home on the wet

Last week, I was lunching with my friend, Terri, and her grandson, Michael. There had been an article in the Oregonian that morning about a fight over wind farms that was gearing up -- specific to the Columbia River Gorge.

It's the old problem of NIMBY -- Not In My Back Yard. People want change. People want cleaner energy from renewable sources. They just don't want to be directly involved in the solution -- in this case, they don't want to have to look at the wind turbines. People are worried about their views being obscurred, about property values going down. They want those wind farms, sure, but they want them to be installed someplace else.

(There's a similar fight over Cape Wind, a proposed wind farm off the coast of Nantucket.)

Terri, knowing my strong interest in sustainable living, said I should set up my own wind farm when I put up my yurt.

I started to explain that many wind farms are set up in the water in order to take best advantage of the available winds, and that I've always envisioned my yurt off in the woods, but then stopped as an odd thought occurred to me....

"Ooh.... floating yurt farm!"

Michael nearly spit out his french fries, laughing. Terri just looked down at the table and shook her head.

Okay, so a floating yurt farm is not exactly the most practical concept. But I have occasionally toyed with the idea of floating homes. I'd been ready to consider houseboats on the Willamette and Columbia Rivers when I was looking to relocate here from the East Coast, but gave up the idea when I considered how not fun that would be for the cats and the dogs.

Still, I think we'll be seeing more pseudo-amphibious homes as we get deeper into the effects of global warming. We're already seeing increased problems with flooding across the globe -- recent examples include Great Britain and Oklahoma -- and melting glaciers will result in rising sea levels, displacing potentially hundreds of millions of people.

I'd seen a television program several months ago -- probably on PBS or the Discovery Channel -- about how new construction (at least in Europe) is responding to this need to accommodate uncertain water levels. It's nice to see that CNN.com has covered this earlier today:

In the Netherlands, where half the country lies below mean sea level and flooding has long been a fact of life, construction and engineering company Dura Vermeer has come up with a novel and, when you think about it, obvious solution to the problem: houses that float.

"These type of homes offer a good way of dealing with the effects of climate change," Dura Vermeer spokesman Johan van der Pol told CNN.
[more]

No, this design won't suit everyone. Yes, these homes are (currently) rather expensive. But I'm encouraged that these sorts of solutions are already being rolled out. Look for similar technologies to come soon to a neighborhood nearer to you.

Possibly even in the Columbia River Gorge, in the form of a floating yurt farm, with big wind turbines in the back yard.

my three rabbis

In these past months, I've been talking with quite a few people about my conversion process. Friends, family, people I meet at temple and at social gatherings. Jews, Christians, Pagans, "spiritual but not religious" folks, atheists, pseudo-Buddhists... And three rabbis, none of whom know each other.

As I wrote previously, I've been talking with the rabbi at one of the synagogues where I've attended services. I've also been corresponding with my former dean from interfaith seminary, who is a rabbi. Just this past week, I caught up with an old friend from prep school who converted to Judaism and later became a rabbi.

Each of these men has provided helpful insight and good suggestions, recommending a full library of diverse reading material, helping me find out about classes and other congregations in my community, and patiently answering my many questions from his own perspective. On some points, they are in single-minded agreement; on others, not so much. Welcome to Judaism.

A few nights ago, I realized that I'd unintentionally convened my own beit din -- for the purpose of conversion, this is the court of three rabbis who question the potential convert and oversee the conversion mikvah (ritual bath). This is not a "real" beit din, of course, since these men are not in touch with each other, and I've got a good bit of work left to do before I'm ready to stand before such a court of three. There are classes to take, and holidays to observe for the first time. I've not gotten anywhere close to broaching the subject of an outdoor mikvah, and only yesterday finally found a pair of dedicated candlesticks for my own Friday night candle-lighting, rather than relying on whatever was on hand. I'm really hoping I don't have to learn how to make stuffed cabbage (though I make a mean cabbage soup). And, there are still all of these questions and concerns I have brewing.

