earthbound

Rachel’s Granddaughter

Like most of us these days, I have lost family and friends to cancer.  It seems to be everywhere, so pervasive that the question most of us ask now is not whether, but when. 

I long have suspected that the rise in cancer rates over the last few decades in the U.S. has been a consequence of chemicals in the environment.  Now I’ve come across a book that documents this in a powerful way, but that also lays out a pathway to action that can reduce this insidious threat:  Sandra Steingraber.  1997.  Living Downstream.  An Ecologist Looks at Cancer and the Environment.  Reading, MA:  Addison-Wesley Publishing Company, Inc.

The book is compelling especially because it weaves together scientific data and the author’s personal story about her own cancer and that of others around her.

Sandra Steingraber has a Ph.D. in biology, and now teaches biology at Columbia College in Chicago.  She also is a cancer survivor.  She writes about her homeland of rural central Illinois and its beauty, and then begins to dissect the “upstream” activities that put toxins into the atmosphere “downstream.” 

She begins with agricultural pesticides, applied in great quantities to nearly all of the 89% of Illinois that is farmland.  These pesticides drift and seep and make their way off of the farmland into the aquifers, streams, and air.  In the other 11% of land she notes the 1,500+ toxic waste sites that sit, unremediated.  After reviewing the history of pesticide use and banishment, Steingraber then draws a parallel between the rise in the use of these chemicals on the land, and the rising rates of breast cancer in the U.S. in the same period.

She devotes a chapter to Rachel Carson, the first to sound the alarm about the effects of chemical toxins on living creatures.  Carson was the first to draw connections between environmental toxins and cancer, and wrote her concerns about three kinds of silence:  that of the government, whose internal debates seldom reached public ears; that of the birds, who were dying off at imperceptible rates; and that of individual scientists, who knew or at least had reason to suspect.  Carson herself died of breast cancer at 56, an irony not lost on Steingraber. 

The book then turns to current statistics on cancer incidence, citing three factors as evidence of a causal link with environmental toxins:  the rising rates over time, the increase over successive generations, and the rapid increase of certain types.  There is much technical data in the book, included to illustrate and persuade that what is being said is true.  I was especially intrigued with the geography of cancer deaths, which dispels any notion about ethnic or racial genomes being behind the patterns.  That is, if rates of cancer mortality varied with ethnicity, the ethnic group rates would be maintained no matter where they lived.  They are not.  The World Health Organization has estimated that at least 80 percent of cancers across the globe are attributable to environmental influences.  Trend maps for the U.S. show high rates of cancer deaths around industrial areas.  The fastest growing rates, though, show up in other areas, indicating the rise of chemicals from other sources.

Steingraber outlines with great care and ample data the mechanisms and processes by which toxins enter the air, soil, water, animals, and people.  She writes as if she believes that the connection between environmental toxins and cancer has not yet been accepted by the public or the scientific community.  Or, more likely, the connection has not been proven definitively enough to spur action.  Certainly action is lacking. 

Steingraber does propose action.  She suggests how a human rights approach to the problem might be received.  She then lays out three principles that could help with remediation:  (1) a shift from a proof-based or “dead-body” approach, which requires proof before there can be action, to a precautionary model, which spurs action if there is an indication of harm.  The principle is one of protection of life; (2) the principle of reverse onus, which would shift the burden of proof from evidence of harm, borne by the public, to evidence of safety, borne by producers; and (3) the principle of the least toxic alternative, which would opt for substance use on that criteria rather than any other.  Each of these alternatives would be difficult to execute in a market economy, as none of them respects short-term economic motives or incentives.  They would, however, intervene in the growing global cancer pandemic.

At the end of the book is an Afterword that provides abundant resources for information on environmental issues and cancer, followed by copious footnotes.  Steingraber encourages all of us to get informed, and then advocate for a reduction of environmental toxins. 

The weaving through the book of the author’s own cancer story makes the book a compelling read, and the copious technical information is empowering.  After reading the book it would be hard to dispute Steingraber’s thesis, that environmental toxins and cancer are linked.  I appreciate the book in that it affirms my suspicions about that, but its presentation of the data also is very sobering.  On some issues it is easy to avoid facing a dark reality until evidence for it is laid out in this kind of detail. 

The book pays great homage to Rachel Carson, recognizing her valiant efforts to call for repentance from our self-destructive practices.  It is heartening to this environmentally-minded Baby Boomer that young scientists like Steingraber still are on the case.

We Can Get There From Here

If ever there were a book on environmental issues that would appeal to someone who has been involved in geography and higher education, Earth in Mind by David Orr is it.  [David W. Orr.  1994.  Earth in Mind.  On Education, Environment, and the Human Prospect.  Washington, DC:  Island Press.]

