I just got back from a few days spent down the bayou-- with a sawyer who retired when he saw what his environmental impact was, with a group of leaders from environmental foundations, and with some elders in the Point-au-Chien community. It's been busy, and overwhelming at times, and exciting at others. I'll write more about each meeting, but while I ponder these adventures, I wanted to share this:
Please take a moment to watch and share. This is so, so important. BP really hasn't released much funding for environmental cleanup or restoration, much less to cover the economic, social and health problems created by the Horizon disaster. They just keep making carefully worded commercials that lead the rest of the world to believe things are ok down here. They aren't.
Sometimes I get really overwhelmed by the myriad problems here. There are so many different environmental issues, which overlap with so many social issues, which overlap with health and economic and cultural issues. It's so much. What can I do as one person?
I will be a hummingbird.
(I know I've shared this before, but it doesn't get old. This motivates me.)
30 September 2013
27 September 2013
Spartina alterniflora
BEST DAY EVER AHHHH IT WAS AWESOME!
I was really excited and barely slept on Wednesday night, last noticing the clock around midnight... ugh. But, at 4:45 sharp, I was leaving New Orleans, heading to a USDA Service Center in Thibodaux, just over an hour southwest of the city. I found it (remember that time I was stuck in traffic in Raceland? That's how to get there from NO!), and joined two employees of the local soil and water conservation district (not exactly my beloved NRCS, but the local government cooperators) to plant cord grass (not exactly trees, but ok, stay with me here, it was awesome) in Little Lake (not exactly a little lake, more like a half hour boat ride after an hour drive south from Thibodaux, but still, this was awesome) with a team of European hipster volunteers (who were not at all dressed or prepared for the work we were doing) and an alligator (who never came closer than about 20 feet but hung out for the entire afternoon).
None of that sounds especially great, but I assure you, I had a fantastic day.
We were met by a producer who provided us with about 40 sacks of about 50-60 plugs of smooth cord grass each. We launched from a canal at the back of a sugarcane farm in Cut Off. It took a few trips to deliver all of the grass and people to the shoreline where we were planting (if you zoom out, it's down the canal east, then just north about halfway up that curved shore).
View Larger Map
Planting in open water is kind of cool. For the most part, the ground is just soft and mucky, so we just kind of grabbed the little root ball of the grass and punched it into the ground. Even the harder ground, or the areas where more shells had accumulated, it was still pretty easy with the help of a thing called a dibble bar:
We started the morning spread out, dividing and conquering a swath of shore line. I had a really nice time just swimming around planting grass on my own. Shortly before lunch, the girl from Denmark noticed a six foot long alligator spying on her work. We ate lunch together on the boat near that spot, hoping to scare the gator away. It worked, but we decided to work closer together to finish the work. This was a good decision, because the alligator came back. It just sat and watched at a distance for a while, slowly closing that distance and making us all a little nervous. There was much discussion about how quickly alligators can move and what their hunting habits are like. It seemed like it was just hanging out, waiting for us to freak out and abandon our weakest herd member.
But we didn't, and nothing terrible happened, just a beautiful day in a warm lake with a cool breeze, planting cord grass. I love doing conservation. It's been really wonderful talking with people, hearing stories, and dreaming up how we can make a difference, but it's another thing altogether to go out and actually do something. I'm pretty excited that I've been able to do so much in just my first month here. It's hard to believe that I arrived exactly a month ago today!
I was really excited and barely slept on Wednesday night, last noticing the clock around midnight... ugh. But, at 4:45 sharp, I was leaving New Orleans, heading to a USDA Service Center in Thibodaux, just over an hour southwest of the city. I found it (remember that time I was stuck in traffic in Raceland? That's how to get there from NO!), and joined two employees of the local soil and water conservation district (not exactly my beloved NRCS, but the local government cooperators) to plant cord grass (not exactly trees, but ok, stay with me here, it was awesome) in Little Lake (not exactly a little lake, more like a half hour boat ride after an hour drive south from Thibodaux, but still, this was awesome) with a team of European hipster volunteers (who were not at all dressed or prepared for the work we were doing) and an alligator (who never came closer than about 20 feet but hung out for the entire afternoon).
None of that sounds especially great, but I assure you, I had a fantastic day.
We were met by a producer who provided us with about 40 sacks of about 50-60 plugs of smooth cord grass each. We launched from a canal at the back of a sugarcane farm in Cut Off. It took a few trips to deliver all of the grass and people to the shoreline where we were planting (if you zoom out, it's down the canal east, then just north about halfway up that curved shore).
