So, I'm seriously thinking about making a decision that (in the eyes of some) ranks right up there with getting married and having children.
Here's the scoop. There's this farm in Marysville called Creekside Farm. I had visited it once back in 2006, and found the operation quite impressive--nine greenhouses growing specialty greens, culinary herbs, and edible flowers, plus a wide assortment of heirloom tomatoes, eggplant, peppers, etc. in the field. Pat (half of the couple that owns/operates this place) called me in 2007, saying that they had decided to retire. They had a potential buyer for the farm, and were trying to find a couple to manage it for the buyer (who was simply looking at the farm as a business to add to his portfolio). I didn't have anyone to recommend at the time. I knew that Creekside was still in operation, so I assumed that everything worked out.
A few weeks ago, Pat called again. "We've closed, as you probably heard," she said. "We're liquidating all the equipment, and wondered if you wanted some perennial herbs. I hate to compost them." I was stunned. The deal with the potential buyer had fallen through after a year of negotiations, and they were unable to find anyone else. They were planning to subdivide the farm so that they could have an infusion of cash to pay off some old debt and retire comfortably. I went out with a friend to dig up some herbs, and was heartbroken to think about the extensive infrastructure being dismantled. I made a comment to Pat that I wish I had known that they hadn't found a buyer; I had plenty of friends interested in agriculture, and perhaps we could pull something together. "It's not too late," she said.
I contacted some friends; we talked. No one had a bunch of money to invest, but a couple of people had some time and/or were looking for jobs. I met with Pat again to get the scoop on some of the financial angles. The business had not been lucrative (it's farming!), but it had been profitable, and it would pay the bills. Many of her customers (particularly chefs at local restaurants) were sad that Creekside had closed, and were not expecting to find similar quality, value, or flexibility at another Pennsylvania farm.
So, here's the list of pros and cons, in no particular order.
PROS
1. It's conveniently located for sales to Harrisburg and beyond.
2. Despite the downturn in the economy, interest in local food continues to rise. A new grocery store is opening in Lancaster called Expressly Local; various restaurants are being organized around local/organic themes (think Harvest, at Hershey).
3. The infrastructure is still intact. 4 of the greenhouses need new poly; Pat and Woody would pay for that prior to closing. The 1 million BTU furnace is relatively new; propane heat is available for backup in some of the greenhouses. Included in the sale would be various tractors and implements, a walk in cooler, a delivery vehicle (I think), irrigation equipment, scales, remaining inventory of seed, containers, etc.
4. The house is well-maintained.
5. I know at least 2 people who are ready to commit to 30 hours/week of work. I know 2 other people who are looking for jobs, and while I have not had the opportunity to speak to them about Creekside, I think they would be excited.
6. Microgreens and salad mix grow quickly, so income could be generated sooner than with traditional farming.
7. There is a bamboo patch (DJ loves bamboo). His comment on arrival? "This is the coolest place ever!"
8. The greenhouse work is all on benches, which is less stressful on the back and body. There are some aspects of the greenhouse work that would involve heavy lifting, but by and large it's not too hard on the body.
9. Pat and Woody will mentor the new growers.
10. It's year round work, which means a steady stream of income.
11. To be financially sustainable, the farm would have to have a high rate of production, which means at least 2 other full time people, maybe three, with additional help during the summers. I'd be part of a team. I'd get to work with grownups!
12. In theory, additional income for our family would take the burden of breadwinning off Darrel, and give him freedom to explore new directions.
13. It's got at least 4 acres of tillable land, plus a creek and some woodlands. So many possibilities!! Chickens! Raspberries! Treehouses!
14. Microgreens grow quickly. If I don't get something right, I can try again the next week. With so many of the crops I'm used to growing, if I don't get something right, I have to wait until the next year to try again.
15. The Harrisburg area is getting ripe for a center for sustainable education. Creekside could be turned into a non-profit resource center, partnering with other organizations to assist new farmers, demonstrate sustainable practices, be a fun connecting point for all kinds of people.
16. We know other friends who have thought about relocating to rural Perry County.
17. To some degree, projects like this get my creative juices flowing.
18. In theory, work at Creekside could be more in tune with my kids' school schedules--none of this 2 evening a week pattern that has come with the Joshua Farm CSA.
THE CONS
1. I wasn't looking for a new adventure. Life has finally gotten to a place of margin. Why push myself to a new extreme challenge? I've been saying for the last 10 years that I don't ever want to work full time.
2. Darrel's job at Paxton remains stressful and unpredictable.
3. Debt. Lots of it. For a long time.
4. Joshua Farm. I still had dreams for it, still believe in urban farming, still care about being something positive in Harrisburg.
5. It's year round work, which means no seasons to regroup, read books, babysit other people's children, wash windows, cook good meals--all the things I don't have time for during the height of harvest.
6. The house at Creekside. It's lovely, but small. Two bedrooms, an unusable basement. I just can't see us living there with children. (We weren't planning to move there yet, but it certainly was an option for the future, particularly if the business struggled and we needed to sell our Holly Street house for an additional source of income.)
7. Needing to depend on other people is hard for me. Plus, what happens in times of staff transition?
8. Microgreens can be very boring. Planting and harvesting are time-consuming and repetitious.
9. I don't even like lettuce! My taste buds are not very discriminatory. What if I can't tell the difference between an adequate product and a great one?
10. The house next door to us will be going on the market soon. Buying it (or at least finding good neighbors) has long been a dream of mine. There's also a lot about a block away that I've dreamt of buying. I can't do it all.
11. It's further away from York and Lancaster.
12. Childcare. I couldn't do a patchwork, piecemeal child care pattern like I've done. I'd need a nanny, or day care, or something. And what about summers? Sure, when my kids are 9 and 12 they may be able to entertain themselves pretty well, but right now they're 3 and 6.