He had me at the Introduction.  There, he shifts the focus of education for environmental solutions away from discipline-based training for technological “fixes,” that prepares young people to compete effectively in the global economy, and toward what he calls “ecological design intelligence”—education for the ability to “think broadly, to perceive systems and patterns, and to live as whole persons.”  His basic argument is that the broad array of environmental problems that we observe are all connected, and symptoms of the same malady, and it will take a different way of educating future generations to cure it.  Orr calls for a complete redesign of the education system, to achieve that goal.  Coming from an integrative, systems-based field of study, I couldn’t agree more. 

Orr begins by naming the problem of education.  More is not necessarily better; better might mean different—education that embodies standards of decency and human survival, and not simply value-neutral technical training.  He moves to unpack some of the myths underlying traditional educational design:  that “ignorance is a solvable problem” (it isn’t; we’ll never know everything); that with enough knowledge, we can “manage the earth” (the deep complexity of earth systems never can be sufficiently understood for that); and that “good” human knowledge and wisdom are increasing (some is growing, some is being lost). 

Orr cites the development of disciplines as one cause of the narrow perspectives of most graduates, and suggests that instead of educating for success, we would do better to educate “peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and lovers of every kind…people who live well in their places.”  He goes on to outline his vision for a reoriented educational system that educates for these outcomes. 

Orr sees the dangers of our current educational system as preparing young people for careers before and rather than for callings; that disciplinary structures will become the way in which graduates believe reality to be organized; and that education will destroy their sense of wonder.  Although he sees education as an accomplice in cultural decline, he also sees it as the institution best able to reverse that decline.

Among the problems of education, Orr sees the current system as lacking a sense of urgency, a direct connection with the world, and an orientation toward “book-learning” above all other kinds, so that intelligence is defined solely by that metric.

What is needed from 21^st-century education, says Orr, is “a broader conception of science, and a more inclusive rationality that joins empirical knowledge with the same emotions that make us love and sometimes fight.”  In other words, the age of education for objectivity and neutrality is long over; the age of education that serves the needs of the world is upon us.  Education should no longer “separate mind or body from its ecological and emotional context.”  It should move us away from the notion that humans are to dominate nature; teach about citizenship and responsibility as much as individualism and rights; and challenge “technological fundamentalism.”  Orr also implicates for-profit schools as embodying priorities that are antithetical to those he espouses for education. 

In Part 2 of the book, Orr outlines his vision for revamping education.  Reintegrate concepts of emotional bonds, fight, and love into science.  These are not antithetical, he asserts; they are merely complexly interrelated, and we do not understand them well enough to teach them.  Ways of teaching about “biophilia” – our deeper affinities for life—will have to be developed.  Orr reconsiders our notions of “intelligence,” proposing an expanded and deeper view that incorporates innate human gifts of courage and creativity. 

The chapter on water and oil is a creative framing of the connection between our natural affinity for water, and the ways in which our relationship with oil resources has undermined our intelligence.  If young people better understood these two dynamics, they might help to shift our priorities in resource use.  Ensuing chapters address various dimensions of our world for which education is the key to sustainability:  biodiversity, politics, and economics.

The third part of the book is a proposal for restructuring education toward Orr’s goals.  He espouses different ratings systems for colleges, reorganization of disciplinary boundaries, rethinking tenure and professionalism in the academy, promoting “design intelligence,” redesigning learning environments, relocating agricultural education into the liberal arts, and educating for long-term citizenship–of the earth.

In Part Four, Orr sums up where he hopes all of this advocacy will lead.  He foresees a resurgence of “biophilia”—a return to “world that takes its places seriously.”  This is music to a geographer’s ears.  The idea of, economies of, and politics of place matter, he says.  He turns his attention to responsible food consumption, calling for a shift to “an honest food system,” and then to the rural population and economy, speculating on its future.  Orr speculates on the possibility that the urban/rural population dynamic might shift its proportions, due to energy, pollution, health, or complexity issues, or simply because tastes will change and people will seek a more rural lifestyle.  He then makes a novel suggestion:  that we might want to begin making that shift intentionally, now, so that it can be accomplished in a rational and orderly fashion, given the high likelihood that we will need to do it someday anyway. 

After laying out the suggestion that this move might be sensible, Orr then outlines a vision for a new rural way of life that is sustainable in every dimension, and that preempts most of the problems of environment that plague and threaten the human future. 

This is a well-written and intriguing book, which aligns well with holistic Christian educational philosophy.  It will be a good read for anyone who would like an uplifting vision of an alternative future, well within our grasp.

Simpler Living, Compassionate Life

I have discovered a valuable resource in the author Michael Schut, who has an edited volume called Simpler Living, Compassionate Life.  A Christian Perspective.  [Michael Schut, ed.  1999.  Denver, CO:  Living the Good News.]

