Progress

Today, in celebration of spring break, I did my favorite three gulch hike in the Rattlesnake. It was your typical inland northwest spring walk. Cloudy, spitting a few raindrops, muddy in some places, snowy in others. The wind whispering through the pines and the ground just thawed enough to smell like dirt and leaves. Cold enough to make your cheeks rosy, just warm enough to stick your shirt to your back on the uphills.

I went alone, because sometimes there is something special about being in the woods without friends. You walk whatever pace you want. You don't worry about making conversation. You make decisions depending on exactly what you want to do, not what your partner decides. You give yourself room to think. And think again. And think some more.

At the start of the hike, my thoughts were pointless bullshit, for lack of a better phrase. As I wound up the switchbacks of Sawmill gulch I let the chatter pass through my brain, in one ear and out the other. It sounded something like this:
"Ohmygod I'm so out of shape, this hurts. But really, think of what it felt like last August when you tried to hike. You are in great shape right now! Jesus, Emerald, you can't let yourself drink that much beer again this summer. But maybe I needed to drink beer so I would have enough mass to push the oars. That is bullshit Emerald. I know, I'll go to the seven devils more. Ooh, the seven devils, I miss the seven devils. Ha! Remember camping with Ian and Tango and she drank wine out of the tin can? Ridiculous. I should call her. SHIT I need to call Mom. I wonder how she is? I wonder how Dad is? He is probably doing the same thing as me right now. I need to go buy carharrts this afternoon. Wait, does that make me a poser? No! I just need some sturdy work pants! Whatever, you just want to be the cute girl that wears carharrts. Mmm, man butts in carharrts..."
 And blah, blah, blah. Around Curry gulch my mind had started to exhaust itself. I started noticing trees and the way their gray trunks rubbed against each other, squeaking in the wind. I noticed the color of the mud, the texture of the trail underneath my feet. I felt my legs pushing into the soil, and the soil pushing back.

By the beginning of Spring gulch a slow, clear, voice began to emerge. It was asking me (as usual) "What are you doing with your life? What is the purpose? Why bother?"

We are taught from an early age that we must progress. Learn your arithmetic so you can progress to calculus. Get good grades in high school so you can progress to college. Develop new technologies and ideas to progress civilization. Devote your life to your career so you can progress to a higher paycheck. However, with all this progression, I still can't find the end point. What am I progressing towards? The Bible would tell you God or the garden of Eden. A scientist might tell you ultimate empirical truth and understanding. I'm not sure if I want any of these.

I wonder, what if we throw out the idea of progress all together? What if we take that giant red arrow pointed towards the sky and curve it back towards itself? What if I try to make my life a quiet, tree-studded, backcountry loop instead of a four lane interstate highway? Ideally, I want to live my life in a way that is sustainable with the planet, kind to my neighbors (humans and otherwise) and fulfilling to my soul (or whatever you want to call it).

This doesn't mean I am going to disappear into the woods or surrender myself to apathetic pessimism. There is no way (with the possible exception of disappearing into the woods) that will allow me to live my life in a circle instead of an arrow. But maybe there is a way to find a life value in working to restore myself and the people around me to a way of life that can continue on forever, that doesn't shoot off into the lala land of so called progress.

Yet, in the words of Ed Abbey, "I could be wrong about this."

Bread

I love the earthy smell of the yeast as it mixes with lukewarm water. I love watching the sponge change from water, yeast, honey and flour into a frothy, bubbling, bowl of life. I love working the gooey mess first with a wooden spoon and then with my hands. I love the way the dough transforms into a smooth, fragrant ball, simply because I knead it back and forth across the counter. I love the way flour dusts everything I am wearing. I love the way it makes me stay at home for an afternoon, instead of rushing off to here or there. I love the smell that consumes the kitchen as I pull the tray from the oven. Most of all, I love eating, eating, eating.

As many before have pointed out, creating bread is a type of meditation. I am hopeless at sitting still and thinking. Kneading bread gives my hands something to do while my mind wanders. My thoughts, as they usually do, started drifting towards Dad. He, Jasper and Mom called me from a sunny park in San Francisco this afternoon. Tonight Dad has an MRI, tomorrow morning a meeting with a neuro-oncologist. It feels strange to not be with them. I'm not sure I have ever missed a major family vacation, especially spring break (usually filled with mountain biking, skiing, or rafting). Yet I have class and tests this week, and in two weeks when I have my own spring break I'm heading up to an organic farm.