View Larger Map
Planting in open water is kind of cool. For the most part, the ground is just soft and mucky, so we just kind of grabbed the little root ball of the grass and punched it into the ground. Even the harder ground, or the areas where more shells had accumulated, it was still pretty easy with the help of a thing called a dibble bar:
We started the morning spread out, dividing and conquering a swath of shore line. I had a really nice time just swimming around planting grass on my own. Shortly before lunch, the girl from Denmark noticed a six foot long alligator spying on her work. We ate lunch together on the boat near that spot, hoping to scare the gator away. It worked, but we decided to work closer together to finish the work. This was a good decision, because the alligator came back. It just sat and watched at a distance for a while, slowly closing that distance and making us all a little nervous. There was much discussion about how quickly alligators can move and what their hunting habits are like. It seemed like it was just hanging out, waiting for us to freak out and abandon our weakest herd member.
But we didn't, and nothing terrible happened, just a beautiful day in a warm lake with a cool breeze, planting cord grass. I love doing conservation. It's been really wonderful talking with people, hearing stories, and dreaming up how we can make a difference, but it's another thing altogether to go out and actually do something. I'm pretty excited that I've been able to do so much in just my first month here. It's hard to believe that I arrived exactly a month ago today!
25 September 2013
Presenting...
today's adventure: my first presentation!
I got to spend my evening with people from Brigantine, NJ (woo hoo practically my people!) and Murrysville, PA who are currently staying and working in New Orleans with Project Homecoming. One of the houses they are currently working on, under the good supervision of one of my housemates, Anna Leigh, is the home of Professor Longhair. I think that is spectacular. (One of the goals of Project Homecoming is to rebuild communities, not just houses, and what better way to help the community but fix up one of their hometown heroes' homes? Also I think his daughter was still living there before it got beat up by Katrina.)
Now that you have some great background music...
I was worried about the presentation because 1. I am excited about and interested in just about everything, so it's hard to decide what's actually important and interesting for other people who live outside of my brain; 2. It is difficult to convey the dire environmental crisis happening in southern Louisiana's wetlands by walking through a relatively healthy marsh just outside of New Orleans. We talked about how these landforms are made, why they matter, and why they are falling apart. Those were the main points I wanted to cover, and I talked about them all, so I feel ok about it.
I received some good feedback though, so it went all right. I was even able to answer almost all of the questions! Except for this one: how big is the dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico (the area in which nothing can grow or live because of all of the pollution that accumulates at the bottom of the enormous Mississippi River watershed)? Which I am now reading up on... it's awful. It varies throughout the year, but averages between the size of the state of Connecticut and the state of New Jersey.
...
That's a terrible note to end on. But a few more people understand what's going on down here, and at the end of our walk at Bayou Sauvage, there were a few alligators hanging out in the canal, so everyone came away pretty excited. I was talking to people about birds by then, but I'll try to get pictures next time.
Tomorrow's adventure: traveling south with NRCS to plant trees! Along bayous! In the water?
This was the picture they sent me when I asked about appropriate attire for such field work, not realizing we would not be working on solid ground...
I got to spend my evening with people from Brigantine, NJ (woo hoo practically my people!) and Murrysville, PA who are currently staying and working in New Orleans with Project Homecoming. One of the houses they are currently working on, under the good supervision of one of my housemates, Anna Leigh, is the home of Professor Longhair. I think that is spectacular. (One of the goals of Project Homecoming is to rebuild communities, not just houses, and what better way to help the community but fix up one of their hometown heroes' homes? Also I think his daughter was still living there before it got beat up by Katrina.)
Now that you have some great background music...
I was worried about the presentation because 1. I am excited about and interested in just about everything, so it's hard to decide what's actually important and interesting for other people who live outside of my brain; 2. It is difficult to convey the dire environmental crisis happening in southern Louisiana's wetlands by walking through a relatively healthy marsh just outside of New Orleans. We talked about how these landforms are made, why they matter, and why they are falling apart. Those were the main points I wanted to cover, and I talked about them all, so I feel ok about it.
I received some good feedback though, so it went all right. I was even able to answer almost all of the questions! Except for this one: how big is the dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico (the area in which nothing can grow or live because of all of the pollution that accumulates at the bottom of the enormous Mississippi River watershed)? Which I am now reading up on... it's awful. It varies throughout the year, but averages between the size of the state of Connecticut and the state of New Jersey.
...
That's a terrible note to end on. But a few more people understand what's going on down here, and at the end of our walk at Bayou Sauvage, there were a few alligators hanging out in the canal, so everyone came away pretty excited. I was talking to people about birds by then, but I'll try to get pictures next time.
