinds, at different levels, in different ways, for different reasons. And that’s OK. At least we’re moving in a good direction.

Everyone Has a Story

Do you know who Charlie Villaneuva is? Unless you are a hard-core professional basketball fan (especially a fan from the midwest) or you attended the University of Connecticut, he’s not necessarily a household name. Unless your household includes a person with Alopecia Areata, like ours. Charlie is the spokesperson for the National Alopecia Areata Foundation. He’s also a power forward for the Detroit Pistons and Tuesday night we got to watch him score 25 points in Detroit’s pounding of the Philadelphia 76ers. Before he did that though, he stopped by our seats to sign my son’s basketball and pose for a picture with him.
It’s taken us awhile to realize that having the autoimmune disease, Alopecia Areata, does come with some benefits, like meeting Charlie. For those of you who don’t know, here’s a quick recap. My 7 year-old son, Ian, has Alopecia Areata. Alopecia is a non-contagious autoimmune disorder that causes the body’s white blood cells to attack the hair follicles. This causes the hair to fall out. It’s like being allergic to your hair. Ian has no hair anywhere on his body (except a few renegade eye lashes on one eye). He developed this disease when he was 4 years old. Prior to that Ian had a full head of red, curly hair. The kind old ladies like to touch in the grocery store and of which young women always say, “I wish that came in a bottle”. Ian handled losing his hair much better than his mother did.

After extensive research and visits with doctors at both Hopkins and Hershey medical centers, all we learned was that not much is known about this disease. Alopecia Areata affects about 4-5 million Americans (and similar percentages of people in other countries). It does not discriminate for age, race, ethnic background, economic situation, or gender – anybody can get it. No one else in our family histories has ever had it. The most common cases involve only small amounts of hair loss (about the size of a quarter) which normally grows back, but only a fraction of those develop Alopecia Areata Universalis which is loss of all the body’s hair. So you could say that my son is very special (and you’d be right). There are some theories, but no one knows for sure what causes Alopecia. It’s been around since biblical times, but the research is pretty thin. Basically, no one knows what causes it and no one can cure it. Faced with that knowledge, I did what any good mother would do. I set out to fix him myself.

That’s what led to this organic life. And while Ian still has no hair (he says he wouldn’t want any because then he’d have to wash it and brush it and he might get nose hair “which would be gross”), our whole family is much healthier both physically and emotionally. If it weren’t for Ian’s Alopecia, I might have never discovered how good life feels without chemicals and additives. I might never have learned that when you eat real food from grass fed animals, vegetables grown the way nature intended, and food created by your own hands, you think more clearly, feel lighter, have more energy, and fewer mood swings. My oldest son suffered from frequent asthma attacks until we got rid of all the chemical cleaners in our house. My husband’s cholesterol was headed through the roof until we ditched the processed food and started adding flax seed, whole grains, and grass-fed dairy products to his diet. If Ian hadn’t lost his hair, I might never have known the joy of chicken-keeping (and there is joy in it, as well as delicious fresh eggs, natural pest control, and rich fertilizer).

Perhaps the biggest lesson comes from having suffered through the pain of adjusting to living with a mysterious disease over which you have no control and no explanation. That’s when I learned that everyone has a story. Everyone has something that they must overcome. No one gets off scott free in this life. It’s very tempting to look at someone’s life and think that they’ve got it so good, there’s no reason for them to be grumpy or difficult, until you’ve spent a year living with your pain exposed and your emotions fresh. Then you realize you don’t have any clue what’s going on in other people’s lives and hearts. Alopecia Areata helped me to re-prioritize my life. Early in this adventure my mother-in-law said to me, “If that’s the worst thing that happens to him, be grateful.” At the time I wanted to smack her, but now I completely believe that with all my heart. Everyone has a handicap, a weakness, no one’s perfect, and if Ian’s weakness is that he simply doesn’t have any hair then Hallelujah.

Now when someone looks at me funny or is rude or disrespectful or even downright mean, I let it go. I remember that I don’t know what’s going on inside them. I don’t know what kind of pain they are facing. I don’t know why they are hurt or fearful or sad. So I can forgive their moodiness, their ill temper, their criticism. Instead of being hurt or angry, I simply wonder how tangled their life is and let it go. I can’t tell you the freedom this had given my own life.