13. Can I in good conscience grow and sell a product that only the elite will use?
It's getting late, and I need my sleep. If you have any pros or cons to add to the list, words of advice, questions, etc., please let me know.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Treasures
1/2 bushel of peaches: $30
3 hours canning peaches in hot kitchen (@ $15/hour): $45
The sound of pinging lids as 7 quarts of peaches cool: PRICELESS
OK, OK, I know that at more than $10 a quart (not including the inordinate amount of energy it takes to keep water hot for hours on end), these peaches aren't cheap. It would be more cost effective to buy them at the store, particularly at Sharp Shopper where I could probably get them for $.99 a can. But the satisfaction of "putting up" is huge. I'm keeping a list on my fridge of what I've preserved thus far: 13 pints of corn, 3 containers of shredded zucchini, 2 quarts of lima beans, 8 pints of salsa, 9 half-pints of raspberry jam, 3 bags of chopped peppers, and 2 pints of raspberry syrup . It's supposed to prevent us from forgetting the contents of our freezer and the recesses of our cupboards (such forgetfulness leading to the recent occasion of pulling out a frozen mass of cherries labeled "2001"). But honestly, the list is my statement to myself--I am productive! I am capable! I am not domestically challenged! My need for such affirmation still surprises me. I might as well make a sign that says "Please clap for me." Someday (maybe?) I will achieve that supreme balance of confidence and humility, but for now I swing all over the spectrum--anxious, proud, doubtful, cocky. Someday, too, I may return to my practice of posting Bible verses in relevant places, to help me set my mind on things above and take my eyes off my navel. For now, my preservation list will suffice as positive self-talk. I know I'm supposed to store up treasures in heaven, but the jewels in jars are pretty special, too.
3 hours canning peaches in hot kitchen (@ $15/hour): $45
The sound of pinging lids as 7 quarts of peaches cool: PRICELESS
OK, OK, I know that at more than $10 a quart (not including the inordinate amount of energy it takes to keep water hot for hours on end), these peaches aren't cheap. It would be more cost effective to buy them at the store, particularly at Sharp Shopper where I could probably get them for $.99 a can. But the satisfaction of "putting up" is huge. I'm keeping a list on my fridge of what I've preserved thus far: 13 pints of corn, 3 containers of shredded zucchini, 2 quarts of lima beans, 8 pints of salsa, 9 half-pints of raspberry jam, 3 bags of chopped peppers, and 2 pints of raspberry syrup . It's supposed to prevent us from forgetting the contents of our freezer and the recesses of our cupboards (such forgetfulness leading to the recent occasion of pulling out a frozen mass of cherries labeled "2001"). But honestly, the list is my statement to myself--I am productive! I am capable! I am not domestically challenged! My need for such affirmation still surprises me. I might as well make a sign that says "Please clap for me." Someday (maybe?) I will achieve that supreme balance of confidence and humility, but for now I swing all over the spectrum--anxious, proud, doubtful, cocky. Someday, too, I may return to my practice of posting Bible verses in relevant places, to help me set my mind on things above and take my eyes off my navel. For now, my preservation list will suffice as positive self-talk. I know I'm supposed to store up treasures in heaven, but the jewels in jars are pretty special, too.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Wax on, wax off
Free time, for me, is defined by the lack of "oughts" and "shoulds." That is to say, if I really want to feel relaxed, I won't do something on my To Do list; instead, I'll do something that doesn't need to be done, that no one is expecting, that I don't feel obligated to do. So it was that last night, when the kids were in bed and Darrel was still at work, I began waxing the car. I'm not even a big believer in wax. To be honest, the idea to wax the car was planted by my neighbor Mr. Eddie, whose cars always look like they just drove off the dealership's lot. He claims that the protective elements of wax help the paint job to last longer. I tend to think that anything will shine if you rub it hard enough. And I don't really understand the purpose on putting something on only to take it off right away. In my mind, it fits into the same category as scented shampoos/soaps and making beds, but the car was due for inspection, so it seemed a nice gesture (as if the car cared).
The exterior of the car was washed earlier in the day as a diversionary tactic to get the kids out of the house and cooled off without spending any money. The pasty polish went on quickly, and I thought to myself, this is fun! After waiting for it to dry, I started the process of rubbing off the wax. Five minutes into that, I had visions of the Karate Kid being instructed in the art of meditation. Ten minutes into the wax removal, I no longer questioned why people spend money on buffers. Fifteen minutes into it, I thought that the cost of getting a car detailed, no matter how high, would definitely be money well spent. By the time I finished, my arms were numbing, and I had the look for the glare of the streetlights on the black car so I knew what parts were done.
I tried to find some meaning in the process. I may have made this up, but it seems to me that things are shiny when they have multiple small scratches that reflect light at different angles. Large scratches are obstrusive, but a series of minute nicks create facets for light to bounce off of. Is there some parallel to the stresses of life? Does the barrage of minor annoyances, distractions, and disturbances somehow polish our character, grating the surface, making their subtle mark on us more than significant stressors?
Some may enjoy gardening as a respite from the demands of the workplace, a time for solitude and communion with the growing world, space in which the repetitive, mindless motions of weeding, harvesting, watering allow the brain to relax on a deeper level, bringing clarity to life. That may be true for Wendell Berry, but my experience in the field is vastly different. Particularly during these 10 weeks of youth employment, my job is managing people while minimizing damage to plants. Partly because the field is small, partly because the youth aren't very focused on details or proficient at thinking through cause and effect, partly because I'm the only one with the mental map of where things are or the paper map of where seeds should be planted--for all these reasons and more, I am the go-to person for 4 hours every day, with a near constant barrage of questions about what, when, how, and where. I would love to spend an hour harvesting garlic or finding my rhythm with the broadfork, and a day weeding would make my heart glad. But doing anything for 10 minutes straight is a luxury in the field, because here comes someone else ready for a new task, looking for seeds or explanation or a tool that only I can find. It's a necessary part of the job, but I also find it exhausting.
Unfortunately, the interruptions continue at home. While washing dishes. . ."Mom!" Yes? "Can I tell you something?" Yes. "um. . I can't find that book we got at the library with dad." Let me finish these plates then I'll help you look for it. While looking for book. . ."Mom!" Yes? "I'm thirsty." So what are you saying? (Training my kids to consolidate their communication will be a great accomplishment.) "Can I have some juice?" No, you've already had juice today. You can have milk or water, if you make a proper request. "Juice!" No, you've already had juice today. You can have milk or water, if you make a proper request. (this is not a typo.) "Ok, then, milk." Could you ask nicely? "Could you get me milk please?" At which point I have to decide whether I want to spend the energy and time to help the child get his own milk, or if I should just get it myself so I can get back to dishes. And so it goes.
Which perhaps is why waxing the car was so fullfilling. (Doing it in the dark helped me forget that the interior of the car is a mess, but cleaning that is not a job that will be done in my free time). These things that grate us, can they make us shine?
The exterior of the car was washed earlier in the day as a diversionary tactic to get the kids out of the house and cooled off without spending any money. The pasty polish went on quickly, and I thought to myself, this is fun! After waiting for it to dry, I started the process of rubbing off the wax. Five minutes into that, I had visions of the Karate Kid being instructed in the art of meditation. Ten minutes into the wax removal, I no longer questioned why people spend money on buffers. Fifteen minutes into it, I thought that the cost of getting a car detailed, no matter how high, would definitely be money well spent. By the time I finished, my arms were numbing, and I had the look for the glare of the streetlights on the black car so I knew what parts were done.