Tomorrow's adventure: traveling south with NRCS to plant trees! Along bayous! In the water?
This was the picture they sent me when I asked about appropriate attire for such field work, not realizing we would not be working on solid ground...
23 September 2013
another morning, another walk
I love morning walks.
Goal for self: learn at least 15 local trees this year. So far:
Goal for self: learn at least 15 local trees this year. So far:
- Live oak
- Sand live oak (yes, that's different)
- Magnolia
- Cypress
- Crepe myrtle
20 September 2013
Bayou Sauvage
I've never had a particularly meaningful relationship with birds. I mean, they're cool, and I like hearing them in the background, but I prefer to walk around with my Field Guide to North American Trees book because they stay still while I identify them.
I remember one time several years ago going to the Forsythe National Wildlife Refuge down near Atlantic City with Mike. It was well before we were dating, and he just wanted to go take pictures of birds. It was a gray, drizzly fall morning, and I was happy to go along for the ride and get some fresh air down in the wetlands and not really pay any attention to the birds. I learned that day that Mike knows a lot about birds, and I have subsequently directed about 97% of all bird questions and comments to him ever since.
Fast forward a few years till Mike, Katie and I were driving from Irwin, PA to Walpole Island, ON last summer. We stopped at some sort of wildlife or bird refuge in Ohio, on Lake Erie. There was a bird watching room in the visitors' center, with a big window overlooking a little area with a village of bird houses and feeders. There were a lot of birds. It was rather noisy. So I was testing Mike--
"What kind of bird is that?" Red winged black bird.
"What kind of bird is that?" Some sort of finch.
"What kind of bird is that?" Red winged black bird.
"No, the one with the yellow on its wing." Red winged black bird.
"No, the one with yellow on its wing." Red winged black bird.
So that about sums up my relationship with birds.
Yesterday I traveled east to Bayou Sauvage, just to look around and get familiar with the park. I'm giving my first presentation next week to a group of volunteers visiting New Orleans with Project Homecoming, where several of my roommates work, and I was asked that when weather permits, to actually bring the groups to the wetlands. I think that's a lovely idea, especially since Bayou Sauvage is only about 15 minutes away from where the volunteers stay during their time of service. I was met by a professor from UNO who knows a lot about the area. It was great to have a guide.
The park is really nice. There are a few different places to park and hike, with well maintained boardwalks through the wetlands and paths along the levees. I'm a little intimidated by the size of the group (next week's is about 30 people, but in the future it could be up to 90)-- mostly worried whether or not I'll be able to really present anything to such a large contingent out in the field effectively. But I'm excited to show them the actual environment I'm talking about.
Bayou Sauvage was hit hard by Katrina, taking out a lot of older cypress and live oak trees, but it's a pretty healthy ecosystem. There have been various planting and mulching projects, among other conservation efforts, but really, nature will heal itself over time if we just leave it alone. Say it with me-- humans are the worst! But it is in pretty good shape, and is a really good look at that healing process.
Before leaving the refuge, the professor and I stopped by another trail area that's actually an impressive bird rookery. I was amazed at how many birds we saw just from this one little stretch of boardwalk. Some of them looked familiar, like things I've seen in the wetlands at home-- little herons and egrets, some sand piper kind of things (again, you can see how good I am at birding).
Apparently the place will be full of birds in November and December as they migrate every which way (you know, or south). I might need to investigate. There's a train line that runs along the back edge of the refuge, and a freight train passed through as I was leaving yesterday. Watching all of the birds jump up and circle before realizing it was just a harmless train was pretty incredible. This was the first time I really recognized the diversity and beauty of birds. Doesn't mean I'm going to learn how to identify them, because they still move too fast for me, but it was just a really beautiful moment that this blog entry isn't going to do justice, so I'm going to stop trying to describe it now.
I remember one time several years ago going to the Forsythe National Wildlife Refuge down near Atlantic City with Mike. It was well before we were dating, and he just wanted to go take pictures of birds. It was a gray, drizzly fall morning, and I was happy to go along for the ride and get some fresh air down in the wetlands and not really pay any attention to the birds. I learned that day that Mike knows a lot about birds, and I have subsequently directed about 97% of all bird questions and comments to him ever since.
Fast forward a few years till Mike, Katie and I were driving from Irwin, PA to Walpole Island, ON last summer. We stopped at some sort of wildlife or bird refuge in Ohio, on Lake Erie. There was a bird watching room in the visitors' center, with a big window overlooking a little area with a village of bird houses and feeders. There were a lot of birds. It was rather noisy. So I was testing Mike--
"What kind of bird is that?" Red winged black bird.