When Ian was first diagnosed and we went out in public, people always assumed he was a chemo patient. They were compassionate and kind and gentle with him. I remember watching a complete stranger carefully spotting him as he climbed through the tunnels at Port Discovery, making sure he didn’t hurt himself. A security guard at Hershey Park gave Ian a giant Hershey Bar and the ladies behind the fudge counter at the farm market always offered him a free piece of fudge. Once a waiter comped our entire check at Pizza Hut. In the beginning all I could do was nod thanks because every one of these encounters reduced me to tears. Now that I can talk about Ian’s condition more comfortably, I still don’t correct the kind strangers. Another parent of a child with Alopecia said, “Don’t correct them. They feel good because they did something good for someone. Let them have that.” So for the most part I don’t say anything. I also don’t say anything because my son doesn’t realize why these people are so kind to him. He just thinks people are nice. I want him to believe that as long as possible.

Imagine how kind our world would be if everyone treated everyone else like they were terminally ill, injured, or in pain. No one would yell at anyone. No one would curse the slow driver in front of them or snap at the grumpy cashier or be rude to their waiter. We would go out of our way to help other people and be generous with our money, our time, and our words. Having a child with Alopecia has been a great blessing. It’s taken me some time to reach that conclusion. But I know our lives are better and Ian’s life is better because of this disease.

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to write about when I started this post. I thought maybe I’d talk about why I started the organic life and discuss the fact that we can’t force anyone else to embrace an organic life no matter how good it might be for them. But I guess I had something more important to say. Live gently among your neighbors – give them the benefit of the doubt and your kindness, nothing more and nothing less.

Peep Show

We’ve got quite a peep show going on over here at our house. We are seriously overrun with chicks. I’m not completely sure how this happened. Actually, that’s not true, I know exactly how it happened. It happened because I am a weak mother and I have chick problem. But going back further it happened because of a gray fox that entered our chicken pen at dusk a few months back. The roosters alerted me to his presence and I went running in to the pen with the only weapon I could find at the moment, an empty manure bucket. My husband pointed out later that there was also a pitchfork available to me and I said “Ah! I should have grabbed that!” And then he gently asked me if I could have truly speared a fox, to which I had to honestly say, “No.” So the manure bucket was as good a weapon as any considering the situation.

I waved my manure bucket and yelled all kinds of hateful things I never knew were hidden in the far recesses of my brain. The fox ran back and forth along the fence line in a panic because of the crazy woman with the big blue bucket blocking his escape through the gate from whence he came. This stand off went on for what seemed like hours, but was probably only 30 seconds before I realized I was blocking the only way out for the fox. Since I just wanted the horrid beast gone, I stepped out of the way and he darted by me while I jumped up and down (just in case he was planning on nibbling my toes as he passed by RIGHT NEXT TO ME!).

In the aftermath of the fox’s visit, we were left with only eight living chickens, six of which are hens and two of which are worthless, noisy roosters. Unlike our first rooster, Snowball (may he rest in peace) who gave his life for our hens, the two useless roosters had high-tailed it to the top end of our pasture where they commenced crowing their lungs out while the hens were savaged in the chicken yard. True, it was their yelling that alerted me to the situation in the chicken pen, but still, if the fox had to kill so many chickens why couldn’t it have been one (or two) of the roosters? Why did it have to be my best laying hens?

We have been down to 1 or 2 eggs a day (at the most) since the fox incidence. I’ve even had to go to the market and buy eggs, which felt completely wrong. And our whole family learned again that no store bought egg tastes as good as a fresh one.

This set the scene for what happened two weeks ago on my laptop. My daughter and I were taking advantage of some free wifi at the music studio where she sings with her rock band (think School of Rock) and we surfed over to the McMurray Hatchery website. We explored all the options available for ordering peeps (one day old chicks). In my mind I was thinking we might order as many as a dozen peeps, but as we paged through the options there were just too many beautiful choices! Hens that lay blue eggs, pink eggs, brown eggs, speckled egss. Hens with fluffy feet, pompadours on their heads, jet black ones, speckled ones, striped ones, and fancy chickens with extra long tail feathers. And they only cost about $2.50 a piece, so what’s the harm in throwing in a few more? We were up to 18 chicks when I attempted to place the order. A message came back quickly, “Minimum order is 25 peeps”. Well, we don’t really have a choice do we? And what if the fox comes back? He hasn’t been back since the fateful night. Either he was freaked out by the crazy woman with the bucket who trapped him in the chicken yard or he’s terrified of the ferocious puppy that has been turned loose to patrol the barn (chase the cats and bark her fool head off at fast moving spiders) and has been forced to move to more lucrative venues. But what if he decides to come back? A few extra chicks aren’t a bad thing.