Michael Schut writes and teaches within the faith-based creation-care movement.  He was formerly with Earth Ministry, a Seattle-based non-profit whose mission is to deepen the relationship of individuals and congregations with God’s creation.  He currently serves as Economic and Environmental Affairs Officer, a new position within the Episcopal Church.p> The book begins with Schut’s Overview piece, in which he asks, “Is simplicity only a fad, or can it lead to lasting change?”  His thesis is that “voluntary simplicity” on a mass scale is a path to environmental sustainability, and to the abundant life that God has promised, for all.

Schut poses the “good life” against the “abundant life” – the life that the culture promotes through systems of materialism and economic growth, productivity, anthropocentrism and individualism, with that of voluntary simplicity, in which can be found freedom and compassion (or, the freedom for compassion).

Schut provides a useful articulation of compassion, via Frederick Buechner: 

“Compassion is that sometimes fatal capacity for feeling what it is like to live inside another’s skin, knowing that there never can really be peace and joy for any until there is peace and joy finally for all” (p. 30).  Compassion—suffering for all—felt as empathy but embodied as justice, is a hallmark of the abundant life.

In the ensuing collection of essays, authors invoke the various obstacles to simpler living:  the way societal changes have robbed us of time, redirected our money, led us to fear “down-time” and empty spaces.  Henri Nouwen conceptualizes the problem as opacity, needing to get to transparency—in our relationships with nature, time, and people.  Evy McDonald name the problems as affluence and over-consumption.  William Stringfellow points out how our relationship with money, labeled as virtuous by our culture, really is idolatry, because as Christians all that we have and all that we are belongs to the whole world.

One of Schut’s goals for the book is to show how poverty and ecological degradation are connected to consumption levels in affluent countries.  While the connections are not necessarily obvious, the fact is that there no longer is “away”; everywhere is “here”.  This is a theme that speaks loudly to a geographer like me; it has been at the core of my teaching and research.  Schut’s response to this problem:  draw on local resources; move against cultural messages.  While the “local movement” still has its detractors, there is no question that as a community of faith part of our task is to move against cultural messages—to be the countervoice to those that are destructive to the “abundant life.” 

John Cobb offers a helpful Christian framing of our call to better care for creation, as a need for repentance and transformation.  He invokes individualism and nationalism as problematic to this, and points to the best teachings of the church as resources to accomplish this turning about.

Wendell Berry’s essay, “Word and Flesh,” offers a perspective that I have not encountered before:  that the massive social movements of the last half-century have not gotten us very far beyond talking, because of their scale.  The place where humans can effect change is at the household and community level.  Berry also writes in support of responsible eating—we should grow and cook our own food, know its origins, buy it locally, be in relationship with its producers, and know its biography.

An important point of the book is that striving toward the abundant life involves more than getting our individual lives in order and caring for the earth.  Building community also is an essential element in that life, whether at the neighborhood or village, or even online.  Democratic practices within these communities will undermine systems of oppression.

In total, the book suggests that our current economic system embodies a certain story, theology, and worldview.  Schut’s Epilogue emphasizes two themes:  the need for us to change our worldview, and the need for us to change the way we act, grounded in compassion. 

One of the most useful aspects of this book is a 12-session guide that is included, for use with congregations or other groups. 

For anyone seeking a Christian theological framing and articulation of the obstacles that stand between us and the promise of “abundant life” that we, ourselves, must help to achieve, this book is a rich and valuable resource.

Methodist Brothers and Sisters in Christ

The churchwide teaching process of the United Methodist Church provides an interesting comparison with that of the ELCA.  The UMC’s 2009 Pastoral Letter, “God’s Renewed Creation:  Call to Hope and Action,” was issued by the church’s Council of Bishops, a process more similar to the Roman Catholic church than to that of the ELCA.  [http://www.umc.org/site/c.lwL4KnN1LtH/b.5613639/k.47A9/Gods_Renewed_Creation_Call_to_Hope_and_Action.htm] The current pastoral letter is an update of another letter issued in 1986, “In Defense of Creation: The Nuclear Crisis and a Just Peace.” 

That earlier letter was much more focused on the particular issue of nuclear proliferation in the world as a threat to creation than on general creation care.  Still, the framework it presented would be familiar and compatible with the ELCA’s:  “…this world is God’s creation, a sacred gift to be received and nurtured with respect…”.  The bishops characterized the world’s nuclear peril as “part of a complex web of brokenness” that must be confronted.  In that moment, toward the end of the Soviet Union, this nuclear weapons threat was at the forefront of people’s fears. 

In 2009, the bishops expanded their set of concerns to what they called three interrelated threats:  “pandemic poverty and disease, environmental degradation and climate change, and a world awash with weapons and violence.”  While conceding that they were not experts on these matters, the bishops did assert their expertise on “the moral and ethical life that strengthens and supports God’s intentions for Creation.”  They also helpfully tied these broad environmental concerns to the central purpose of the church:  “to make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world.”  Their statement is explicitly missional, as they cite God as the actor and the church as seeking to “cooperate with God’s renewing Spirit.” 