"What kind of bird is that?" Some sort of finch.
"What kind of bird is that?" Red winged black bird.
"No, the one with the yellow on its wing." Red winged black bird.
"No, the one with yellow on its wing." Red winged black bird.
So that about sums up my relationship with birds.
Yesterday I traveled east to Bayou Sauvage, just to look around and get familiar with the park. I'm giving my first presentation next week to a group of volunteers visiting New Orleans with Project Homecoming, where several of my roommates work, and I was asked that when weather permits, to actually bring the groups to the wetlands. I think that's a lovely idea, especially since Bayou Sauvage is only about 15 minutes away from where the volunteers stay during their time of service. I was met by a professor from UNO who knows a lot about the area. It was great to have a guide.
The park is really nice. There are a few different places to park and hike, with well maintained boardwalks through the wetlands and paths along the levees. I'm a little intimidated by the size of the group (next week's is about 30 people, but in the future it could be up to 90)-- mostly worried whether or not I'll be able to really present anything to such a large contingent out in the field effectively. But I'm excited to show them the actual environment I'm talking about.
Bayou Sauvage was hit hard by Katrina, taking out a lot of older cypress and live oak trees, but it's a pretty healthy ecosystem. There have been various planting and mulching projects, among other conservation efforts, but really, nature will heal itself over time if we just leave it alone. Say it with me-- humans are the worst! But it is in pretty good shape, and is a really good look at that healing process.
Before leaving the refuge, the professor and I stopped by another trail area that's actually an impressive bird rookery. I was amazed at how many birds we saw just from this one little stretch of boardwalk. Some of them looked familiar, like things I've seen in the wetlands at home-- little herons and egrets, some sand piper kind of things (again, you can see how good I am at birding).
Apparently the place will be full of birds in November and December as they migrate every which way (you know, or south). I might need to investigate. There's a train line that runs along the back edge of the refuge, and a freight train passed through as I was leaving yesterday. Watching all of the birds jump up and circle before realizing it was just a harmless train was pretty incredible. This was the first time I really recognized the diversity and beauty of birds. Doesn't mean I'm going to learn how to identify them, because they still move too fast for me, but it was just a really beautiful moment that this blog entry isn't going to do justice, so I'm going to stop trying to describe it now.
18 September 2013
and I would walk five miles
After working from home for the past few days, I was getting a little bored of these walls. I was still waiting for several people to return my phonecalls, so I decided to go for a walk. I love walking!
Aaand over five miles later, I'm back and sitting down with a cup of tea. Pleasant way to spend the morning.
I really love live oaks. New Orleans is full of them. These ones are in Audubon Park. Charismatic megaflora? Google just confirmed: that's a real term. Yessss.
Aaand over five miles later, I'm back and sitting down with a cup of tea. Pleasant way to spend the morning.
I really love live oaks. New Orleans is full of them. These ones are in Audubon Park. Charismatic megaflora? Google just confirmed: that's a real term. Yessss.
15 September 2013
Frenchmen Street
Last night, the vast majority of our household went out to celebrate Alex's imminent birthday.
On Frenchmen Street. In the French Quarter. (After a quick parallel parking lesson-- Jess is now a pro.)
I was immediately and completely overstimulated, but in a really wonderful way.
There were the strings of little white lights strung over the little art market. The crazy neon glowing lights of the party bus that botched the turn onto Frenchmen and sat in the intersection. The flickering oil lamps on the old, French buildings. The dim lights in Maison and the bright lights on the stage where the band was playing.
The smell of my Abita. The smell of the birthday girl's cocktail. Heavily perfumed and cologned people. A man who was apparently homeless and hadn't showered in a while hanging out quietly in the doorway of a business that was closed for the day. The carefully crafted soaps at the market.
The fun blues revue band playing in Maison when we finally arrived! The roar of the crowd there versus the murmur of people wandering along the street between venues. Other bands in other bars. A happy guy on the street rocking out on his ukulele. One band with a guy beat-boxing through his Sousaphone, which is a really impressive sound.
I didn't stay out very long, because my church, my job, is an hour away and starts at 8:30AM (when the congregation was asked if they wanted to change that, the responses were, "You can't wake up early to praise the Lord?" and, "7:30 would be preferable!"). I'll never be the one trying to stay out for very long, either. However, especially in the face of my persistent vegetarianism (yeah, I think that's going to stick), I am really excited about other aspects of this city's culture.
I am excited to go hear good, live music on other nights of the week.
