Tuesday, April 17, 2007 at 1:01am
Stewardship and storage lockers
Column: Life at First Sight
In our neighborhood, spring is heralded by collections of household items and other goods that appear outside homes overnight in anticipation of the big seasonal trash pickup.
One morning years ago, I awoke to the clanging of aluminum tubing striking a metal surface. We'd left a cache of it outside the night before, stuffed into a trash barrel like unruly stalks of celery, one of dozens of items we'd hauled to the curb from the dark recesses of our basement.
Outside, one man was methodically examining the goods we'd stockpiled while another was making the clanging sound as he tossed those tubes into a well-used pickup. Seeing these early birds find something they could use among our junk was a real jumpstart to my day.
All over town that week, people started to visit these roadside stashes to have a look. Nobody seemed self-conscious about it, and some were downright helpful. One woman pointed out a nice little bookcase that's been a part of my office ever since.
Nobody organized this "road mart" activity. The exchange just seemed to spring up by itself, as if we'd been waiting for the opportunity.
As the piles grew, I discovered one morning that our pre-pubescent son would resemble a trumpet-playing sausage at the school concert if he wore his only white shirt, the one we'd just bought two months before. My wallet yawned empty when I looked inside.
Desperate, I phoned a 14-year-old friend of the family for help.
"Sure," he said, searching his closet. "I've got three — one should fit. And would you be willing to drive me downtown? My friend says there's some really good stuff out now, and we'd like to check it out."
The neighborhood where I dropped him off had a pile at every house. He looked delirious as he raced away, but not before I thanked him for saving me — and my wallet — a trip to the store. This was my kind of grassroots economy, for sure.
Where he was sometimes careless with new clothes, our son treated this borrowed shirt like some sort of grail. "Better not spill on Seth's shirt," he said, tucking a napkin in his neck at dinnertime (a level of concern he'd never demonstrated before). As we drove to the concert, he realized, "Hey, Mom! You didn't even HAVE to spend money to get this shirt! I bet there are lots of ways NOT to spend money." I actively encouraged a new hobby of seeing how many he could find.
Indeed, God, who counsels that every hair of our heads is accounted for, urges stewardship of all things, including material goods. Worldly things benefit us most when we acquire and use them thoughtfully, so that they don't "own" us.
If ever we needed such stewardship, it's now. In one month, two friends described storage lockers from which they've never reclaimed goods after moving, because they haven't the space for (i.e., don't really need) them. I recently noted several failed strip malls advertising space for personal "STORAGE." Where it once sold us the goods, our consuming culture now capitalizes on providing space for what we no longer need — or perhaps never needed in the first place. And even sitting forgotten and unused, those goods are still consuming energy.
The disparity between our genuine needs and our often undisciplined wants affects a wider sphere than that of our own lives, of course. For a long time, it seemed possible to overlook this truth, but it stares back at us from every direction now. The more that we acquire, and the less that we recycle or reuse, the more energy we consume, and the larger that "carbon footprint" we leave behind. And no matter who's doing the studies about this, the evidence seems to indicate that it's those of us in the United States who have the biggest feet.
It's well worth checking out the April 9 issue of Time magazine for "The Global Warming Survival Guide: 51 Things You Can Do to Make a Difference." I generally tune out such articles as simplistic, but an excellent interview with one of the magazine's editors on National Public Radio convinced me otherwise. The suggestions there actually do demonstrate the power of one, and are also accompanied by the estimated reduction in carbon output (measured in tons) that each of these steps affords.
In addition to conserving energy and preserving our shared home, knowing what we truly need, as well as when we no longer need it, is a valuable skill of discernment for many reasons, especially when it's matched with a spirit of generosity. Even if we have to spend the next couple of decades shifting our thinking and behavior in this way, wouldn't it be worth it if, as a result, we see the extremes of want and poverty — and of drowning in excess — disappear?
Some cultures have long held simple but effective solutions for renewing, recycling and conserving resources in this way. A friend described one example of creative stewardship she witnessed on a visit with the Cowichan band of native people in British Columbia. They introduced her to a long-established tradition called a potlatch, an event where participants bring belongings they wish to share or no longer need so that others will have access to them. She described a convivial affair with lots of music and food, and those of all ages going home with useful things, with few having to cart many old belongings home.
They don't have curbside trash pickup. But they do get together like this every once in a while to enjoy each other's company and pool resources.
Sounds mighty good to me.
— — —
Phyllis Edgerly Ring, mother of two, is a writer and editor. Her current book project addresses how adults can recognize and nurture children's spiritual nature. She is a former program director at Green Acre Baha'i School in Eliot, Maine, and has been a member of the Baha'i Faith for more than 30 years. Email her at {email columns@bahai.us}columns@bahai.us{/email}. See the website of the Baha'is of the United States for more information. © copyright 2007 by Phyllis Edgerly Ring.