Still, I'm struck by my unconscious maneuver to create this unofficial beit din for myself. I wonder what "my three rabbis" would think of this. Perhaps it's time I introduced them to one another.

transplant success

Last week, we got the news that Carl -- my friend Dawn's husband -- had been placed on the liver transplant list. He'd been having chronic health issues since he was a child, and things were getting worse. Dawn was excited that he might soon find relief, but was also understandably concerned about the major surgery that lay ahead.

I'd heard stories about patients languishing on transplant lists for years before donor organs became available, some patients who died waiting. So I was surprised to hear that the call came in early Tuesday morning letting Carl and Dawn know that a donor liver was available. Carl spent the day at the hospital undergoing more tests to determine whether he was healthy enough for the transplant surgery, which was scheduled for last night.

A little more than twenty-four hours after that call came in, Carl has a new liver and is resting in the ICU. It's amazing to think about, and Carl's family has much to be grateful for this morning. Yet there's another family out there who has lost someone: the organ donor. Using a word like "bittersweet" to describe this experience seems trite and almost insultingly superficial. And this morning's "Here and Now" program on public radio was exploring medical ethics and the possibility that a California transplant team had hastened the death of a brain-dead organ donor in order to harvest the needed organs.

There is some comfort in the knowledge that something good can come out of death -- that it can mean new life for someone else. Carl and Dawn understand the significance of this gift they've been given, and we're all praying for his full recovery, and a full new life.

the wussy report

I've been reading a bunch of articles this evening, written by people who have gone out on some of these "primitive skills" survival/adventure courses. And frankly, the exercise has me feeling like a bit of a wuss.

Earlier today, I was talking with my friend, Camille, about the difference between imagined and physical limitations. Most people set their boundaries within their own imaginations, and believe them to be real, unbreakable limitations. Beliefs are powerful things, and can be deeply ingrained. For many people, challenging the body is more a matter of challenging the brain than it is about physical strength and endurance.

For many people, anyway. I've been kind of the opposite.

My father is an athlete. So was his mother -- at 101, she's very much alive, but not as active as she once was. My father owned a sporting goods store when I was growing up, and he ran the marathon regularly -- whether it was official race day or not. He took up cycling when I was a teenager. I practically grew up in a canoe and on a sailboat, thanks to his passion for water sports. Now in his 60s, Dad has a Bowflex machine, goes fly fishing, and plays tennis nearly every weekend.

And then there's me, daughter of the jock. The dancer.

For years, I couldn't understand why I could -- and often still do -- dance for hours, but have to fight hard to run five miles. I could hold my own on short sprints, but paid for them later. I tried a variety of different sports, and invariably had to give up each one of them. I kept telling myself it was all in my head. I just needed to push harder, deepen my resolve, dig in. But I still couldn't keep up with my father. The harder I worked, the sicker and more exhausted I got.

I figured I was just lazy, or afraid. Pretty silly, considering my friends and family know me to be one of the most determined and active people around, and fears are just boundaries I've not yet broken through. Afraid of drowning, I got my SCUBA certification. Afraid of looking like an idiot, I belly danced on MTV. Afraid of heights, I've tackled multiple ropes courses. Afraid of heights, I tried skydiving. Afraid of heights, I took up rock climbing. Afraid of heights.... well, apparently I'm stuck with that one.

You get the idea.

I kept pushing and challenging myself, and my body kept refusing to comply. I ended up pretty much flat on my back every time. I had problems with heat exhaustion, and even went hypothermic in the Bahamas. I have tendencies toward hypoglycemia and migraines. I still told myself it was all in my head. I just needed to keep pushing.

It wasn't until I was 27 that they found the valve problem in my heart. Okay, so maybe it wasn't in my head.

This is not something that's going to kill me, or that even compromises my health -- the absolute worst case scenario is that I may need a valve replacement when I'm older. But this does place limitations -- real ones -- on what my body can and cannot be reasonably expected to do. Changing my brain can't change this.

I don't have much to complain about. Mine is an attractive body -- fit, healthy, easy on the eyes, graceful. Functional, but with limitations -- and damned difficult to live with, when my genes are screaming at me to launch into full jock mode.

