Bottled Water

Is it the epitome of conspicuous consumption that we drink bottled water when there is perfectly potable water from our taps?

I don't buy much bottled water--though on 06/12/10 I consumed this bottle to the left.  I have well water and reusable water bottles aplenty.  With so many countries with so little in sanitation and potable water systems (the very systems that we have and we seeming eschew in favor of bottled water), it strikes me that the delta between money spent buying bottle water v. tap (or filtered tap) water could build a few local water systems.


Change begins with observation and intent born of that observation.  I intend to limit if not eliminate my purchase and consumption of bottled water.

The Stuff of Life

Spring is arriving in fits and starts.  We had more winter in March and more summer in April than I remember in a while.  Rain.  Lots of it, but none giving us danger as others are experiencing.  It replenishes the water table, so I'm not complaining.

There is much in the news these last two days. Everyday we read of regrettable acts and tragic consequences.  Sadly, it is the stuff of life.  A result of our DNA that is no less caustic now than in any other point in history.  We merely have more deadly tools in which to carry out misguided actions borne of irrational thought and unfettered anger.  Grist for the ever turning millstone of the news.

As I was driving to work, my thoughts turned to "Christmas Letters".  Long, and narrow margined to fit all that is possible to experience in a year on a single page, they communicate all that is good in their lives:  trips, grandchildren, promotions, new cars, new homes...the list is endless.

I've never written a Christmas letter--but understand that I do somewhat the same in this space--though my intent is not to espouse all that is good in my life, nor to is it to air my dirty laundry.  I do have occasional soapbox moments.  One must, afterall, keep the glutes in shape.

The only joyful news in tragic events is the heroic responses from ordinary people.  It is a reminder that the flex of that DNA muscle is quick and strong. It reacts reflexively to such events.  Would that we have a lower threshold to invoke such action.  It is after all the small acts everyday that add up to something big--kindness and exercise share that efficacy of results.

I often ask job applicants what they would want remembered of them when they die.  Some look at me as if I'm crazy to advance the premise that they will die.  That is a given.  But our crafting of our lives in the time between birth and death is uniquely ours to do.  Yes, I'm feeling reflective--not morose.  I have a spectrum of books that have fallen into my circle of intentional reading that are stirring latent feelings and thoughts.  Shipler's, The Working Poor:  Invisible in America.  Peter Singer's The Life You Can Save; K. Sri Dhammananda's Why Worry?; Swami Vivekananda's Bhakti Yoga, and from that my ordering all volumes of his work.  I suppose what I'm really grappling with is a larger, broader moral/ethical standard that transcends currently accepted standards. 

 If you want an 'overview' of Singer's The Life You Can Save, you can listen to him here.

So, I'm working on my epitaph--and processing things a bit differently than was is culturally accepted which means no one in my life would really understand this.  But ultimately, the only way to express this process is that I would like to raise an awareness that writing a Christmas letter filled with and centered on what has been accomplished, earned, enjoyed etc, but rather how did you sacrifice and who did you help--and with a real reflection on how more could be done.  And the test of having truly arrived is to not send the letter---as selfless acts cease to become selfless if we wish to garner praise for them.

We no more "deserve" the bounty of life than others "deserve" the parsimony of life.  I believe that is a fact and not an opinion, and accordingly I'm trying to do a little life recalibration to reflect that belief.


Motors and Mountains



Motors and mountains combine for great fun for male gladiators on dirt bikes. The men folk have gone to West VA for their spring-time Hatfield and McCoy dirt bike ride.  I always worry about injury and the like.  Phone calls from weary, but still excited husband allay concerns and then give the highlights.

Highlights are generally in the categories of (1) injuries; (2) near misses; (3) didn't miss but survived it; (4) the splendor of nature; (5) the demands of the trail.

This year, there is a 6th highlight--the first time husbando said in a voice that was weary from #5 on the list, "I'm not in very good shape."  Time to break out the mountain bikes.  His passion for meeting the demands of the trail without feeling like an old man (he will be 58 this year), will inspire his working out.  My jealousy in seeing the very fit and not-too-much-younger-than-me Helen Hunt in
"The Sessions" should inspire me!  The movie itself was an inspiration on many levels.  Not only was the film a reminder of the abundance and generosity of spirit that exists in all of us, but also how the most basic of human experiences--sexual intimacy--is taken for granted by those of us who have experienced it.  Of course we can add walking, talking, seeing, hearing, thinking, breathing, eating and elimination to that, as there are many who are deprived of the easy experience of these things if at all. 

There was a #3--my son's bike fell into some watery hole and water was sucked into the engine.  More than two hours later and mechanical wizardry on the part of several got the motor dried out.  It needed to be pulled to get started--a feat overzealously undertaken by a fellow rider on a four wheeler.  He was pulling far too fast than my son was comfortable with.  Son bailed; bike dropped. The singular casualty was a Bark Buster bolt was a casualty.  Sure sounds like fun to me!

With the men folk gone, I was able to have the house to myself, eat out of the fridge, and work.  I've been so busy and feeling underwater to the point of gurgling.  But I'm kicking hard, and I'm closer to breathing air.  At some point in my life I hope to find equilibrium.  I've certainly had little success with it except for a few glimpses.  I guess when you have a proclivity to immersing yourself into what you do, gurgling is going to be an expected result.  As I can gurgle and kick, I'm not complaining.  Perspective is everything (it really is not attitude, because if you have perspective, attitude will fall into its proper place)--so I'm not complaining.

Spring has been arriving in fits and starts---it seemed to arrive first in early January, and then retreated for three more months.  It is now starting to emerge again...this is the coolest and wettest Spring that I remember in a while.  My favorite point in spring is when the reclusive wood thrushes begin their calling.  I've seen them for the last three weeks, but they do not begin their beguiling songs until the 3rd week of April.  When they start, they are the first to song in the morning and the second to last in the evening.  This lasts for for about 90 days, and then they are silent.  And missed.

And, I miss the men folk, who will be returning soon. It will be 72, and I hope that Spring will stay around for a while.