I tried to find some meaning in the process. I may have made this up, but it seems to me that things are shiny when they have multiple small scratches that reflect light at different angles. Large scratches are obstrusive, but a series of minute nicks create facets for light to bounce off of. Is there some parallel to the stresses of life? Does the barrage of minor annoyances, distractions, and disturbances somehow polish our character, grating the surface, making their subtle mark on us more than significant stressors?
Some may enjoy gardening as a respite from the demands of the workplace, a time for solitude and communion with the growing world, space in which the repetitive, mindless motions of weeding, harvesting, watering allow the brain to relax on a deeper level, bringing clarity to life. That may be true for Wendell Berry, but my experience in the field is vastly different. Particularly during these 10 weeks of youth employment, my job is managing people while minimizing damage to plants. Partly because the field is small, partly because the youth aren't very focused on details or proficient at thinking through cause and effect, partly because I'm the only one with the mental map of where things are or the paper map of where seeds should be planted--for all these reasons and more, I am the go-to person for 4 hours every day, with a near constant barrage of questions about what, when, how, and where. I would love to spend an hour harvesting garlic or finding my rhythm with the broadfork, and a day weeding would make my heart glad. But doing anything for 10 minutes straight is a luxury in the field, because here comes someone else ready for a new task, looking for seeds or explanation or a tool that only I can find. It's a necessary part of the job, but I also find it exhausting.
Unfortunately, the interruptions continue at home. While washing dishes. . ."Mom!" Yes? "Can I tell you something?" Yes. "um. . I can't find that book we got at the library with dad." Let me finish these plates then I'll help you look for it. While looking for book. . ."Mom!" Yes? "I'm thirsty." So what are you saying? (Training my kids to consolidate their communication will be a great accomplishment.) "Can I have some juice?" No, you've already had juice today. You can have milk or water, if you make a proper request. "Juice!" No, you've already had juice today. You can have milk or water, if you make a proper request. (this is not a typo.) "Ok, then, milk." Could you ask nicely? "Could you get me milk please?" At which point I have to decide whether I want to spend the energy and time to help the child get his own milk, or if I should just get it myself so I can get back to dishes. And so it goes.
Which perhaps is why waxing the car was so fullfilling. (Doing it in the dark helped me forget that the interior of the car is a mess, but cleaning that is not a job that will be done in my free time). These things that grate us, can they make us shine?
Thursday, June 25, 2009
In search of hope
It's no coincidence that two of the books I'm currently reading (in all my free time) address the issue of hope. My method of choosing books from the library consists of standing in line while waiting to be checked out and perusing the endcap of new selections. Finding Beauty in a Broken World by Terry Tempest Williams caught my eye a few weeks ago. Williams' name was vaguely familiar, though I don't think I've read her work before, and I had high hopes for the book. Alas, I've had a hard time following her narrative, and I was disappointed to find out there was no plot. I like plots.
On the next trip to the library, Hope and Despair in the American City by Gerald Grant appeared on the same endcap. I haven't gotten very far, but I've already been wowed anew by the pervasiveness and depth of racism in America--Grant's explanation of "redlining" gives new insight into the concept of white privilege, and I've appreciated his reflections on the process of deciding where to live. The book examines the schools of Raleigh, NC, where a county-wide school district formed in 1976 has eliminated (or at least reduced) most of the common inequities between urban schools and suburban schools. In contrast, the schools in the area around Syracuse, NY, which are divided into city and suburban districts, consistently have difficulties helping urban students reach the same levels of achievement as suburban students. It's a typical story in many cities, including Harrisburg, and if the book lives up to my expectations, I may have to buy a copy for the superintendents of Susquehanna Township and Central Dauphin Schools.
Tonight there was a widely publicized community meeting to address the recent wave of violence in Harrisburg--11 shootings in 7 days, or something dreadful like that. This is a small city--just over 47,000 people--and people are nervous. Everyone has a solution: the NAACP suggested martial law, the school district wants year-round school, others want more police on the streets, others want increased funding for youth programs, others think neighborhood watches would be effective deterrents, etc. I don't have any answers, just a sense that this is a big, multifaceted problem, that society has somehow failed our neighbors who live in poverty, particularly black men, that building a safer future means creating opportunity for all of the residents of Harrisburg.
I'd like to talk to the mothers (and fathers, though my stereotypes push me to believe them absent) of the perpetrators of the violence. While at some level I'm sure they would defend their children, can they see the craziness of it all? What resources would have been helpful for them earlier to raise their children to be law-abiding, "productive" (how I dislike that term!) citizens? Who do they blame? And what gives them hope?
On the next trip to the library, Hope and Despair in the American City by Gerald Grant appeared on the same endcap. I haven't gotten very far, but I've already been wowed anew by the pervasiveness and depth of racism in America--Grant's explanation of "redlining" gives new insight into the concept of white privilege, and I've appreciated his reflections on the process of deciding where to live. The book examines the schools of Raleigh, NC, where a county-wide school district formed in 1976 has eliminated (or at least reduced) most of the common inequities between urban schools and suburban schools. In contrast, the schools in the area around Syracuse, NY, which are divided into city and suburban districts, consistently have difficulties helping urban students reach the same levels of achievement as suburban students. It's a typical story in many cities, including Harrisburg, and if the book lives up to my expectations, I may have to buy a copy for the superintendents of Susquehanna Township and Central Dauphin Schools.
Tonight there was a widely publicized community meeting to address the recent wave of violence in Harrisburg--11 shootings in 7 days, or something dreadful like that. This is a small city--just over 47,000 people--and people are nervous. Everyone has a solution: the NAACP suggested martial law, the school district wants year-round school, others want more police on the streets, others want increased funding for youth programs, others think neighborhood watches would be effective deterrents, etc. I don't have any answers, just a sense that this is a big, multifaceted problem, that society has somehow failed our neighbors who live in poverty, particularly black men, that building a safer future means creating opportunity for all of the residents of Harrisburg.
I'd like to talk to the mothers (and fathers, though my stereotypes push me to believe them absent) of the perpetrators of the violence. While at some level I'm sure they would defend their children, can they see the craziness of it all? What resources would have been helpful for them earlier to raise their children to be law-abiding, "productive" (how I dislike that term!) citizens? Who do they blame? And what gives them hope?
Sunday, May 24, 2009
It's Sunday, and I'm not depressed!