On Frenchmen Street. In the French Quarter. (After a quick parallel parking lesson-- Jess is now a pro.)
I was immediately and completely overstimulated, but in a really wonderful way.
There were the strings of little white lights strung over the little art market. The crazy neon glowing lights of the party bus that botched the turn onto Frenchmen and sat in the intersection. The flickering oil lamps on the old, French buildings. The dim lights in Maison and the bright lights on the stage where the band was playing.
The smell of my Abita. The smell of the birthday girl's cocktail. Heavily perfumed and cologned people. A man who was apparently homeless and hadn't showered in a while hanging out quietly in the doorway of a business that was closed for the day. The carefully crafted soaps at the market.
The fun blues revue band playing in Maison when we finally arrived! The roar of the crowd there versus the murmur of people wandering along the street between venues. Other bands in other bars. A happy guy on the street rocking out on his ukulele. One band with a guy beat-boxing through his Sousaphone, which is a really impressive sound.
I didn't stay out very long, because my church, my job, is an hour away and starts at 8:30AM (when the congregation was asked if they wanted to change that, the responses were, "You can't wake up early to praise the Lord?" and, "7:30 would be preferable!"). I'll never be the one trying to stay out for very long, either. However, especially in the face of my persistent vegetarianism (yeah, I think that's going to stick), I am really excited about other aspects of this city's culture.
I am excited to go hear good, live music on other nights of the week.
13 September 2013
Barataria and Jean Lafitte
I'm pretty sure "Jean Lafitte" is the most French sounding thing I can currently say, although I did learn a new French word yesterday in writing (I don't know how it's pronounced)-- coquille, which means seashell (the first people used to build mounds out of broken shells, and there are a few places in the area that still bear this name).
Jean Lafitte was a pirate in Barataria Bay in the late 1700s/early 1800s, who helped Jackson win the Battle of New Orleans in 1815, using smuggled goods and the knowledge of the pending British attack (they tried to bribe him to help them... ha).
I spent the past two days in the town Jean Lafitte meeting with groups from the Christian Community Development Association. Members are from all over the US and Canada and are currently having their annual conference in New Orleans. The trip to Jean Lafitte to talk about the wetlands with Kris, Dick, the town mayor (and me?) was one of many options they had as side trips. From what I gathered, it was not most people's first choice, but I would say the vast majority were happy they ended up with us touring the wetlands.
Except for the man yesterday who interrupted us mid-discussion to ask when we were going on the boat, because he didn't come for a political discussion...
But everyone else was interested and engaged and excited to see the cypress swamp and hear the stories. And then there is this little guy--
Jean Lafitte is a pretty cool town, with a really great mayor who is working hard not only for his residents, but the residents of four other nearby, unincorporated towns. Has fought for funding for structures to protect the town, even when the government keeps telling them they are not worth it. He secured funding for an affordable healthcare clinic that is also studying and caring for the long term effects of the oil disaster. He won a grant to build a beautiful library, senior center, and meeting facility with a small museum attached in an effort to prove to the state and country that his town is "worth it". Members of his family have served the role of justice of the peace for over a century, for free, just so the town would have services.
Nothing like spending a beautiful day advocating wetlands and meeting an actual honest politician to give you a little hope.
Jean Lafitte was a pirate in Barataria Bay in the late 1700s/early 1800s, who helped Jackson win the Battle of New Orleans in 1815, using smuggled goods and the knowledge of the pending British attack (they tried to bribe him to help them... ha).
I spent the past two days in the town Jean Lafitte meeting with groups from the Christian Community Development Association. Members are from all over the US and Canada and are currently having their annual conference in New Orleans. The trip to Jean Lafitte to talk about the wetlands with Kris, Dick, the town mayor (and me?) was one of many options they had as side trips. From what I gathered, it was not most people's first choice, but I would say the vast majority were happy they ended up with us touring the wetlands.
Except for the man yesterday who interrupted us mid-discussion to ask when we were going on the boat, because he didn't come for a political discussion...
But everyone else was interested and engaged and excited to see the cypress swamp and hear the stories. And then there is this little guy--
Jean Lafitte is a pretty cool town, with a really great mayor who is working hard not only for his residents, but the residents of four other nearby, unincorporated towns. Has fought for funding for structures to protect the town, even when the government keeps telling them they are not worth it. He secured funding for an affordable healthcare clinic that is also studying and caring for the long term effects of the oil disaster. He won a grant to build a beautiful library, senior center, and meeting facility with a small museum attached in an effort to prove to the state and country that his town is "worth it". Members of his family have served the role of justice of the peace for over a century, for free, just so the town would have services.