It was after the echo-cardiogram that I gave up the idea of taking up mountaineering, because mitral valve prolapse syndrome leaves me vulnerable to altitude sickness. I do still hike and dance, and often have greater endurance than most. Kayaking is acceptable as long as it's not a multi-day activity. Rock climbing is a stretch, but might be workable. But I have to be careful of what yoga poses I choose -- placing my head below my heart is a surefire recipe for seeing stars and getting seriously nauseous -- and will likely have to invest in a full dry suit or get used to wearing multiple thermal wetsuits simultaneously if I want to keep diving. Distance running is out of the question.

This evening, these personal accounts of surviving survival school frankly have me salivating. Could I survive for seven days in the wilderness with nothing but a blanket, a canteen, and a knife? For fourteen days? Longer? From the standpoint of the psychological challenge, very likely (or, I'd like to think so). It would be a test of my mettle, resolve, and character, and I can be relentless in pushing my own growth. My life is a testament to this -- that which does not kill me makes me stronger, in everything but the physical.

But then I also have this body to consider. I don't think I could get a rental.

I tried a similar wilderness course the summer before college. I lasted a week before I got packed out, my body having given up the ghost. I blamed it on the fact that I'd had dental surgery ten days before hiking in -- and had discovered a violent allergy to codeine during recovery. Not the smartest move, but now I know there was more to it. I was in tears as I left. I wanted to complete the course, but I could barely stand. I felt like a complete wuss.

So maybe survival school is not for me. That makes me feel sad. It also makes me want to go hike something, disappear into a sweat lodge, or climb a rock wall.... find some other physical challenge I can tackle, before taking on the other psychological hurdles that remain. I will not be a wuss in my own life.

bad voodoo juju

Journalism requires a thick skin -- something I'm still working on. Writers deal with rejection on a daily basis -- stories being turned down, people hanging up on us, letters to the editor blasting us because our articles struck a nerve. Sometimes, it's hard not to take it personally.

At the beginning of this week, I was having a particularly crappy time of it, and it was really getting to me. I began to think it was just me, or some deleterious astrological alignment, until I heard other writers complaining about the same thing. This work is difficult in the summer. Everyone is on vacation -- including editors and sources -- and researching slows to a maddening crawl. Phone calls and e-mails going unanswered, sources getting downright hostile (we're blaming it on the heat). Still, I try to remain cheerful, and persistent.

The past few weeks, I've been chasing a number of story ideas and have been talking with pagan charities, survival schools, interfaith environmental groups, athletes, public relations people, and this one extremist cult-like group. It was this last source that sent me down the dark spiral.

They weren't available by telephone, so all of the interviewing and negotiating was happening via e-mail. I would ask a couple of questions, and get a partial response in reply. So I'd jump back on the keyboard to try to coax more out of them, and would get another partial and wary response. This group has been getting some bad press lately. I understand their sensitivity and was trying to reassure them of my intentions and the focus of the article. Still, I was having to make a real pest of myself to get the information I needed -- something I don't enjoy doing, though it's occasionally necessary.

And that's when I got a message from them that really set my teeth on edge.

"They're going to do some bad desert juju on me," I told my witchy friend, Terri, earlier this week at the coffee shop.

"What does the desert have to do with it?"

"They're going to go make some cactus voodoo doll of me and stick scorpion needles in it." I was laughing, but still was shaken. "They hate me. They're going to sic their voodoo juju on me."

"Do you have any idea what you're talking about?" A grin spread across Terri's face.

"Not really. No." I took a sip of tea. I was embarrassed that I'd let this get to me. "I think I just really pissed them off. Occupational hazard." I told her about the questions I'd asked, and the tone of their responses.

"I doubt they hate you." Terri started packing up her purse. "You're a good writer. You're a good person. They're just nervous."

We got up from our table at the coffee shop and headed into the ladies room. "How are your worms doing?" Terri called out to me.

I paused. Worms? I stepped out of the stall. "I'm sorry?"

"Your worms. Worm culture?"