In the end we picked out more Arucanas (they lay blue eggs!) and Rhode Island Reds (my favorite and the smartest chickens, if there is such a thing as a smart chicken). To that we added some Buff Orpingtons (because our neighbor has the most beautiful one named Julie who hatched our roosters for us last year, even though they weren’t her eggs), Black Giants (they lay lots of eggs, even in winter and they look really tough), Silver Laced Wyandottes (because they are just so pretty), and Buff Laced Polish (they have the pompadours on their heads). Then when I was ready to place the order, another message from the hatchery appeared, “Would you like a free exotic chick with your order?” Well, of course we’d like a free exotic chick – how exciting! It’s almost as if there was a wizard behind the screen in the next room pulling my strings. My only defense is temporary insanity and an overly-excited daughter.

So that’s how we came to have 26 chicks in the Pack n Play in our mudroom. It was easy to do. None of us can figure out which one is the “free exotic chick” because she looks kind of like an Arucana, but then again she might look like the Silver Laced Wyandottes. And who’s to say what’s exotic anyway. We’re talking about a chicken.

I could spend hours just watching the chicks as they scurry about and peck at each other. Every once in awhile one of the chicks picks up a piece of bedding and tears around the enclosure like she’s got some kind of treasure and several others will start chasing her wanting what she has and setting all the chicks to peeping. And sometimes one chick will be happily lying under the heat lamp and another one will walk right over top of her like she’s a simple speed bump, or worse yet, a chick will stop and peck the prone one in the head for no apparent reason. And even though the chick feeder has 24 holes to eat from, whichever one the first chick starts to eat out of becomes the one every chick wants to eat from and a tussle ensues. And then there’s the mess - it’s everywhere.

Funny, these chicks act a lot like my children but I don’t find it nearly as entertaining or as relaxing to watch their antics as I do the chicks. Still, I have to enjoy the peep show while I can. Pretty soon instead of 26 little balls of fluff that peep and play, there will be 26 big noisy hens attacking my gardens and leaving their eggs everywhere. Now if the fox comes back for a visit, we can spare a few hens because I’m wondering just how many eggs we can eat.

Note to my local readers – feel free to stop by to see the peep show!

Do It Right the First Time

I once had a job that required I do ten things at once and rarely ever finish anything. It was a challenging, if frustrating, situation. Too many days ended with my office strewn with project after project and my desk swimming in papers. I’d turn off the light and sneak out, stressed beyond belief and anxious to get some sleep so that I could get back at it the next day. I kept a quote taped to my desk in those days, after staring at it for six years, you’d think I’d have it committed to memory. It went something like this, “Do it right the first time, because there isn’t time to do it over.”

This mantra is one that has gone the way of high heels and sleeping in. It’s no longer realistic since having children. In the early years, it was just do whatever the hell it takes to get it taken care of, covered up, cleaned up, or hidden, and move on. This was true not only of my house, my diet, my wardrobe, but my garden too. I’ve gotten really good at getting a lot of things done, but please don’t look in my office, or my basement for that matter. Chaos rules. There are piles of books to be read, projects to be finished, papers to be filed, and they don’t hold a candle to the mounds of things to be put away, sorted out, given away, or mended. But generally I just close the door and sneak away and manage to neaten the piles when guests come to stay (the spare bedroom is my office).

This weekend as I began the huge project of tearing out our raspberry patch, I meditated on my long forgotten belief that you should do it right the first time. If we had taken the time to build a proper bed for the raspberries when they were first bequeathed to us six years ago, we wouldn’t be fighting the entrenched grass, mile-a-minute vine, and quite literally a small poplar tree as we struggled to save the raspberries that were being slowly suffocated by the interlopers. Back then I dragged some plastic over the ground, poked holes in it and plunked the raspberries in the holes. I mean, raspberries are really weeds, they can beat anything, right? Wrong. It was a long morning.

When I was just over half-way through the patch, my darling husband joined me in the battle. We talked about other options for the space (more tomatoes? How about moving the blueberries up here?). But in the end we recommitted to raspberries. Only this time we tilled the ground thoroughly, yanking out stubborn grasses and unidentifiable roots. We sunk a wooden border around it which would keep the grass out and the raspberries in, and debated the mulch options. As I re-planted the salvaged plants this morning, it felt really good. Good to be giving these beauties a new start instead of scrapping the whole mess and giving up. And hopefully this time we’ve done it right and it won’t be necessary to plant the raspberries a third time.