The letter frames quite broadly the several dimensions that in interrelated ways make for a toxic environment for human thriving.  They also show wisdom in recognizing that the experience of these problems is different in different parts of the world, and so prioritizing and remedying the problems will play out differently as well.  The letter is distinctive in its constant efforts to tie the intentional expressions of human failing with environmental degradation.  War and weapons of war, deadly small arms and nuclear conflict, and conflicts over resources are cited as actions to end, if environmental damage is to end. Humans are called to heed the prophecy of Isaiah:  “Behold, I am doing a new thing; / now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” (Is 43:19), and to “envision new futures and to invent the tools necessary to make them a reality.” 

While there is no particular need to compare the ELCA’s social statement with that of any other denomination, I can’t help but hear some differences.  The UMC bishops attend more directly to the interrelationships among human activities that degrade the environment, and seem to issue a stronger and more direct call to action, tying that to the call of Christians to be caretakers and participants in God’s mission.  Their acknowledgment of human complicity also is more direct, recognizing that it comes from brokenness, but also that we are empowered to participate in God’s purposes anyway.  “We cannot help the world until we change our own way of being in it,” they say.  Well said. 

In another interesting clause, the bishops acknowledge that “no nation or culture is absolutely just and right in its treatment of its own people.”  They go on to say that those (bishops and churches) in the Global South must acknowledge corruption there, and open their hearts to forgiveness and renewal.  Most notable of all, perhaps, is their assertion that “Ours is not solely a private faith, but one that also orients us toward God and the needs of our neighbor and world.”  We Lutherans believe that too, but probably don’t say it often enough within our congregations.

The letter ends with several imperatives:

Let Us Practice Social and Environmental Holiness 

Let Us Learn from One Another

Let Us Live and Act in Hope

I am heartened to learn that we have brothers and sisters in common cause for our earth, God’s good creation.  Let us indeed learn from one another, and live and act in hope.

ELCA and Environment

The 1993 ELCA Social Statement on the Environment carries the optimistic title, “Caring for Creation:  Vision, Hope, and Justice” [http://www.elca.org/~Media/Files/What We Believe/Social-Issues/environment/Environment.pdf].  I can’t argue with optimism on environmental matters because, let’s face it, at this point hope is pretty much all we’ve got. 

The statement begins by asserting that care for the earth is a profoundly spiritual matter.  While I buy that, I’m compelled to say that, these days, care for the earth also is a profoundly practical matter—one of life and death.  When I was introduced to the environmental movement back in the late 1960s, I came to understand that the situation already was dire.  The observance of the first Earth Day was only a culmination of several decades of rising awareness, punctuated by certain books and experts whose voices rose above the din—most notably, Rachel Carson. 

Given all of this, a review of the 1993 ELCA statement in 2010 leads me naturally to ask, “How far have we come?”  My own congregation has just joined the “Congregations Caring for Creation” network, and is struggling to catch the attention of congregants even on such simple matters as recycling and energy conservation.  Looking around me, I see little progress on moving away from fossil fuels, agricultural chemicals, industrial waste, and household pollution of myriad kinds.  Although being “green” has moved from the fringe to the mainstream, it remains something of a fad, popular among households who have the education, the awareness,  and the means to live more “green.”  So, in a way, issues of environmental racism, classicism, and justice have a new dimension – who can participate in a healthier, more earth-friendly life?

Back to ELCA, 1993:  I give credit to my churchwide body for calling out our abuse of the earth as sin—that is, as part of “humanity’s separation from God and from the rest of creation.”  The statement is meant as a call to action, both for the sake of getting back in line with God’s purposes and for the sake of justice.  God called God’s creation “good”; we sin when we despoil God’s creation.  We are called to care for it as God does, to serve and keep it as God’s garden.  The call is urgent, and recognizes both how much nature has been disrupted by our action and inaction, and how unevenly distributed are the consequences of that disruption.  Thus, the call for justice—to act interdependently and in solidarity with creation. 

The framing of the statement makes me wonder about the possibilities of achieving its goals.  We are called to stand in solidarity with creation, while we cannot even stand in solidarity with our human kin.  So I wonder.  This statement seems very much bounded by the culture of our church—understandably—but that boundedness means that it calls us only to that which we will be comfortable achieving within our existing church culture.  We are to tithe environmentally.  Doable.  We are to emphasize creation throughout the church year.  Ok.  We are to educate and communicate, have programs, clean up our own individual practices, and advocate with the government.  No problem.