Sunday nights are when Darrel and I sit down to compare calendars. This was an essential act back when we shared a vehicle; it's still an important time to clarify expectations, coordinate schedules, and act preemptively to help our calendars be reflections of our values. Unfortunately, the combination of looking back over the weekend (and all the things I wanted to do but didn't) and looking forward to a week too full to manage makes me feel overwhelmed and depressed, and I usually go to bed grouchy on Sunday nights.
Thankfully, tonight is different, partly because tomorrow is a "holiday." DJ is off school; Darrel has to go to work as usual, so I've already abandonend any hopes of getting things done tomorrow, and will be instead satisfied if I make it through the day without yelling at the kids. (sidenote: at times recently I have seriously contemplated adjusting my parenting style so that every time my child says "NO!" they get slapped upside the head. I've been preparing my children for a world of reason, negotiation, logic, discussion--the world as I hope it is. But what if the world is not like that? Perhaps blind obedience would equip them better, and make my life a little less challenging.)
There are also a number of fun things coming up this week. Call me irresponsible if you want, but I am skipping out not once but twice during the first week of harvest. Tuesday night Darrel and I are going to a B&B near York to celebrate our 13th anniversary. Saturday is DJ's birthday, and we're heading down to the Outer Banks for a quick rondevouz with my dad and his family at his beach house. It's good to have things to look forward to!
It's also been a fun weekend--a wonderful time Friday night at the PASA dinner (thanks Patrick and Helena!), a fun picnic with my dad, grandfather, and two of my dad's siblings on Saturday, and a delightful bike ride to Artsfest today. I even got a nap--this morning I was in the nursery, and dozed off. Obviously, I wasn't watching anybody else's children.
Our family gets looks when we go out together on our bikes (at least in this neighborhood)--me pulling Marina in the bike trailer, Darrel pulling DJ with the tagalong. We're planning to do the Capital Area Greenbelt Association Tour De Belt on June 7, so we officially started training on Wednesday. The Tour de Belt is 20 miles; so far I've ridden 4. Tender tailbones, here I come!
I've been thinking some about family dynamics in urban settings, or more specifically, in Allison Hill. I'm looking for resources to give me insight into the culture(s) of poverty and the parenting patterns that are associated. Why do parents make the choices they do? Why are students doing so poorly in schools? What are the values that families hold, and how are they transmitted? If you have any books to suggest, let me know. Clearly the best way to gain this sort of insight is through personal relationship, but that seems unlikely for a variety of reasons.
On a somewhat random, somewhat related note, I've started following a blog of someone I never met. I forgot to mention that in my list of rules--I generally only read blogs of people I know. Anyway, it's a short term commitment for me. http://onfoodstamps.blogspot.com/ is the account of a woman's experiment feeding herself local, organic, vegan food on $35/week (the average amount of food stamp allotment in her state of California). It's intriguing and insightful, though it sometimes seems like she doesn't quite get it. One post described how stressed she was because food preparation was taking so much time--she was spending 20 minutes peeling carrots. In the next blog, she talked about working out at the gym for 2 1/2 hours one evening. It renews my commitment to make Joshua Farm affordable, though I am having a hard time making space in my schedule to do the market analysis, surveying, and outreach to the low income populations in this neighborhood. I'll put that on the list of things to do next week.
Thankfully, tonight is different, partly because tomorrow is a "holiday." DJ is off school; Darrel has to go to work as usual, so I've already abandonend any hopes of getting things done tomorrow, and will be instead satisfied if I make it through the day without yelling at the kids. (sidenote: at times recently I have seriously contemplated adjusting my parenting style so that every time my child says "NO!" they get slapped upside the head. I've been preparing my children for a world of reason, negotiation, logic, discussion--the world as I hope it is. But what if the world is not like that? Perhaps blind obedience would equip them better, and make my life a little less challenging.)
There are also a number of fun things coming up this week. Call me irresponsible if you want, but I am skipping out not once but twice during the first week of harvest. Tuesday night Darrel and I are going to a B&B near York to celebrate our 13th anniversary. Saturday is DJ's birthday, and we're heading down to the Outer Banks for a quick rondevouz with my dad and his family at his beach house. It's good to have things to look forward to!
It's also been a fun weekend--a wonderful time Friday night at the PASA dinner (thanks Patrick and Helena!), a fun picnic with my dad, grandfather, and two of my dad's siblings on Saturday, and a delightful bike ride to Artsfest today. I even got a nap--this morning I was in the nursery, and dozed off. Obviously, I wasn't watching anybody else's children.
Our family gets looks when we go out together on our bikes (at least in this neighborhood)--me pulling Marina in the bike trailer, Darrel pulling DJ with the tagalong. We're planning to do the Capital Area Greenbelt Association Tour De Belt on June 7, so we officially started training on Wednesday. The Tour de Belt is 20 miles; so far I've ridden 4. Tender tailbones, here I come!
I've been thinking some about family dynamics in urban settings, or more specifically, in Allison Hill. I'm looking for resources to give me insight into the culture(s) of poverty and the parenting patterns that are associated. Why do parents make the choices they do? Why are students doing so poorly in schools? What are the values that families hold, and how are they transmitted? If you have any books to suggest, let me know. Clearly the best way to gain this sort of insight is through personal relationship, but that seems unlikely for a variety of reasons.
On a somewhat random, somewhat related note, I've started following a blog of someone I never met. I forgot to mention that in my list of rules--I generally only read blogs of people I know. Anyway, it's a short term commitment for me. http://onfoodstamps.blogspot.com/ is the account of a woman's experiment feeding herself local, organic, vegan food on $35/week (the average amount of food stamp allotment in her state of California). It's intriguing and insightful, though it sometimes seems like she doesn't quite get it. One post described how stressed she was because food preparation was taking so much time--she was spending 20 minutes peeling carrots. In the next blog, she talked about working out at the gym for 2 1/2 hours one evening. It renews my commitment to make Joshua Farm affordable, though I am having a hard time making space in my schedule to do the market analysis, surveying, and outreach to the low income populations in this neighborhood. I'll put that on the list of things to do next week.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Weekend's end
When Darrel told me he would have to work Sunday evening from 9-11 p.m., I thought, great—time to blog! When I sat down at the computer for my blogging appointment, I checked the weather—low tonight of 37. Out to the field to cover up baby pepper plants. I guess one of the advantages of farming in the city is the illumination from streetlights for late night work--this is the fourth night this week I’ve been out until 9 or later. Don’t ask me if farming is fun right now. I’m tired, I woke up grouchy and irritable, and even though I had a nap today and 2 hours of solitude this evening, I’m still longing for time away, alone. How many months until Marina’s in preschool? I don’t like living in a state of constant stress, I don’t like looking forward to the future as a way to escape the present, I don’t like myself when I’m crabby and short tempered. I remember telling myself that one of my main reasons for choosing to be a parent was so my heart could grow, so my capacity for love could be expanded. Similarly, a secondary justification for farming was that I would learn to live with less need for control, to accept my limitations and be at peace with the way things are. It hasn’t happened yet. But now it’s time to sleep.