Nothing like spending a beautiful day advocating wetlands and meeting an actual honest politician to give you a little hope.
12 September 2013
We interrupt this year of service...
... for an epic bout with homesickness.
I travel a lot. My first sleepover away from home and my parents was when I was a toddler. I have not experienced much of this feeling in my life, so despite years of helping campers through it, I do not know how to handle myself right now.
Times in my life that I have, without a doubt, experienced homesickness:
This is just in April, right after I got back from Arizona--
I'm trying to flush out my feelings with words tonight, and it's just not working. It breaks my heart that the very breeze I went to enjoy before moving away from the NJ coast for a year, is causing such destruction of a place so recently put back together. Prayers for the safety of the first responders, and for a change in the weather tonight, and for the community. I miss you, NJ.
I travel a lot. My first sleepover away from home and my parents was when I was a toddler. I have not experienced much of this feeling in my life, so despite years of helping campers through it, I do not know how to handle myself right now.
Times in my life that I have, without a doubt, experienced homesickness:
- Dad's "bad Wednesday" (heart attack) early in my sophomore year of college. I'd spoken to him and knew he was ok, and everyone else told me he was ok, but I needed to get back to NJ and see it for myself. After I went home for a long weekend visit, I felt much better, but still had little inklings of homesickness during the year, worried that I'd be far away when something bad happened to a loved one.
- The day I left for Arizona. Probably only because at that point, I didn't know when I was coming back. It didn't last long, because while I missed people, I also talked to them a lot. It also didn't last long because I just don't tend to get homesick.
- During/after Sandy. There was something deeply unsettling about watching my beloved home state suffer so badly and not being able to do a whole lot about it; also not really being able to talk about it with any sense of sadness or concern because I was the guardian of an 11 year old that week, who I didn't think needed to carry that weight.
- aaaaaaand that's about it, really, till today.
This is just in April, right after I got back from Arizona--
I'm trying to flush out my feelings with words tonight, and it's just not working. It breaks my heart that the very breeze I went to enjoy before moving away from the NJ coast for a year, is causing such destruction of a place so recently put back together. Prayers for the safety of the first responders, and for a change in the weather tonight, and for the community. I miss you, NJ.
11 September 2013
peace
I have a few quiet minutes in my house and a few loud thoughts in my head.
I have nothing to say that hasn't been said about today's date, so I'm going to reflect on peace instead.
When I asked my Presbytery for support for YAV, a friend recommended I apply for the Peacemaking Grant. At first, I wasn't sure how that was relevant since I'm working with wetlands and natural resource conservation. But as I stared at the application and thought on it for a while, I thought about Wangari Maathai. I read her memoir Unbowed as I began grad school, and learned how her love of trees earned her a Nobel Peace Prize, the first awarded to an environmentalist (she also did work seeking gender equality, but founding the Green Belt Movement in Kenya was her better known work). My love of trees hasn't quite gotten me that far, but I think there's something to be said for the connection between peacemaking efforts and environmental conservation.
If we are not at peace with our natural environments, it will be difficult to be at peace with each other in the future when we are struggling over the availability of natural resources.
In southern Louisiana, people are already at odds with the environment, which may or may not even be considered natural anymore. Today I started reading John McPhee's The Control of Nature, which I snagged off the geography department's free book table probably six years ago, and forgot about until I was debating what books to bring to New Orleans. It's about the Army Corps of Engineers (who the people down bayou HATE) and how they changed the hydrology and fluvial geomorphology* of southern Louisiana by building locks and levees in the middle part of the last century. So there's that ongoing battle to keep the Mississippi River flowing exactly where and how the powers that be want it to.
Then, of course, there's the wetlands. I may or may not have mentioned how broken the people's relationship is with that space.
So, as I'm thinking about peace today, I'm thinking my role in the world as a peacemaker and how that relates to the people and places I meet.
*You KNOW I just like throwing around the word "geomorphology".
I have nothing to say that hasn't been said about today's date, so I'm going to reflect on peace instead.
When I asked my Presbytery for support for YAV, a friend recommended I apply for the Peacemaking Grant. At first, I wasn't sure how that was relevant since I'm working with wetlands and natural resource conservation. But as I stared at the application and thought on it for a while, I thought about Wangari Maathai. I read her memoir Unbowed as I began grad school, and learned how her love of trees earned her a Nobel Peace Prize, the first awarded to an environmentalist (she also did work seeking gender equality, but founding the Green Belt Movement in Kenya was her better known work). My love of trees hasn't quite gotten me that far, but I think there's something to be said for the connection between peacemaking efforts and environmental conservation.