And then there’s clause D, under “Commitments of Our Church,” what we will do “As a community of moral deliberation.”  “Model the principles of participation, bringing together parties in conflict...”.   What evidence can we point to that our church has developed this capacity?  Even our church’s internal “parties in conflict” do not come together.  Are we equipped to engage the “other” in the environmental struggle—those who are positioned within forces of postcolonialism, globalization, racism, sexism, and all of the other dynamics that support and promote the destruction of the planet? 

The statement ends well, by addressing my underlying pessimism.  “The prospect of doing too little too late leads many people to despair. But as people of faith, captives of hope, and vehicles of God's promise, we face the crisis….We claim the promise of "a new heaven and a new earth" (Rev 21:1).  Indeed, we trust in God and in God’s promise, and that God is present and active in creation, so that we are merely helpers, instruments of God’s work.  But we have been given free will, and the capacity to be destructive in creation, as we have amply demonstrated throughout human history. 

So, what is it that should give us hope in this age of looming environmental darkness?  On that question, the statement delivers in a timeless way.  Whatever potential humans have for destroying creation, God’s potential for constantly renewing it is greater.  Whatever indifference or exploitative impulses humans have, God’s purposes are greater.  We have the clear and incontrovertible Word of God in the Bible, that the Earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof, and that God will not abandon what God has created.  So hang onto hope, good people, and on that hope, act. 

Yes, I can.

Most days I am overwhelmed by the swirl of critique and pressure to be part of the solution (or at least not part of the problem) to food production and consumption that are both environmentally damaging and unhealthy to individuals like me. There are ideal scenarios for opting out of the problem, but most of them have seemed out of reach for people with no time or money to spare. Lately, though the balance among those things-—time, money, health, environment—-has started to shift. Perhaps it’s my age, or the diminishing strength and vitality that has come with the lifestyle of these too-busy student days, or the increasingly dire environmental conditions that we face. No doubt it’s also involvement in a class on creation care. Whatever is pushing this shift, I welcome it, because I’ve always understood that I have not been living up to the ideals, and so I am part of the problem, both for myself and for the earth.

Now that it’s spring, and flowers and fresh produce are beginning to appear in grocery stores and farm markets, I’ve been having vivid flashbacks of memory to the foodways of my childhood. I come from farm folk, who had extensive gardens next to their cornfields. Meals at the farm were fresh-picked (or freshly slaughtered) or freshly baked, and we all knew exactly where the food came from.

My people remained farm folk even when they moved to the city. We no longer raise our own meat, but we had an extensive garden in the back yard of our 40-foot lot. Tomatoes, cucumbers, radishes, cucumbers, potatoes, peas and green beans, beets, sweet peppers, zucchini, cabbage, onions, pumpkins and squash, and more. What we couldn’t grow, we sought out at local farms, and what we didn’t eat, we canned.  We went to pick-your-own berry farms and brought home strawberries, and bought bushels of corn from local truck stands. My mother watched especially for cling peaches and bing cherries in the markets—-her favorites. Surely there was even more, that I no longer remember. What I remember vividly, though, is the process of canning.

We set aside a whole day, or two, for this production. First, the supplies—we had one set of jars that was re-used year after year. So, we had only to find new lids and rings at the store. In those days, these were  easy to find; every grocery store carried them. Then, the  process: sterile jars; for low-acid foods we needed the pressure cooker, in good working order, and the big pot for the water bath, for high-acid foods. Blue, with speckles, as I recall. This had to be a careful, precise operation, even though generations of experience made it look easy. No mistakes were acceptable on sterilizing and sealing the jars, or bringing them to a high enough temperature, lest bacteria grow in the food.

Finally, details: the funnel to fill the jars; the rubber-lined tongs to lift the jars safely from the water or the pressure cooker; towels to set them on to dry, and a big production line to clean and prepare the food.

I remember the kitchen being hot and steamy, the water pot boiling, the pressure cooker whistling, and the sharp smell of pickling brine filling the kitchen. Sterile jars lined upon the table, with new lids and rings ready, raised the level of anticipation, like new pencils and notebooks on the first day of school. One by one, the jars were filled with the fresh food, the proper mix of liquid was poured over it, rings and lids placed, and  sealed safely in the pressure cooker. It was like magic. The food in the jars was like an art exhibit: beautiful, unchanging, and untouchable. The jars were placed on shelves in the basement, under the stairway, a place dedicated to their safe display. 

As autumn arrived and the air grew brisk, the garden gave up the last of its harvest—-squash and pumpkins—-and turned to brown stubble. The farm markets closed, and the produce in the stores no longer was local. But in our house, every night as supper was being prepared, my brother would be dispatched to the basement to bring up a jar of the particular condiment or side dish that would complete the meal. The jar would be opened, and miraculously the very food I had washed and peeled and cut months before would emerge, just as if we had picked it that very day.