Satisfied with my efforts, I leaned on the pasture fence and surveyed the new garden. It looked so neat and tidy. I just wish the rest of my life were neat and tidy. I can’t help but think if I could apply my do-it-right-the-first-time strategy to the rest of my life it would be neat and tidy. If we just put away things as soon as we finished them – laundry, dishes, the newspaper, puzzles, games, clothing, SHOES, homework, and all the crap that fills my car, think how neat it would be! But we don’t. Life is just too busy. And I don’t want to spend my days nagging. All I can do is try to create places for everything and bribe children to put things where they belong. Besides, I do love to see the masterpieces that my youngest son creates, even all seventeen of them as they are displayed throughout two rooms in the latest version of his “art sale”. Of course the clutter from the masterpieces and the accompanying sale signs taped to the walls contribute to the “broken windows theory”. The theory that says if the neighborhood has broken windows and graffiti, people will treat it badly. They’ll assume that no one cares and add to the trash, crime, and general apathy that erode the area. I think that’s what’s going on in my car. Not that there are any broken windows, but there is graffiti in the form of yellow crayon on my window and some kind of black goo splattered on my ceiling. I think we need to embrace the broken windows theory and get things in order before we can begin to live the Do-it-right-the-first-time belief.

I just wish for once I could get my house and car, and perhaps my life, in order. Make it all beautiful and neat and organized, kind of like the new raspberry patch. It’s a fantasy. This I know. Because for this season in my life, the mess is my life. Hubby, kids, animals, gardens, and friends are much more important than a clean house (or a clean car although that doesn’t seem as far out of reach). Still, I think I will attempt to resurrect my mantra of “do it right the first time.” This may make my kids a little nuts and I’m sure it will make my husband smile knowingly. But just maybe it will be the push I need to re-claim some of my house. And maybe it will help me to stop trying to do everything. Instead of starting ten new projects, maybe I can do one (or two) right the first time.

Organic Life Snob?

It is easy to become a lifestyle snob. When you are happy with the life you are choosing to lead and the way you are leading it, it is possible to convey judgment without meaning to. As I learn more and more about living a healthy, organic, whole life I want to share it with others. It’s in my nature. I want them to be as happy and to feel as good as I do. But that can be dangerous. Because when you tell someone about something that you do differently than they do, they may perceive your enthusiasm as criticism of their way. If yours is so much better, than theirs must be wrong, right? No, just different, but that’s not always easy to convey.

It is a fine line to walk. Recently I overreacted to a comment a dear friend made about eggs. I believe they are the perfect food. I rejoiced in reports that the bad wrap they’ve always gotten about cholesterol and calories was mostly hype. I don’t consider them a dangerous food to be rationed. My husband’s high cholesterol went down this year and we eat a lot of eggs. So when my friend mentioned that her family doesn’t eat them very often for health reasons – I overreacted with an insensitive comment in defense of egg eating. Not only was it hurtful and unnecessary, it is truly just my opinion – worth not so much to anyone but me. Sometimes I start barreling down my path and forget that there are thoughtful, purposeful people who are on their own path and doing just fine. We are both headed towards the same place – a healthy, happy life – our paths may look very different but neither is completely right or wrong. I need to let some things go. Every day is a lesson.

So today, I share that lesson with you. It’s wonderful and exciting to learn new ways of doing things. It feels great when you discover healthier ways of eating and it’s satisfying to make more healthful life choices for yourself, your children and the earth. But remember you are choosing for yourself and your choices have no reflection on your neighbors. None of us have all the answers. Indeed scientists who seem to have it all figured out are contradicted every day by new studies, new discoveries, new opinions. We must be careful and judge only what works for us. If it makes you feel better, calmer, and healthier, than it’s a good thing for you. Count your blessings. But don’t force those blessings on anyone else.

I know as well as anyone that it’s hard to keep a good thing to yourself. So seek out likeminded souls you can share your discoveries with. I love talking with people who find it amazing that you can add flax seed to all kinds of recipes without children suspecting. People who want all the gory details about my latest efforts at packing healthy lunches or making my own breakfast cereal are a wonderful audience. We are organic-nerds and we can talk for hours about chicken-keeping or making homemade yogurt. I call them kindred spirits and cherish my time with them. But my life would be pretty shallow if I only spent time with those who agree with me.