If we are not at peace with our natural environments, it will be difficult to be at peace with each other in the future when we are struggling over the availability of natural resources.
In southern Louisiana, people are already at odds with the environment, which may or may not even be considered natural anymore. Today I started reading John McPhee's The Control of Nature, which I snagged off the geography department's free book table probably six years ago, and forgot about until I was debating what books to bring to New Orleans. It's about the Army Corps of Engineers (who the people down bayou HATE) and how they changed the hydrology and fluvial geomorphology* of southern Louisiana by building locks and levees in the middle part of the last century. So there's that ongoing battle to keep the Mississippi River flowing exactly where and how the powers that be want it to.
Then, of course, there's the wetlands. I may or may not have mentioned how broken the people's relationship is with that space.
So, as I'm thinking about peace today, I'm thinking my role in the world as a peacemaker and how that relates to the people and places I meet.
*You KNOW I just like throwing around the word "geomorphology".
10 September 2013
a little peek into my brain this evening
The Young Adult Volunteer program has a lot of different community-focused aspects to it. One is that this community will be intentional-- so we hang out together and make decisions together and work together on purpose. Another is spiritual development, which combines with the intentional community to become my house's Tuesday House Meeting. We talk about the grocery list and chores, but we also take time to discuss some readings and our faith journeys.
This week's meeting, Jess and Kalyn lead us in a discussion ultimately rooted in the Psalms-- psalms of lament, cursing psalms, and psalms of joy. Somewhere between lament and cursing, we talked briefly about the idea of meeting people where they are. Layne shared with us an image that I've heard a few times before, of someone at the bottom of a pit, and two scenarios: one in which others are standing at the top of the pit, inviting the person at the bottom to get out and come join them; one in which someone joins the person at the bottom of the pit, ultimately to help them get out. This image is often used in lessons on counseling.
I was thinking a little bit about Peace Corps again today, because I met someone new who asked me how I ended up in New Orleans with YAV. So when we were talking about lamentation this evening, that is admittedly a little bit of what I was thinking about. I was thinking about how I was so far at the bottom of that pit, and I was so afraid of people standing at the top and telling me to get out that I didn't really talk about the rejection for a month (which became my most viewed blog post ever until recently-- I'll come back to that).
In that month though, I have to give a lot of credit to Mike for absolutely meeting me where I was at the bottom of the pit. We had started seeing each other less than a week before that rejection notice, and the poor guy was probably (definitely) caught between feeling sorry and sad that I was so crushed, and being a little thankful that I wasn't going to leave the country any time soon. I was not sleeping well, and I didn't have the words to talk about the whole ordeal, and it was weighing on me heavily as I attempted to keep it a secret until I did have the words. Mike would come over and just sit. Sometimes we'd watch TV, sometimes we'd just sit. No talking. Sometimes a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Mostly just sitting. (Well, he sat. I often laid because I felt like if I was meeting gravity horizontally, I couldn't fall any further.)
I had to take a deep breath just now. Just thinking about that whole time slams me with a lot of different emotions, and we all know I'm kind of a robot about feelings sometimes.
So about a month later was this:
which we could probably draw all sorts of metaphors about the crazy winding road behind us there. And now eighteen months later is this:
(Well, it will be 33 months later by then, but whatever.)
Josh Ritter, the brilliant artist he is, sang the wonderful words, "So throw away those lamentations, we both know them all too well/ if there's a book of jubilation, we'll have to write it for ourselves..."
So why am I sharing all of this? Because I was totally caught on the idea of meeting people where they are, grieving at the bottom of the pit, and building joy out of that experience. While sitting as a household, we all shared some things we were lamenting and some things we were cursing. I didn't share that I still have moments when I'm grieving about Peace Corps. I shared that I'm lamenting the wetlands here. (Typical Colleen, sharing the thoughts that just barely skim the surface of what I'm even thinking about.) It was true. It was just tangled up in all of these other thoughts, too.
I'm still sometimes sad that I'm not serving in an even more extreme way, but a lot of joy has come out of it, and I am focused on that far more often than the hurt these days. Because I didn't move to the developing world for over two years, I could build an awesome relationship with a great man. Because I didn't go with Peace Corps, I was able to explore the southwest. Because I'm not a Peace Corps Volunteer, I was able to return to camp for a last hurrah with some beloved friends and get a ton of experience with NRCS and serve as the musician for our mission trips and spend more time with my grandmothers and help some people who weathered Sandy clean out their homes and work with my middle school youth and go to a Josh Ritter concert as a guest of the band and have a beautiful picnic with some of my favorite people and a million other joyful things and be at several wonderful weddings and be a bridesmaid in several more and have my own next fall.