The loss of that food practice was accepted as I grew up and moved out of the house. I did not fully stock the kitchen of my college years and, after that, life outside of home got busier and life at home got short shrift. There was no time, even if the impulse had been present, to indulge even in finding the fresh food to can, much less to embark on that whole process, find the room to store the food, nor money for the capital investment required. Even the supplies were harder to find. Canning jars had become a novelty, appearing on store shelves at Christmas, to be filled with hot cocoa mix or designer coffees.

More recently, though, the practice of canning has re-emerged in the city, alongside the local foods movement. Stores once again stock canning supplies; those who have lost the art can find how-to books or Internet advice; and pressure cookers are a featured item at Williams-Sonoma. And so, my memories have returned. For a few years now I have yearned for a decent pressure cooker, and I linger too long in the canning-jar aisle at the store. Only this year, though, have I decided to actually take the plunge. I will make the investment, and I will can.

This decision will shift my diet. Typically, I eat fresh produce only when it’s  available from local growers in grocery stores and farmers markets, in season. Then, I stop buying it  fresh, because  imported produce is expensive and not appealing. This leads me to frozen food, which almost always has additives, not to mention a biography of processing, packaging, and travel to my market that makes it costly to the environment. 

This year, I will stock up on fresh local foods while they are in season, refresh my canning skills, and go to  work. Next winter, I will go down to the basement, to the shelves under the stairway, and gently carry a glass jar of the summer’s bounty to my table. As I savor the taste of summer that it carries, along with it I will savor the way it enhances my health, connects me to my past, and moves me just a little closer to the earth.

Take Back the Tap

Ok, so I’ve become more conscientious about how I recycle plastic bottles and caps.  But I still notice that the majority of the bulk in my recycling bin is made up of empty water bottles.  So, the next step is to get them out of my life altogether.  I have to go back to drinking tap water. 

“Ewww,” you may say, as I have.  It’s icky; full of contaminants, lead, and God-knows-what-else, and it always tastes a little off.  But here’s the thing:  not only are the bottles a problem; the bottled water itself might be fooling us. 

What do we imagine when we gulp down that clear, pristine-looking liquid?  As for me, I don’t need it to come from a mountain stream or an underground spring, but I always have believed that it might come from a plant that purifies it, at least.  Sad to say, the National Resources Defense Council reports that as much as 40 percent of bottled water is actually from a tap.[1]  Yup, that’s right folks.  Open a tap, fill a bottle, sell it for a huge profit. 

What’s to stop the bottled-water companies from doing just that?  We have become complacent about food safety and water quality over the last century because of the broad involvement of government in regulating our food and water supply.  We believe that if we can buy it in a store, it’s been checked, and it’s ok.  Who has the time to look into whether that’s actually true for every product we buy?  Not I!  Unfortunately, the reality is that we do have to do that, both for our own individual health, and to make the food and water industries do no harm.   So when we believe that the government is watching out for our safety—and it generally is—the devil’s in the details, and we have to educate ourselves.

For example, do we know which agency is responsible for regulating the quality of bottled water, and why that matters?  Our tap water is monitored by the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) and the rules in the Safe Drinking Water Act.  Utility companies have to test municipal water supplies constantly, many times per day.  Bottled water, on the other hand, is classified as a food product, and so falls under the jurisdiction of the Food and Drug Administration (FDA), and the rules in the Federal Food, Drug, and Cosmetic Act.  Under FDA rules, bottling companies have to test their supply only once per week.  There is not enough budget to enforce even these regulations stringently across the board, and in any case they only apply to 30-40% of the bottled water that is sold across state lines.  Trying to buy from your local micro-bottler?  You may want to ask how regulated its product is.  About 40 states have their own regulations, but many just mirror those of the FDA.[2] 

The watchdog Natural Resources Defense Council’s (NRDC) testing revealed really bad stuff in about a quarter of bottled water—from the water supply, the purification process, or even leaching from the plastic bottles themselves.  (There’s a lot to say about the environmental impacts of those bottles, but let’s stick to the water quality for now.)

Given all of this, I’ve become convinced that turning to bottled water for health reasons is just an illusion.  But I know my taps; in my old house the tap water also is scary.  Even though I live in a big city and I trust that my water supply meets EPA standards, the pipes that bring the water into my house are old, and probably contain unspeakable substances.  So, what to do?  (1) Get my tap water tested, and (2) support the clean water movement.  I like the idea of a federal clean water trust fund, which would provide an ongoing stream of federal dollars to upgrade municipal water systems.  The federal budget is cash-strapped, you say?  Yes, but fees and fines are not taxes.  Levy fines on polluters, add a fee to things that are flushed, to producers of toxic materials, to solid-waste dumping, and pretty soon we’ll have the funding stream we need.