Leaving Low Income
It’s official. Darrel got a promotion (to Director of Social Services) and a raise. We can no longer be classified as low income, and I’m grieving the loss of that designation. Yes, you heard me right: I liked being able fit into the low income category.
It’s hard to explain why. Maybe it was because it was an attribute I could share with my neighbors, something in common with a frightening high percentage of Harrisburgers. Even though I was so different in so many ways (I’m married, have a college degree, have traveled abroad, have sufficient health insurance, I’m white, I didn’t have children until I was 27), I could fool myself into believing that having the label “low income” would give me an “in.” I could understand, or at least appreciate, how difficult life is for many. This is pure falsehood, of course. We did qualify for LIHEAP, and free CHIP, and free tax preparation, but we’ve always had enough money to pay our credit card bill off every month, enough money to budget at least one meal out each month, enough money to live without fear of the roof leaking, the car dying, the cupboards getting bare. And we’ve always had a safety net of friends and family who would lend or give us money if push came to shove. But even if we weren’t living on the edge, I could see it in the distance, and see how closely people lived on it.
Being low income brought out both the sympathetic and judgmental parts of me. I spent a lot of time pondering, How do some people live with less money, and what do some people do with more? We certainly weren’t living in poverty, which is an altogether different situation (the 2008 federal poverty guideline was $21,200 for a family of four, which translates into take home pay of $10.19/hour). How could it be that we were living a comfortable low income existence? What would an uncomfortable low income existence look like? How could people even survive on a job making $10/hour, or $8/hour? We have pretty frugal lives—what could possibly be cut out?
Then there was the judgmental side, the logic of which went like this: If we’re low income, and living comfortably, lacking nothing, then what in the world are people who make more money than us doing with all that cash? What frivolous products are they indulging in, what wasteful pastimes, what pitiful purchases are they making?
In college, I was introduced to the inequities of the tithe. If ten percent is what’s asked of a person making $30,000, then that person gives $3,000 and keeps $27,000 to live on. If a person making $300,000 tithes ten percent, they’ve given a lot more ($30,000), but they also get to keep a lot more. The person making $300,000 has followed the letter of the law, but not the spirit, since the purpose of the tithe is not to pay a bill but to facilitate sharing of resources so that everyone has enough and the work of the church is supported. The graduated tithe concept proposes that as income grows, the percentage tithed should grow, too. So for example, someone making $60,000 could tithe 30% and still have $42,000 to live on; someone making $100,000 could tithe 50% and still have $50,000 to live on. I liked the graduated tithe idea as a college student with little income. Approaching middle class and middle age, it looks different.
I’d like to think that our living expenses could stay the same while our giving increases. I’d like to think that the “go ahead—indulge--you’ve earned it!” voice will be silenced, that I’ll exercise the same frugality, that even though my anxieties about money may be lightened, I’ll not distance myself from those who have less. Mostly, though, I hope that I can be grateful and generous. Would that be enough?
It’s hard to explain why. Maybe it was because it was an attribute I could share with my neighbors, something in common with a frightening high percentage of Harrisburgers. Even though I was so different in so many ways (I’m married, have a college degree, have traveled abroad, have sufficient health insurance, I’m white, I didn’t have children until I was 27), I could fool myself into believing that having the label “low income” would give me an “in.” I could understand, or at least appreciate, how difficult life is for many. This is pure falsehood, of course. We did qualify for LIHEAP, and free CHIP, and free tax preparation, but we’ve always had enough money to pay our credit card bill off every month, enough money to budget at least one meal out each month, enough money to live without fear of the roof leaking, the car dying, the cupboards getting bare. And we’ve always had a safety net of friends and family who would lend or give us money if push came to shove. But even if we weren’t living on the edge, I could see it in the distance, and see how closely people lived on it.
Being low income brought out both the sympathetic and judgmental parts of me. I spent a lot of time pondering, How do some people live with less money, and what do some people do with more? We certainly weren’t living in poverty, which is an altogether different situation (the 2008 federal poverty guideline was $21,200 for a family of four, which translates into take home pay of $10.19/hour). How could it be that we were living a comfortable low income existence? What would an uncomfortable low income existence look like? How could people even survive on a job making $10/hour, or $8/hour? We have pretty frugal lives—what could possibly be cut out?
Then there was the judgmental side, the logic of which went like this: If we’re low income, and living comfortably, lacking nothing, then what in the world are people who make more money than us doing with all that cash? What frivolous products are they indulging in, what wasteful pastimes, what pitiful purchases are they making?
In college, I was introduced to the inequities of the tithe. If ten percent is what’s asked of a person making $30,000, then that person gives $3,000 and keeps $27,000 to live on. If a person making $300,000 tithes ten percent, they’ve given a lot more ($30,000), but they also get to keep a lot more. The person making $300,000 has followed the letter of the law, but not the spirit, since the purpose of the tithe is not to pay a bill but to facilitate sharing of resources so that everyone has enough and the work of the church is supported. The graduated tithe concept proposes that as income grows, the percentage tithed should grow, too. So for example, someone making $60,000 could tithe 30% and still have $42,000 to live on; someone making $100,000 could tithe 50% and still have $50,000 to live on. I liked the graduated tithe idea as a college student with little income. Approaching middle class and middle age, it looks different.
I’d like to think that our living expenses could stay the same while our giving increases. I’d like to think that the “go ahead—indulge--you’ve earned it!” voice will be silenced, that I’ll exercise the same frugality, that even though my anxieties about money may be lightened, I’ll not distance myself from those who have less. Mostly, though, I hope that I can be grateful and generous. Would that be enough?
Random thoughts from May 6
It’s raining, again. I’m so glad I made mowing a priority during the brief bit of sunshine today.
Why do I feel like I need to reward myself when the children are quiet in bed after a long day? It’s good we don’t keep strong drink in the house. I could use some strong chocolate, though.
How do I respond to a woman who replied with interest to my ad for seed potatoes on Craigslist, but who was basically forbidden by her police officer husband to drive in our neighborhood?