Because I didn't do Peace Corps, I ended up here, in southern Louisiana, attempting to jump in the pit alongside the residents of the coast as we attempt to spread the word about the wetlands.
I mentioned before that the Peace Corps news was my most-read post until recently-- that was absolutely defeated by the post when I announced I was coming to New Orleans this year. I don't think I would have made it this far without so many people being willing to jump in the pit with me, and more importantly, wait until I was ready to have company down there. I am just continually amazed at the community of people I get to call my friends. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
This week's meeting, Jess and Kalyn lead us in a discussion ultimately rooted in the Psalms-- psalms of lament, cursing psalms, and psalms of joy. Somewhere between lament and cursing, we talked briefly about the idea of meeting people where they are. Layne shared with us an image that I've heard a few times before, of someone at the bottom of a pit, and two scenarios: one in which others are standing at the top of the pit, inviting the person at the bottom to get out and come join them; one in which someone joins the person at the bottom of the pit, ultimately to help them get out. This image is often used in lessons on counseling.
I was thinking a little bit about Peace Corps again today, because I met someone new who asked me how I ended up in New Orleans with YAV. So when we were talking about lamentation this evening, that is admittedly a little bit of what I was thinking about. I was thinking about how I was so far at the bottom of that pit, and I was so afraid of people standing at the top and telling me to get out that I didn't really talk about the rejection for a month (which became my most viewed blog post ever until recently-- I'll come back to that).
In that month though, I have to give a lot of credit to Mike for absolutely meeting me where I was at the bottom of the pit. We had started seeing each other less than a week before that rejection notice, and the poor guy was probably (definitely) caught between feeling sorry and sad that I was so crushed, and being a little thankful that I wasn't going to leave the country any time soon. I was not sleeping well, and I didn't have the words to talk about the whole ordeal, and it was weighing on me heavily as I attempted to keep it a secret until I did have the words. Mike would come over and just sit. Sometimes we'd watch TV, sometimes we'd just sit. No talking. Sometimes a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Mostly just sitting. (Well, he sat. I often laid because I felt like if I was meeting gravity horizontally, I couldn't fall any further.)
I had to take a deep breath just now. Just thinking about that whole time slams me with a lot of different emotions, and we all know I'm kind of a robot about feelings sometimes.
So about a month later was this:
which we could probably draw all sorts of metaphors about the crazy winding road behind us there. And now eighteen months later is this:
(Well, it will be 33 months later by then, but whatever.)
Josh Ritter, the brilliant artist he is, sang the wonderful words, "So throw away those lamentations, we both know them all too well/ if there's a book of jubilation, we'll have to write it for ourselves..."
So why am I sharing all of this? Because I was totally caught on the idea of meeting people where they are, grieving at the bottom of the pit, and building joy out of that experience. While sitting as a household, we all shared some things we were lamenting and some things we were cursing. I didn't share that I still have moments when I'm grieving about Peace Corps. I shared that I'm lamenting the wetlands here. (Typical Colleen, sharing the thoughts that just barely skim the surface of what I'm even thinking about.) It was true. It was just tangled up in all of these other thoughts, too.
I'm still sometimes sad that I'm not serving in an even more extreme way, but a lot of joy has come out of it, and I am focused on that far more often than the hurt these days. Because I didn't move to the developing world for over two years, I could build an awesome relationship with a great man. Because I didn't go with Peace Corps, I was able to explore the southwest. Because I'm not a Peace Corps Volunteer, I was able to return to camp for a last hurrah with some beloved friends and get a ton of experience with NRCS and serve as the musician for our mission trips and spend more time with my grandmothers and help some people who weathered Sandy clean out their homes and work with my middle school youth and go to a Josh Ritter concert as a guest of the band and have a beautiful picnic with some of my favorite people and a million other joyful things and be at several wonderful weddings and be a bridesmaid in several more and have my own next fall.
Because I didn't do Peace Corps, I ended up here, in southern Louisiana, attempting to jump in the pit alongside the residents of the coast as we attempt to spread the word about the wetlands.
I mentioned before that the Peace Corps news was my most-read post until recently-- that was absolutely defeated by the post when I announced I was coming to New Orleans this year. I don't think I would have made it this far without so many people being willing to jump in the pit with me, and more importantly, wait until I was ready to have company down there. I am just continually amazed at the community of people I get to call my friends. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
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