There’s one more thing that nags at me about this issue, and that is an additional incentive for me to localize my water consumption.  I know that, because of human practices, the planet is running short of potable water, period.  This is not just a distribution problem; we’re all at risk.  Food and Water Watch and other groups forecast that two-thirds of the world’s population expected to run short of fresh drinking water by 2025.[3]  And, this isn’t just a problem in arid regions like sub-Saharan Africa.  The aquifers right under us are being depleted.  Do we really want to support—with our retail dollars—private companies extracting more water from some places, for distribution and sale at others, for profit?  No.  Speaking as a member of “the public,” it’s time to make water a public good, again.

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[1] http://www.sustainabletable.org/issues/water/

[2] http://www.foodandwaterwatch.org/water/bottled/take-back-the-tap/#giving-up-bottled-water

[3] http://www.foodandwaterwatch.org/press/publications/more-facts/?type=water

 

Uncap Those Bottles!

Okay, so you’ve been good.  You faithfully separate your recyclables and get them into the bin before the truck comes by each week.  Your take pride in the fact that the “throughput” of your household is mostly recyclables and compost, and you really produce relatively little trash.  And, you trust implicitly the recycling system in your city.

Now, take a step back.  Home from the food warehouse, you put the bottled water away on the pantry shelf.  As you go about your day with your water—exercising, working, running around with the kids—you make sure that you carry every empty bottle home to put in your bin.  You’re so conscientious about this that when you finish off a bottle, you recap it to keep it from dribbling, and put it into your book bag, purse, pocket; back at home, it goes right into the bin. 

“Screech!”…(that cartoon sound when the Road Runner skids to a stop just before going over the cliff)…Chances are, the city recycling company will take that bottle out of recycling and throw it in the trash!

It’s the cap.  Recycling plastic means melting it down and re-using it in another form.  The temperature required to melt your water bottle is different from that required to melt the cap, because they’re made out of two different kinds of plastic.  The bottle is usually made of polyethylene terepthalate, a light plastic that often is recycled into things like stuffing, for police jackets, comforters, etc.   The caps are made of polypropylene, which is recycled into sturdier objects--garden rakes, brooms, ice scrapers, and the like. 

A city will decide whether or not to recycle the caps (or any other material) based on
(1) whether there’s a market for it, and (2) how hard it is to sort.  Most will choose bottles over caps because they represent more material, and so more market potential.  After such materials are collected, they have to be sorted, washed, shredded, and melted in order to be re-made into something new.  So, the recycler  will not throw a capped bottle into the batch, because the cap would interfere with this process, and not melt with the bottle.  As nit-picky as it sounds, you need to check your plastic bottles and remove any caps before recycling. And, by the way, rinse them out before you toss them into the bin, too.

Both Minneapolis and St. Paul tell households to remove the lids from plastic bottles when sorting their recycling.  You can check with your city’s recycling service about this question. 

For recycling guidelines in Minneapolis, see: 
http://www.ci.minneapolis.mn.us/solid-waste/recycling-separating.asp
For St. Paul, see:
http://www.eurekarecycling.org

Now, what to do with the plastic bottle caps?  If you don’t want to just throw them into the trash, you can see if you live in a city that also recycles the caps.  You can do this through the Web site earth911.org. 

I checked, and learned that I can drop off plastic bottle caps at Aveda stores. I'm told that many area schools also collect the caps and turn them in to Aveda. (I also could mail them to a firm in Ohio. Really: check it out.   These firms occupy a specialized niche, so they likely collect a lot of bottle caps.)  If I think of it I may call Aveda and ask how they re-use them.

Of course, if you drop off caps at a recycler, choose one that’s on your way to somewhere else—don’t make a special trip that adds extra driving miles.  The earth911.org Web site can direct you to recycling centers for all sorts of other materials as well.

All of this may sound complicated.  When I step back and look at it, though, I realize how easy it will be for me to just dribble the last few drops of water or soda out of the bottle into the grass (or snow), so I’m not tempted to re-cap; and I can easily toss the caps into a storage well in my car.  I’ve also designated a bowl at home for the caps, which I’ll take out to the car every so often.  I figure I can accumulate quite a few caps without much inconvenience, and when I happen to be going by a drop-off site I can dump my stash.  Meanwhile, I’m going to work on using fewer plastic bottles in general.  How about you?  About 40 billion plastic bottles are produced in the U.S. each year, and two-thirds of them end up in landfills. Let's not be part of that.

Sources:  “Why Can't You Recycle Plastic Bottle Caps?”
             http://www.wikihow.com/Recycle-Plastic-Bottles

The Things You Don’t Think Of

It’s interesting how much earth care can be reflected in a simple change in one’s habits.  I began to shop at Costco a while back, when I needed cheap quantities of food for institutional activities, and later kept up my membership on behalf of a few items I couldn’t find elsewhere.   Eventually I started to buy milk there, in those strange-looking rectangular one-gallon plastic jugs.  Their shape makes them awkward to pour, and I can’t always consume a whole gallon of milk easily before the throw-it-out date. As it turns out, however, I have learned that simply changing the shape of these milk jugs makes them cheaper to ship and more environmentally friendly; the milk is fresher when it arrives in the store, and it costs less.(1)  Other food retailers have begun to stock these as well.