It sometimes feels like living a double life. On one side, I am your typical almost 19 year old college student. I go out and get drunk on St Patrick's Day when I really should be studying. I get angry at "the man", frustrated with the government, and complain about boring gen eds. I love the town I am going to school in and want to try everything and do everything I possibly can. I still believe I can change the world in some way, however small. I worry about boyfriends. I worry about friends in general. I'm trying to figure out what I want to do with my life and who I want to do it with.

On the other hand, I'm a daughter and a sister.  On the logical level, I know I am doing the right thing by being in college out of state and doing what I love. Yet I don't want to miss a moment of my family as four. A small part of me feels guilty and selfish for staying in Montana and having fun when I could be going home for the weekend and spending time with Dad. I am trying to create a new life in Missoula and sustain my normal family life in Moscow, and sometimes it is all just too much.

So I turn off the cell phone, log out of facebook, put on sweatpants, and bake bread. And you know what? It helps.

Carrotmob

They are trying to start this up in Missoula. I'm not sure if I will get involved with the group, but I LOVE the idea. I'm a sucker for win/win situations...


Carrotmob Makes It Rain from carrotmob on Vimeo.

Goldfish & Good Food

Tonight my roommate and I made a trek to the Good Food Store (Missoula's version of a food co-op) to stock up on a week of groceries. I wandered through the bulk section, filling up containers brought from home with popcorn kernels, olive oil, and rice. I caught the eye of a cute male employee, thought "nice butt" then started to move on. And then I did a double take. He was ripping open a carton of parmesan goldfish crackers and pouring them into a bulk dispenser.


C'mon Good Food Store... really?


To begin with, I have a hard time believing goldfish crackers qualify as "good food". Yes, they are better for you than Cheetos or Doritos, but they are still owned by Campbells, produced industrially and covered in cheese powder. I could buy them at any grocery store in Missoula.


I'll admit it, I like the taste of goldfish crackers. I'm sure many other shoppers (and their children) do too. However, one of the big reasons I shop in bulk is to reduce the amount of packaging associated with my food. Tearing apart a carton only to use another package (often a plastic bag) to take the product home with me seems counterproductive. Why not just stock it and buy it in the carton to begin with?


Overall, I think the Good Food Store is great. In seasons when farmers markets and CSA's are nonexistent in Montana, it offers local, regional, and sustainably produced food. It is a relatively mainstream way for Montana consumers to move toward food consumption that is more connected to the farmers, healthier for the planet and healthier for their bodies.


However, just because the title says "Good Food" doesn't mean you can turn your brain off when you walk in the doors. It is important to ask yourself, "why am I willing to pay more for this food?" Maybe it is for environmental reasons. Maybe it is to support local and regional food producers. Maybe it is for health purposes. Maybe it is because it simply tastes better.


I have been trying to go through a mental checklist before I put food in my grocery cart. I ask myself

• Where was this made or grown? Who am I supporting by making this purchase?
• How much fossil fuel did it take to ship it here?
• How much packaging does it have? What type of packaging is it? Is it reusable or recyclable?
• How much has this food already been processed?
• What is the nutritional value?

...and then I reach for the bag of Sweedish Fish anyways.  I'm not suggesting that I eat like a (Missoula living, environmental studies majoring, patagonia wearing, subaru driving) saint. However, it is fascinating to slow down in the grocery store enough to really ask yourself, "what am I eating, and what are the consequences?" It has affected my choices as a consumer, and also, my appreciation of truly good food.

Thousands of Pearls Spilling Onto a Glass Plate

Perhaps I should refrain from trying to understand "God" or the universe or the human condition. Maybe I should spend less time agonizing over why life can at one moment be so beautiful and the next moment be so damn unfair. Maybe I should simply focus on understanding the sound of spring rain on the river at night. 
Or maybe not.
(Thanks to Donna Parks for sharing this poem with me)
______

Night Rain at Kuang-K'ou
by Yang Wan-li

The river is clear and calm;
a fast rain falls in the gorge.
At midnight the cold, splashing sound begins,
like thousands of pearls spilling onto a glass plate,
each drop penetrating the bone.

In my dream I scratch my head and get up to listen.
I listen and listen, until the dawn.
All my life I have heard rain,
and I am an old man;
but now for the first time I understand
the sound of spring rain
on the river at night.