I really like my system to ensure that I never run out of clean underwear. Used to be, all of my underwear was white, and if I got behind on white laundry, I’d be stuck. Then I bought some dark colored underwear, so now I’m only stuck if I’m behind on both dark and light laundry.
Why am I tackling the project of repainting my parents’ old bedroom set?
I have a dentist’s appointment next week. Better start flossing. Does anyone else see anything wrong with that statement?
Why do I feel like I need to reward myself when the children are quiet in bed after a long day? It’s good we don’t keep strong drink in the house. I could use some strong chocolate, though.
How do I respond to a woman who replied with interest to my ad for seed potatoes on Craigslist, but who was basically forbidden by her police officer husband to drive in our neighborhood?
I really like my system to ensure that I never run out of clean underwear. Used to be, all of my underwear was white, and if I got behind on white laundry, I’d be stuck. Then I bought some dark colored underwear, so now I’m only stuck if I’m behind on both dark and light laundry.
Why am I tackling the project of repainting my parents’ old bedroom set?
I have a dentist’s appointment next week. Better start flossing. Does anyone else see anything wrong with that statement?
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Dating Infinity
I have an imaginary dilemma; that is to say, I have been thinking much about a decision that I may not have the opportunity to make. Here’s the situation: DJ seems to be finally settled into his kindergarten class at Sylvan Heights Science Charter School. He enjoys school, gets along well with his classmates (though he hasn’t developed any relationships that continue beyond school hours), and is comfortable with the routine, uniform, building, etc. The teachers seem dedicated, and as a charter school, there is a higher level of parent involvement than standard public school, which translates into less behavior problems and higher expectations for conduct and academic achievement. On warm mornings when we get up early enough, we can walk to the school, and it’s close to Darrel’s work.
Now for the drawbacks. . .there is no grass on the school property, there is a lot of paperwork and not much individualized instruction (as far as we can tell), lunches are rushed, and–the big one–it only goes up through fourth grade.
Enter Infinity Charter School. Located about 2 miles away, but in a different school district, Infinity bills itself as a non-discriminatory school for the gifted (which we’re not convinced DJ is) serving kids in kindergarten through 8th grade. We had applied there last year, but with only 11 slots in kindergarten and priority going to students in that district, we didn’t get in. I wavered on whether to reapply for 1st grade, and finally did so at the last minute.
The dilemma is: would we choose to send DJ to Infinity if we were given the opportunity? (you see why this is an imaginary dilemma—a little bit like deciding what to do with the lottery money you haven’t won yet. I guess you could say I bought a ticket. You could also compare it to the practice of dating someone you’re not sure is marriage material.)
On the side of Infinity, there is the argument that DJ is going to have a school transition at some point; better then to have a transition sooner so that he has more time in a stable environment. It’s possible that a faster-paced setting with more individualized options would open up new worlds to him (how could it not?), but it’s also possible that he may have a difficult transition and have the wind knocked out of his sails when he discovers that kids his age have abilities far beyond his (not that being humbled is a bad thing—not always being at the head of the class is one of the selling points in the Infinity presentation to parents). The risk of exchanging something good for something that seems better is that you end up with something that’s simply different, or worse.
I think my big hang up with Infinity is that it’s not in the city. There are some significant statistical differences: 75-90% of Sylvan Heights SCS kids qualify as low income, compared to 16% at Infinity; 63% of Infinity’s kids identify themselves as Caucasian, compared to approximately 5% at Sylvan Heights. But it’s something more intangible that gives me pause about Infinity. I’ve chosen to live in the city for many reasons—it’s what we can afford on one income, I appreciate the racial/cultural diversity, it’s close to my important places (church and work), living in the city reduces my ecological footprint, I don’t want to be in a position where I’m comfortably shielded from injustice and human need, and I think that informed, active citizens can help restore the vitality of the city. I didn’t move to Harrisburg for the schools. No one does. But if I want to offer Harrisburg life as a viable option for others, then shouldn’t I be able to accept, even embrace, the Harrisburg School District as part of the package? Instead, I already feel hypocritical for not enrolling DJ in the closest public school, but at least Sylvan Heights serves city residents exclusively.
I just took a break and looked up both schools on www.greatschools.net. I only looked at the parent reviews, which are very mixed for Infinity and very positive for Sylvan Heights. On the other hand, the greatschools rating system gives Infinity a 10 and Sylvan Heights a 2.
Ahhrgh. Must stop thinking ahead and focus on the present. I’m glad to have the chance to waste time staring at the computer screen—last week was very stressful, and there was no time to waste. Having imaginary dilemmas is a luxury on so many levels.
Now for the drawbacks. . .there is no grass on the school property, there is a lot of paperwork and not much individualized instruction (as far as we can tell), lunches are rushed, and–the big one–it only goes up through fourth grade.
Enter Infinity Charter School. Located about 2 miles away, but in a different school district, Infinity bills itself as a non-discriminatory school for the gifted (which we’re not convinced DJ is) serving kids in kindergarten through 8th grade. We had applied there last year, but with only 11 slots in kindergarten and priority going to students in that district, we didn’t get in. I wavered on whether to reapply for 1st grade, and finally did so at the last minute.
The dilemma is: would we choose to send DJ to Infinity if we were given the opportunity? (you see why this is an imaginary dilemma—a little bit like deciding what to do with the lottery money you haven’t won yet. I guess you could say I bought a ticket. You could also compare it to the practice of dating someone you’re not sure is marriage material.)
On the side of Infinity, there is the argument that DJ is going to have a school transition at some point; better then to have a transition sooner so that he has more time in a stable environment. It’s possible that a faster-paced setting with more individualized options would open up new worlds to him (how could it not?), but it’s also possible that he may have a difficult transition and have the wind knocked out of his sails when he discovers that kids his age have abilities far beyond his (not that being humbled is a bad thing—not always being at the head of the class is one of the selling points in the Infinity presentation to parents). The risk of exchanging something good for something that seems better is that you end up with something that’s simply different, or worse.
I think my big hang up with Infinity is that it’s not in the city. There are some significant statistical differences: 75-90% of Sylvan Heights SCS kids qualify as low income, compared to 16% at Infinity; 63% of Infinity’s kids identify themselves as Caucasian, compared to approximately 5% at Sylvan Heights. But it’s something more intangible that gives me pause about Infinity. I’ve chosen to live in the city for many reasons—it’s what we can afford on one income, I appreciate the racial/cultural diversity, it’s close to my important places (church and work), living in the city reduces my ecological footprint, I don’t want to be in a position where I’m comfortably shielded from injustice and human need, and I think that informed, active citizens can help restore the vitality of the city. I didn’t move to Harrisburg for the schools. No one does. But if I want to offer Harrisburg life as a viable option for others, then shouldn’t I be able to accept, even embrace, the Harrisburg School District as part of the package? Instead, I already feel hypocritical for not enrolling DJ in the closest public school, but at least Sylvan Heights serves city residents exclusively.