The silly little secret to these savings is getting rid of the tapered neck of the jug.  The old-fashioned jugs with necks have to be packed into those milk crates that I used to build bookshelves out of, before I had real furniture.  The crates have to be returned to the distributor after the milk is  delivered—“backhauled”—using up unproductive truck space, and washed, which can require 100,000 gallons of water per day, per dairy.  The new rectangular jugs can be stacked four-high, with  cardboard between the layers, shrink-wrapped into pallets by machine, moved around with forklifts, and so shipped quickly.  And, they're recyclable.

This new process with the new containers can cut labor costs in half, and reduce water use by 60-70%.  More gallons can be packed onto trucks and in store coolers, and no empty crates need to be returned to the dairy, so the number of trips between distributors and retailers each week can be cut by over half from, say, 5 to 2. 

The time saved with the more efficient packing and shipping process can mean that the milk that comes out of the cow in the morning can be in the store by afternoon.  With the old tapered-neck jugs, the lag before delivery might go into the evening, or the next day. 

I’m pleased to learn that what I bought at first just by happenstance turns out to be the right thing to do, if one is a milk-drinker.  Yes, they’re awkward and unwieldy to carry, and hard to pour from without spilling.  This is the main reservation most consumers express about the new containers.  My advice to them:  take it home, and use it to fill your smaller glass pitcher for pouring at the table.  Fresher, cheaper milk that requires less water and fuel to produce is worth this small inconvenience.

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(1) Stephanie Rosenbloom, “Solution, or Mess? A Milk Jug for a Green Earth," New York Times (online edition), June 30, 2008.

Getting Started

For a new earth care practice, I draw on an idea from the book by Michael Schut (ed.), Simpler Living, Compassionate Life.   I’ve decided to learn as much as I can about the economy and technology of food production and distribution.  This will include learning about the origins of the food that I buy and consume, and exploring the pros and cons of a shift to local food production.  Beyond learning, the practice that will result from this is not only making more responsible and earth-friendly choices in my food consumption and my citizenship related to food, but perhaps being able to share some new knowledge with others so that they can do the same.

My interest in this topic is self-serving in more than one way.  As a geographer I have wished for a few years that I could carve out space to investigate and write about the systems and processes that bring our food supply to us, their inherent vulnerabilities, impacts on environment, and health consequences.  There also are many issues of justice embedded within the design of these systems.  (There’s plenty of food to go around; it’s just a distribution problem.)  Taking on this new practice is not going to yield a full-scale research project, but it might be just the thing to get me started moving toward something larger.

It feels good to be formally re-engaged with environmental issues, through a lens of faith.  I developed a deep affinity for the natural world as a kid.  Reading Wild Animals I Have Known (1898) by the naturalist Ernest Thompson Seton left a permanent affinity for living wild things (thanks, Mom).  I read it over and over, and I have been delighted to find the text available online through Project Gutenberg (www.gutenberg.org/etext/3031).  Even though Seton’s theosophy rightly made him controversial in later years, his book remains formative for me.  My family fished, hunted, camped, hiked, boated, and gardened; my relatives farmed; and we always had pets.  So, I never was far from the natural environment and its rich array of living creatures, many of which represent, for us as human beings, food.  In high school, I got caught up in the environmental movement, which led to my becoming a geographer by profession.  The academic discipline of geography is home to concerns about environment and society, climate change, agriculture, environmental justice, and a host of other topics related to the earth.  Living among geographers for thirty-some years continued my formation, so this does indeed feel a bit like a homecoming.

David Orr’s Earth in Mind:  On Education, Environment, and the Human Prospect has a very useful chapter (22) on “Prices and the Life Exchanged:  Costs of the U.S. Food System,” which begins with a quote from Henry David Thoreau:  “The cost of a thing is the amount of what I will call life which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run.”  The chapter begins with the recognition that there is a difference between price and cost, and goes on to assess the true cost of food.

There is a Food Industry Center at the University of Minnesota, and its Web site is rich with links to publications and additional organizations concerned with food, including localfoods.umn.edu, which “connects University and community resources to strengthen local food economies,” and the Center for International Food and Agricultural Policy (www.cifap.umn.edu), which has resources that should help me to understand the global linkages that get my food to me.

Finally, I have found another book that seems very useful to guide this project:  Food & Faith:  Justice, Joy and Daily Bread, also edited by Michael Schut, which includes sections with intriguing titles like “Spirituality and Food,” “The Family Farm,” and “Economics as if Creation Mattered:  The Industrialization of Agriculture.” 

So, I am on my way.