One morning years ago, I awoke to the clanging of aluminum tubing striking a metal surface. We'd left a cache of it outside the night before, stuffed into a trash barrel like unruly stalks of celery, one of dozens of items we'd hauled to the curb from the dark recesses of our basement.
Outside, one man was methodically examining the goods we'd stockpiled while another was making the clanging sound as he tossed those tubes into a well-used pickup. Seeing these early birds find something they could use among our junk was a real jumpstart to my day.
All over town that week, people started to visit these roadside stashes to have a look. Nobody seemed self-conscious about it, and some were downright helpful. One woman pointed out a nice little bookcase that's been a part of my office ever since.
Nobody organized this "road mart" activity. The exchange just seemed to spring up by itself, as if we'd been waiting for the opportunity.
As the piles grew, I discovered one morning that our pre-pubescent son would resemble a trumpet-playing sausage at the school concert if he wore his only white shirt, the one we'd just bought two months before. My wallet yawned empty when I looked inside.
Desperate, I phoned a 14-year-old friend of the family for help.
"Sure," he said, searching his closet. "I've got three — one should fit. And would you be willing to drive me downtown? My friend says there's some really good stuff out now, and we'd like to check it out."
The neighborhood where I dropped him off had a pile at every house. He looked delirious as he raced away, but not before I thanked him for saving me — and my wallet — a trip to the store. This was my kind of grassroots economy, for sure.
Where he was sometimes careless with new clothes, our son treated this borrowed shirt like some sort of grail. "Better not spill on Seth's shirt," he said, tucking a napkin in his neck at dinnertime (a level of concern he'd never demonstrated before). As we drove to the concert, he realized, "Hey, Mom! You didn't even HAVE to spend money to get this shirt! I bet there are lots of ways NOT to spend money." I actively encouraged a new hobby of seeing how many he could find.
Indeed, God, who counsels that every hair of our heads is accounted for, urges stewardship of all things, including material goods. Worldly things benefit us most when we acquire and use them thoughtfully, so that they don't "own" us.
If ever we needed such stewardship, it's now. In one month, two friends described storage lockers from which they've never reclaimed goods after moving, because they haven't the space for (i.e., don't really need) them. I recently noted several failed strip malls advertising space for personal "STORAGE." Where it once sold us the goods, our consuming culture now capitalizes on providing space for what we no longer need — or perhaps never needed in the first place. And even sitting forgotten and unused, those goods are still consuming energy.
The disparity between our genuine needs and our often undisciplined wants affects a wider sphere than that of our own lives, of course. For a long time, it seemed possible to overlook this truth, but it stares back at us from every direction now. The more that we acquire, and the less that we recycle or reuse, the more energy we consume, and the larger that "carbon footprint" we leave behind. And no matter who's doing the studies about this, the evidence seems to indicate that it's those of us in the United States who have the biggest feet.
It's well worth checking out the April 9 issue of Time magazine for "The Global Warming Survival Guide: 51 Things You Can Do to Make a Difference." I generally tune out such articles as simplistic, but an excellent interview with one of the magazine's editors on National Public Radio convinced me otherwise. The suggestions there actually do demonstrate the power of one, and are also accompanied by the estimated reduction in carbon output (measured in tons) that each of these steps affords.
In addition to conserving energy and preserving our shared home, knowing what we truly need, as well as when we no longer need it, is a valuable skill of discernment for many reasons, especially when it's matched with a spirit of generosity. Even if we have to spend the next couple of decades shifting our thinking and behavior in this way, wouldn't it be worth it if, as a result, we see the extremes of want and poverty — and of drowning in excess — disappear?
Some cultures have long held simple but effective solutions for renewing, recycling and conserving resources in this way. A friend described one example of creative stewardship she witnessed on a visit with the Cowichan band of native people in British Columbia. They introduced her to a long-established tradition called a potlatch, an event where participants bring belongings they wish to share or no longer need so that others will have access to them. She described a convivial affair with lots of music and food, and those of all ages going home with useful things, with few having to cart many old belongings home.
They don't have curbside trash pickup. But they do get together like this every once in a while to enjoy each other's company and pool resources.
Sounds mighty good to me.
— — —
Phyllis Edgerly Ring, mother of two, is a writer and editor. Her current book project addresses how adults can recognize and nurture children's spiritual nature. She is a former program director at Green Acre Baha'i School in Eliot, Maine, and has been a member of the Baha'i Faith for more than 30 years. Email her at {email columns@bahai.us}columns@bahai.us{/email}. See the website of the Baha'is of the United States for more information. © copyright 2007 by Phyllis Edgerly Ring.