The Greenest Lie on Earth

Though it may not have appealed to everyone, 350.org’s International Day of Climate Action garnered plenty of attention, making headlines on front pages of newspapers worldwide and resulting in over 19,000 images on Flickr. That’s quite an impression for such an innocuous number.

For those who don’t know, 350.org is an association of activists who believe 350 parts per million is the highest possible concentration of CO2 that can be present in the atmosphere without adversely affecting life as we know it here on Planet Earth. On Sunday, October 24th, the group held over 5200 events in 181 countries around the globe. Their goal was to heighten awareness about carbon dioxide emission and its possible contribution to greenhouse effect through visual demonstrations involving the number 350.

It seems that ever since the Age of Reason, everything has had to have a number. Though quite useful in terms of ratio, these specific magnitudes are insignificant, because assigning numbers never really changes anything. It wouldn’t matter if I said the speed of light was 299,792,458 meters per second or 7 billion; the qualifying consideration in the matter is that it’s a physical constant in relation to the rest of the universe, and no amount of quantifying is going to alter that fact. If people want to put the upper limit on CO2 at 350 parts per million; I say fine. It doesn’t make a difference whether it’s 350 or 750. The underlying assumption is that there is a physical limitation, a point beyond which any more carbon is simply too much.

Along with the iPhone, carbon is huge right now. Carbon cycle, carbon sequestration, carbon footprint, carbon sink, carbon offset; the terms conjure up concepts at once logical and quixotic. It’s like name dropping; just mentioning carbon instantly elevates a dialogue to a higher level, into a realm both influential and sublime.

I really don’t know how I feel about carbon, but I am quite certain about where I stand on carbon footprints, the evaluation of which is currently all the rage. That the practice is just a mechanism for the continuation of bad behavior is readily apparent from discussions regarding carbon credits and the proliferation of carbon exchanges. It’s a springboard for discrimination and elitism, a way of preserving an untenable lifestyle while maintaining an air of superiority at being “greener than thou”.

John Muir is quoted as having said, “Tug on anything at all and you'll find it connected to everything else in the universe.” A personal favorite of mine, this musing was in the forefront of my mind as I read an abstract of an article by David Owen on Treehugger.com that claimed New Yorkers Are the Most Eco-Friendly People in the US - Without Even Trying.

Though interesting as an introspection, this assertion contains as much rubbish as a New York city garbage barge. In examining their respective carbon footprints, it is plausible that careful manipulation of the calculation’s scope and structure could result in a smaller quantity being assigned to an individual New Yorker household than to an average two car garage commuting ranch dweller in rural or suburban America, but arrival at this product is completely dependent upon process. Measuring the personal energy bill of an individual living in a New York high rise with central heating or the number of gallons of gasoline consumed by a subway riding Manhattanite without considering the carbon footprint of this attendant infrastructure, to say nothing of global environmental ties, is mere subterfuge. It is pure artifice, aimed at substantiating a standard of living while turning a blind eye upon its true price.

Deforestation in Third World and emerging countries is driven by the market pressures of wealthier nations. Clean air and water in America comes at the cost of dirty air and water in China. Beef served in Manhattan steakhouses is grazed in Montana before being shipped cross country to market. The carbon footprint of an average New Yorker is not contained within the city margins. It is imprinted upon the entire globe.

All figures aside, simple facts remain. There is no cleaner way to exist than through a simple agrarian subsistence lifestyle. This is the mode of living advocated in the philosophies of naturalists such as Muir and Thoreau; a human existence based on the stewardship of locality, not the sprawling disassociation of the contemporary American landscape. If each were left to rely strictly on their own means, the State of Vermont would continue to sustain itself, albeit in a much different way, long after Manhattan lay in ruins.

New York is a flower; a beautiful, fragrant flourish created and maintained by the larger organism that supports it. Although extremely efficient, our cities depend completely upon other regions of our country, and the world, for their sustenance. They are as inseparable from the whole as fruit from the vine.

Until the developed world moves away from an economy based on comparative advantage and cheap energy and embraces a system comprised primarily of provincial production architecture founded in basic natural processes performed at a local scale, there will be no hope for a balance between humanity and its global environ. Unfortunately, there is no easier answer, no science and technology that will save us, and no amount of statistical analysis will suffice to change our physical state. We must take ownership of our ecologic inclusion, make claim to the earth that sustains us, and root ourselves in its soil. We cannot push our impact to the periphery and deny the existence of what we cannot see. To survive, we must sacrifice. There must be dirt beneath our fingernails and muck about our feet, and we must accept it as our own. Like any catharsis, there will be growing pains. But I, for one, believe the call to arms that is the environmental movement is really only an expression of our deeper longing for a simpler existence and that we, as a whole, prefer life as a butterfly.

Swap O Rama Rama

My super amazing friend Alyssa Stewart is up to her elbows in a big ole batch of let's remake Planet Earth as she and some of her companeros at the University of Montana bring new life to old clothing through a giant sustainability symposium and community swap meet. Join the effort in Missoula on Nov 8th or look for a Swap-O-Rama-Rama in your own backyard.

For more info, visit Swap-O-Rama-Rama Missoula

The Adventures of Little Steve, Vol. 2

The name Little Steve just kind of fell out of my mouth. Brandi and I were on the phone, and my mind was grasping for a word I could ascribe to this weighty new addition, some sort of endearing title that would humanize the sudden impact this tiny object had made upon our lives. I hadn't given what we would call it more than a passing thought; all I knew was that I didn’t want to call it “it”. So I called it Little Steve.

If you have ever seen the film The Tao of Steve then you know where I’m coming from. More than being the basis for my belief, the movie only serves to reaffirm what I have always known to be true. Steve’s are cool. When I was a child, and no one was yet familiar with the name Cobey, I longed to be a Steve.

From the beginning, we simply assumed Little Steve was a boy. Brandi was certain of it. I shared a similar opinion myself; several nights before her pregnancy was confirmed, I had dreamt of a male infant. It wasn’t until after we had already spent a couple months calling him Lil’ Steve that we even considered the very real possibility that Little Steve might well be a Little Stephanie.

For generations, Williamson progeny have tended towards the male, at least on our branch. My father has two brothers; I have five. My uncle has two sons. It wasn’t until my brother’s daughter Arianna arrived that a female member was actually born into the family. Since then, however, Williamsons had produced nothing but girls. Seemed the tide had finally turned, ad infinitum.

All of the old wives' tales lent credence to the possability that we would continue this new trend. Little Steve’s fetal heart rate was high, supposedly typical of females. The Chinese gender prediction calendar pointed unequivocally toward our having a Little Stephanie. We solicited the opinion of a handful of other quizzes and legends, all of which suggested a feminine outcome. Our attention turned from the list of boy names to the list of girl ones.

The McCoy’s came to visit the weekend before our Week 22 pre-natal exam, and we encouraged John and Cindy to attend. Her mom was thrilled at the prospect, but Brandi’s dad politely declined the invite with an assurance that he already knew which name would follow the descriptor “Little”. As we headed out the door en route to the doctor’s office, John told us to bring him the envelope.

As soon as he placed the ultrasound transducer on Brandi’s midsection, Doc Laraway was inquiring whether or not we desired to know the sex. He walked us around the image, pointing out legs and buttocks, drawing out the suspense, but the conclusive evidence was apparent even to a lay person. That was boy stuff there. The Chinese, old wives, and Brandi’s dad had been mistaken. Against the odds, Little Steve truly is a Steve.