My life is made richer by the people I encounter who don’t walk my path. They challenge me – forcing me to examine my own life and hold it up against other possibilities. That keeps me fresh, committed to who I am and what I’m about. Everyone has something to teach us. No one has all the answers. One person doesn’t have to be wrong for another to be right. That’s the beautiful part. So I’ll keep exploring what it means to live a kid-friendly organic life, some ideas will work and some will fall flat. Take what works for you and leave the rest. But please don’t ever think I consider you any less of a person, mother, father, friend if you don’t live the way I do. We are all doing the best we can with what we know. And that should be honored.

What is an Organic Life?

One thing about having a puppy, I’ve discovered, is that you have lots more time to think. Someone has to take her out to pee nearly every hour. And then stand there and wait. That’s the new way to house train your dog, you see. I remember as a kid you just waited for the new dog to pee on the floor and then you rubbed its nose in it (hence the phrase…). After a very expensive trip to the vet this week, I learned that the new way to house train a dog is to take it out frequently (“after it plays, after it eats, after it drinks, after it sleeps” – does a puppy do anything besides these activities?). And once she does her business, we give her a treat. This training regime was great fun for the kids for about two days, now no one wants to take the puppy out to pee. So, I find myself with many opportunities to ponder the universe while watching Gracie out of the corner of my eye, treat in hand.

So this morning I was thinking about what to write and that led me to think about what exactly is an organic life. I’m afraid most people confuse organic life with how you eat, but it is so much more than that. Organic life is about living a life that is real.

The term organic, as defined by Webster’s, pretty much means “real or authentic”. So I guess what I’m attempting to do and attempting to promote is a life lived authentically. Close to the earth, close to my children, close to the heart. Things in this world have gotten much more complicated since when I grew up. All I have to do is read the school letters about the intruder drills or sexting. Or open up one of the multiple e-mails that I get each day offering me all kinds of sexual opportunities or discounted drugs or work-from-home-and-get-rich-quick schemes. If I had cable or satellite TV, I’m sure I could find even more evidence that life is very different from when I was a kid.

It seems to me that life has gotten very artificial – and not just the food. The food is where I started, but only because that part’s so obvious. Living an organic life means caring what happens to people I may never meet. It means feeling responsible for the part of the earth I inhabit and how I leave it when I am through. Living an organic life means sharing and not taking more than I need. It means giving what I can and not gathering so much stuff. Living a kid-friendly organic life means passing along these beliefs to my children, not by force, but by example.

Living an organic life means nurturing plants and animals and people. It means sticking to the basics and finding ways to help everything in our care thrive naturally. Right now it means agonizing over when to put the peas in the ground. The nights are still cold, but I’m itching to make my garden green. It means choosing not to spray chemicals on my emerging strawberry plants and trusting the dog to keep the rabbits away and my knees to hold out so I can keep weeding them. That way the ground where my strawberries grow will still be producing strawberries when my grandchildren visit (OMG – that is centuries away!).

It means collecting seeds each year and storing them to plant the next year instead of buying more and more genetically modified plants that are bigger and “better”. It means taking the time to make my own food so that I know what goes in to it. Organic life means listening and learning from others who know more than I do. Sharing ideas and seeds and support. Last night a friend came by and brought me pecans (hand-hulled, fresh pecans from her grandfather’s farm in New Mexico!) and I gave her a dozen eggs in return.

Organic life means being grateful for my blessings and generous with my time. It means watching the earth carefully and listening closely. Sometimes organic life means standing up for or against powers that impact this life choice. And sometimes organic life means taking a pass on some new gadget or gizmo that is guaranteed to make my life easier, knowing that it’s just more “stuff”. It means paying attention and not spending so much time in front of screens of all shapes and sizes.

Living an organic life probably means different things to different people. What I believe is real and authentic, may seem trivial to you. So, I guess living an organic life requires each of us to take stock of what we have and what we need and what is “real” for us. It asks us to pay attention – to each other, to ourselves, to this earth, and to the future.

Kid-friendly organic life is about living a life that is honest, practical, and at times, very messy. It is also incredibly rewarding and tastes great. Kid-friendly organic life is not a way of eating; it’s a way of living. I hope you have a wonderful weekend – go plant some peas!