I bent over laughing. "My composting worms. Yes, they're fine. Eating lots of kitchen scraps."

Terri frowned. "What did you think I meant?"

"Well, we're in the bathroom, and out of nowhere you're asking me about my worms...."

Her face reddened as she laughed. "Sorry about that."

"Geez, Terri. You had me worried that their voodoo juju was going to work on me already." It was a weak attempt at humor.

She shook her head and sighed. Terri is an accomplished witch, and she said she had some spells she could recommend if I felt like I needed one to protect myself. "But I think what you really need," she said, "is to take the weekend off."

I saw her point. I needed to take a step back from this story I'd been chasing, and reassess. I could go with what little I had, try another approach, or just let it go. Not every idea makes it from pitch to print.

Bad voodoo juju notwithstanding.

electric cars

The other day, I finally had the opportunity to sit down with the DVD of "Who Killed the Electric Car?" I'm glad that it ended on a more optimistic note, as the documentary's exploration of the virtual abandonment of this technology had really been pushing my environmental hot buttons, leaving me frustrated indeed.

I get frustrated with the oil companies -- and the people who run them -- who continue to bank the future of this planet and its inhabitants on dwindling reserves of a natural resource whose consumption is contributing to bad air quality, pollution of our waterways, and a host of other travesties (not the least of which is global warming). I get frustrated when people are so short-sighted as to grab after so much gold now, with the full knowledge of the crisis to be reaped later. I get frustrated when I see how comfortable we've gotten with our heads in the sand, although we are beginning to pull ourselves out of this complacency, by degrees. I get frustrated when I look back on my own contributions to the "environmental problem" and feel not quite so powerful in terms of the choices available today.

We should be -- could be -- much further along than we are.

I've been driving a Toyota RAV-4 since Memorial Day 1998. It had 9 miles on the odometer when I first got behind the wheel. Today it's at 59511 (I just ran out to check), so each year I've been racking up about half the average miles driven by most Americans. Sure, I go on long-haul road trips from time to time -- like the cross-country drive three years ago -- but it helps that my normal daily commute consists only of the twelve feet of carpet between my bedroom and home office. I have a bike. I also have easy access to public transportation. I use the car sparingly, or that's the intention anyway.

When I bought the RAV-4, I'd been instead thinking of downsizing from my little sedan to a Honda Civic -- and then I realized that since I had big dogs, and had to deal with several bad snow and ice storms every year, a small SUV was probably a better choice. I was excited to hear that the RAV-4 EV (electric vehicle) was being developed, and that it would be available for sale to consumers in several years. So I went ahead and bought a gas-powered RAV-4, figuring it would hold its value fairly well for a few years and get decent gas mileage, and then I'd switch to the EV.

Of course, that never happened. When the RAV-4 EVs were made available for purchase in 2002, only a couple hundred had been manufactured. Shortly thereafter, the RAV-4 EV was discontinued altogether. So I still have my gas-powered vehicle, and feel like a turd whenever I turn the ignition.

Sure, I'm not driving some old clunker. I keep my vehicle in good working order -- to optimize fuel efficiency -- and don't drive a whole lot. But sometimes I wonder if I'd be better off in even a Prius -- not exactly a "green" car, since it still runs on processed fossil fuels, but more eco-friendly than most of what's out there on the roads. As near as I can tell, the oft-touted hydrogen fuel cell solution is neither practical nor terribly efficient, and is years off to boot.

I love hearing about people who have converted their diesel vehicles to bio-diesel, and who are making EV conversions as well. Scientists and grease monkeys are working on solar-powered cars and similar technologies. I'm still hoping that at some point very soon, sustainable solutions will become readily available -- and be easily affordable -- to the average consumer, that we might finally begin to detox from our deep addiction to oil.

UPDATE: 9 August 2007
According to CNN.com, GM is set to begin testing their Volt plug-in electric car in the spring of 2008 -- dependent upon next-generation lithium-ion battery packs being ready by October of this year.

Ford and Toyota are said to be working on similar technology, but with no production timeline yet made public.