I just took a break and looked up both schools on www.greatschools.net. I only looked at the parent reviews, which are very mixed for Infinity and very positive for Sylvan Heights. On the other hand, the greatschools rating system gives Infinity a 10 and Sylvan Heights a 2.
Ahhrgh. Must stop thinking ahead and focus on the present. I’m glad to have the chance to waste time staring at the computer screen—last week was very stressful, and there was no time to waste. Having imaginary dilemmas is a luxury on so many levels.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
The Scariest Movie I Never Saw
NOTE: I had the link wrong--sorry. It's right now.
I heard today about a movie that turned my stomach, set my heart quivering, and made my eyes wide with horror. It’s a documentary called Witchhunt which is airing on MSNBC on Sunday. Go here for a review and excerpt.
Witchhunt is about a group of families, the parents of which were accused and convicted of sexual assault on their children. After 12 years of prison time, the convictions were overturned, parents were declared innocent after all, and released.
Stop and think about that, and tell me your guts don’t churn, too. From any angle, it’s horrifying. What kind of agony did those children experience, testifying against their parents, bearing the responsibility for their incarceration, suffering the absence of their guidance while growing up in foster care? What torture to sit in prison while someone else raises your children? What is wrong with the world when overzealous people cause such harm in their efforts to protect, and how could the truth be masked for so long?
What motivated them to lie? The review and accompanying clip insinuate that police and social welfare workers put so much pressure on the kids that they made this stuff up under the mistaken impression that they were helping their parents and peers. How can that be?? The skeptic in me wants to believe that the children told the truth after all, that our justice system is not so broken that “mistakes” like this could happen, but what an awful thing to hope for. I keep thinking there must be more to the story. How much has this made-for-TV documentary slanted the facts to tug on our heartstrings?
I think I’ve convinced myself I need to watch Witchhunt in its entirety, in search of some reassurance that this nightmare won’t happen again and to look for signs of redemption. Can something good come from this evil?
I heard today about a movie that turned my stomach, set my heart quivering, and made my eyes wide with horror. It’s a documentary called Witchhunt which is airing on MSNBC on Sunday. Go here for a review and excerpt.
Witchhunt is about a group of families, the parents of which were accused and convicted of sexual assault on their children. After 12 years of prison time, the convictions were overturned, parents were declared innocent after all, and released.
Stop and think about that, and tell me your guts don’t churn, too. From any angle, it’s horrifying. What kind of agony did those children experience, testifying against their parents, bearing the responsibility for their incarceration, suffering the absence of their guidance while growing up in foster care? What torture to sit in prison while someone else raises your children? What is wrong with the world when overzealous people cause such harm in their efforts to protect, and how could the truth be masked for so long?
What motivated them to lie? The review and accompanying clip insinuate that police and social welfare workers put so much pressure on the kids that they made this stuff up under the mistaken impression that they were helping their parents and peers. How can that be?? The skeptic in me wants to believe that the children told the truth after all, that our justice system is not so broken that “mistakes” like this could happen, but what an awful thing to hope for. I keep thinking there must be more to the story. How much has this made-for-TV documentary slanted the facts to tug on our heartstrings?
I think I’ve convinced myself I need to watch Witchhunt in its entirety, in search of some reassurance that this nightmare won’t happen again and to look for signs of redemption. Can something good come from this evil?
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Rules of Engagement
I like rules. Not to say that I’m a model citizen, but I do think that rules are an essential part of living in society, and I idealistically think the world would be a better place if people followed rules. But which rules? Whose laws? Thankfully I’m not in charge of the world, because here’s a list of rules that guide me:
- From June through October, I can eat ice cream every night. From November through May, I can only eat ice cream on Sundays.
- If I buy an article of clothing, I have to get rid of one.
- The only meat I pay money for is from local small family farms where animals are pastured.
- Never pay more for a concert than the price of a CD.
- Don’t listen to radio or watch TV that has commercials.
Of course, rules are made to be broken; doing so keeps me humble and spontaneous. And maybe sometime I'll write about how my rules came to be.
I was talking with a friend the other day about another friend’s mugging, which led to talk about gangs in Mexico, organized crime, and the seemingly steep descent of the world in a handbasket. He interrupted—“Organized crime? You want to talk about organized crime, talk about a government that robs the poor to support the violent activities of those in charge, that extorts money, ‘protection fees,’ to keep people safe.” He was ranting, I zoned. But the questions remain: Whose rules? Which laws?
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The Price of Parenthood
I started reading Parenting, Inc. yesterday (subtitled: How we are sold on $800 Strollers, Fetal Education, Baby Sign Language, Sleeping Coaches, Toddler Couture, and Diaper Wipe Warmers—and What It Means for Our Children, by Pamela Paul). It made me proud of the freecycled jogging stroller, circa 1989, that we use on long walks.
As a complete act of rebellion against the marketing machine, DJ and I invented a game that involved a roll of masking tape. That’s it. We played happily for at least 20 minutes, rolling it from one end of the hallway to the other, laughing raucously as it zinged, wobbled, plopped, and spun.
Alas, I crumbled. My knees got tired and I got bored, so I suggested we watch a Curious George video. Even cheap parents have to count the cost.
As a complete act of rebellion against the marketing machine, DJ and I invented a game that involved a roll of masking tape. That’s it. We played happily for at least 20 minutes, rolling it from one end of the hallway to the other, laughing raucously as it zinged, wobbled, plopped, and spun.
Alas, I crumbled. My knees got tired and I got bored, so I suggested we watch a Curious George video. Even cheap parents have to count the cost.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
A Reason to Celebrate
I’ve decided that one of the main functions of kindergarten is the transmission of culture from one generation to the next. This seems especially true in the area of holidays. DJ has eagerly embraced every holiday he learns about at school, which to date has included Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, Christmas, Martin Luther King Day, Presidents Day, Valentines Day, St. Patrick’s Day, and April Fools Day. We hid our smiles back in December when DJ commented on hearing “The 12 Days of Christmas”. “Mom--they’re singing the 6 days of Kwanzaa song, but with different words!” He’s already looking forward to Cinco de Mayo.
I am pretty much a grinch when it comes to holidays. Thus far, we’ve avoided having an indoor tree at Christmas (though we do decorate the evergreen that’s outside), and I generally refuse to take part in what I call “Hallmark Holidays”—special occasions that the card industry wants you to celebrate so they can make money. But there’s something about a kid begging you “don’t peek!” while he slips a fake spider onto your pillow as you’re pretending to sleep that softens even my hard heart. After he was in bed, I stealthily taped toilet paper to his door, trapping him inside. I froze his juice cup, put a spider of my own creation into his shoe, and Darrel taped his spoon to the table. If part of what children are supposed to teach us is joy, spontaneity, and a zest for living, then I’m willing to learn, even if it means I have to celebrate holidays.
I am pretty much a grinch when it comes to holidays. Thus far, we’ve avoided having an indoor tree at Christmas (though we do decorate the evergreen that’s outside), and I generally refuse to take part in what I call “Hallmark Holidays”—special occasions that the card industry wants you to celebrate so they can make money. But there’s something about a kid begging you “don’t peek!” while he slips a fake spider onto your pillow as you’re pretending to sleep that softens even my hard heart. After he was in bed, I stealthily taped toilet paper to his door, trapping him inside. I froze his juice cup, put a spider of my own creation into his shoe, and Darrel taped his spoon to the table. If part of what children are supposed to teach us is joy, spontaneity, and a zest for living, then I’m willing to learn, even if it means I have to celebrate holidays.
Monday, March 30, 2009
WARTS and all
I like acronyms. Some people think they’re cutesy; I think they’re creative. Of course, I can’t think of any good ones right now, other than NEENER (National Endowment for Endless, Needless, and Everlasting Research, from Jim Rule’s Underwear Song). Oh wait—there’s SCUBA (self-contained underwater breathing apparatus), NASA (National Aeronautics and Space Association), the does-not-rhyme-with-NASA PASA (Pennsylvania Association for Sustainable Agriculture), CAFO (confined animal feeding operation), PULSE (Pittsburgh Urban Leadership Service Experience), and lots, lots more. And while it’s not an acronym, I’ve loved the saying, “Don’t assume. It makes an ASS out of U and ME” since I first heard it. I like to think of it as a collaboration between Will Short and Steven Colbert. Back to acronyms--what’s your personal favorite?
I didn’t think too seriously about a name for a blog. Reinford Ramblings was my second choice, but it seemed a lame attempt to imitate/flatter the alliteration and theme of The Paris Project (the blog I read most often, http://www.jenellparis.blogspot.com/).
I don’t have any actual warts, but I still get acne, and I have large moles—ignoble bumps that beg to be worried, as if rubbing them will raise their status to something worthy of attention, or alternately, make them disappear altogether. I have mind warts, too—blips on the blank screen that I keep coming back to rub, analyze, press for meaning. Usually these random thoughts are just that, but every so often an irritating protrusion produces a pearl.
I don’t anticipate my blog to have mass appeal; those who already know and love me are my likely readers. They are the people I still try to impress, the ones whose approval I crave. Of course, they are also the ones who know the me behind the me I try to project, the ones who see me grouchy, self-absorbed, sputtering. Can I trust that they, and God, will love me warts and all?
What are WARTS? you decide.
I didn’t think too seriously about a name for a blog. Reinford Ramblings was my second choice, but it seemed a lame attempt to imitate/flatter the alliteration and theme of The Paris Project (the blog I read most often, http://www.jenellparis.blogspot.com/).
I don’t have any actual warts, but I still get acne, and I have large moles—ignoble bumps that beg to be worried, as if rubbing them will raise their status to something worthy of attention, or alternately, make them disappear altogether. I have mind warts, too—blips on the blank screen that I keep coming back to rub, analyze, press for meaning. Usually these random thoughts are just that, but every so often an irritating protrusion produces a pearl.
I don’t anticipate my blog to have mass appeal; those who already know and love me are my likely readers. They are the people I still try to impress, the ones whose approval I crave. Of course, they are also the ones who know the me behind the me I try to project, the ones who see me grouchy, self-absorbed, sputtering. Can I trust that they, and God, will love me warts and all?
What are WARTS? you decide.
- White Anabaptist Radical Thinker, Sometimes
- Weird angst, random terrors, stargazing
- Worldwide Advocates for the Reduction of Television Stations
- Whoops! Already read that story!
- Weather Activated Radar Tracking System
- Wonderings, Amusements, Reflections, Thoughts, Soliloquies
In the Beginning
I’m starting a blog. I’m not on facebook, I don’t have a myspace page, but even before getting DSL, I’ve had a hankering to connect in the technosphere. People blog for many reasons; since I try to be a purpose-driven person (no thanks to Rick Warren, thank you very much), I feel the need to justify bogging. Why not call someone on the phone if I’m feeling lonely? Why not journal on paper if I’m trying to sort out what I think about something, or need to remember a significant event or insight? I do those things, occasionally, and will continue to. But blogging is different.
I’ve never belonged to gym or fitness center, and though I won’t put it on the list of “never wills” (since too many never wills have come to pass and turned out to be quite enjoyable), I don’t think paying to exercise in a public setting is something that will happen in the near future. But I’m committing myself to a different kind of fitness regimen—brain fitness, if you will. I’m going to blog for my health, to exercise the muscles that have been turning to putty in recent years. I may decide after a trial period that I prefer my fitness to be sporadic, spontaneous, and solitary, as has been the case for whatever aerobic activity I engage in. And my blogging will have time limits—no marathon workouts for me, just half-hour sessions squeezed in between supper and bedtime. I may not even work all the major muscle groups in one session, so my blog entries may have weak conclusions or no conclusions at all. But I like to think that, over the course of time, some strengths will emerge, some progress, some themes that will help me remember why I love life. After all, isn’t that the point of exercise?
I’ve never belonged to gym or fitness center, and though I won’t put it on the list of “never wills” (since too many never wills have come to pass and turned out to be quite enjoyable), I don’t think paying to exercise in a public setting is something that will happen in the near future. But I’m committing myself to a different kind of fitness regimen—brain fitness, if you will. I’m going to blog for my health, to exercise the muscles that have been turning to putty in recent years. I may decide after a trial period that I prefer my fitness to be sporadic, spontaneous, and solitary, as has been the case for whatever aerobic activity I engage in. And my blogging will have time limits—no marathon workouts for me, just half-hour sessions squeezed in between supper and bedtime. I may not even work all the major muscle groups in one session, so my blog entries may have weak conclusions or no conclusions at all. But I like to think that, over the course of time, some strengths will emerge, some progress, some themes that will help me remember why I love life. After all, isn’t that the point of exercise?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
