Researchers at the University of Colorado-Denver have found that many Americans do not get enough Vitamin D. The gist of the story is that our bodies naturally produce Vitamin D when our skin is directly exposed to the sun. As Americans spend less time outdoors (bad for other reasons) and take precautions against skin cancer, like sunscreen and long sleeves (good for other reasons), our Vitamin D production has plummeted.
As one who loves to soak in golden rays, I greet this news the same way I did a recent study that found coffee reduces the risk of stroke in women: an excuse and justification for doing something I already enjoy.
But the Vitamin D story was not news to me. God had already told me.
Or rather, someone speaking for Him had. In a small midwestern town, the local newspaper is a thing of beauty, and the letters to the editor, in particular, can sometimes produce unspeakable gems. The hot topic of late has been chickens in town, but in late February, amid the cries of things fair and fowl, was this treat:
Should I share?
I have asked the Lord, in prayer, many times if I should share my experiences. To the best of my ability it seems like He has said to me to do so.
Many people have evaluated me and shared with me the belief I am a very optimistic person. But, the fact is I can feel emotionally blue on occasions. I shared this with a couple of relatives recently and got some excellent advice. They said I was a victim of seasonally affective disorder (S.A.D.). In Wisconsin the remedy for that is large quantities of Vitamin D.
We Badgers do not get enough sunshine during the winter months. Sunshine provides us an adequate amount of vitamin D the warmer seasons of the year. But are you an indoor person?
I checked the information with my general practitioner and he said 3,000 I.U. of the vitamin could be adequate for a 160-pound person. He has me scheduled for a blood test 30 days from inception. The vitamin is one of the fat soluble vitamins and is toxic at certain levels for people of various body sizes and various levels of body mass (fat content). Make sure you check with your own physician.
Vitamin D raised my spirits within three days. My hope and prayer is that, those who have not been aware of this information, will benefit.
It warms my heart to know that God cares enough to allow this critical information to finally reach us Badgers. But I do hope the UC-Denver scientists checked with Him before informing the nation.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
On being lax
Like so many things, starting a blog was easy, but keeping it going has proved challenging. To my two readers, I apologize.
I've recently applied to grad school, something I've been meaning to do for years, but hadn't found the right program. I think I found it... and I get to travel to foreign countries at the same time!
In the process of applying, a wrote a couple of pretty decent essays. Here, for your reading pleasure, they are.
I've recently applied to grad school, something I've been meaning to do for years, but hadn't found the right program. I think I found it... and I get to travel to foreign countries at the same time!
In the process of applying, a wrote a couple of pretty decent essays. Here, for your reading pleasure, they are.
Accept me!!
While visiting my family over Christmas, I described to my father one of my dreams of owning a restaurant on an organic farm, a place that would integrate ecology, food, and people. “Why,” he asked, “if you want to be a cook, are you applying to a Masters program in Zoology?”
Who knows if I’ll ever have that farm kitchen, but even if I do, the people I meet in Namibia, my understanding of Mongolia’s steppe ecology, and what I learn of religion and nature in Thailand can’t help but help me. You can never know the course your life will take; you can only prepare for anything.
Many things interest me—a few I’m even good at—and I tend to pursue multiple paths simultaneously. But on closer examination, a common thread emerges in my life: everything that has fascinated me, everything that I have been deeply committed to, is somehow attached to the point where nature and culture intersect. All that we do as humans is influenced by the natural world around us, and we continually impact and change that world. The role nature plays for us as individuals and communities differs from place to place, but invariably, that relationship reflects how we identify ourselves and construct our values.
At the Aldo Leopold Foundation, I help people make those connections. Whether it is assembling the content of our member magazine, writing interpretive panels for exhibits, leading tours, or crafting interactive tools for our website, I tell people about Leopold and his ideas; ultimately, it is a story of ourselves and our society’s relationship to the natural world. Learning more about conservation and environmental education around the globe will help me to communicate those complex ideas more effectively to diverse audiences.
I love my job. If I stay in the same field of work, the benefits of participating in the GFP Masters program are clear. As I talk with people about their relationships to nature, I will have a well of knowledge from around the world to draw on. That mosaic of perspectives will make my explanations and stories stronger, more richly tailored to both the situation and the listener. I know already, for example, that I weave a more textured narrative about the life of a Monarch butterfly for having visited their mountain wintering grounds in Mexico, where they cling to the misty trees like heavy clumps of orange leaves.
But even if I change paths, my life and my frame of reference will have been expanded by my experiences. No matter where I am or what my job title is, I will, by virtue of my own love of learning, be a teacher. The landscapes and people I will see and meet as part of this program will become a part of me, and they will alter, in ways large and small, the course of my life and the content of what I have to give to others.
Who knows if I’ll ever have that farm kitchen, but even if I do, the people I meet in Namibia, my understanding of Mongolia’s steppe ecology, and what I learn of religion and nature in Thailand can’t help but help me. You can never know the course your life will take; you can only prepare for anything.
Many things interest me—a few I’m even good at—and I tend to pursue multiple paths simultaneously. But on closer examination, a common thread emerges in my life: everything that has fascinated me, everything that I have been deeply committed to, is somehow attached to the point where nature and culture intersect. All that we do as humans is influenced by the natural world around us, and we continually impact and change that world. The role nature plays for us as individuals and communities differs from place to place, but invariably, that relationship reflects how we identify ourselves and construct our values.
At the Aldo Leopold Foundation, I help people make those connections. Whether it is assembling the content of our member magazine, writing interpretive panels for exhibits, leading tours, or crafting interactive tools for our website, I tell people about Leopold and his ideas; ultimately, it is a story of ourselves and our society’s relationship to the natural world. Learning more about conservation and environmental education around the globe will help me to communicate those complex ideas more effectively to diverse audiences.
I love my job. If I stay in the same field of work, the benefits of participating in the GFP Masters program are clear. As I talk with people about their relationships to nature, I will have a well of knowledge from around the world to draw on. That mosaic of perspectives will make my explanations and stories stronger, more richly tailored to both the situation and the listener. I know already, for example, that I weave a more textured narrative about the life of a Monarch butterfly for having visited their mountain wintering grounds in Mexico, where they cling to the misty trees like heavy clumps of orange leaves.
But even if I change paths, my life and my frame of reference will have been expanded by my experiences. No matter where I am or what my job title is, I will, by virtue of my own love of learning, be a teacher. The landscapes and people I will see and meet as part of this program will become a part of me, and they will alter, in ways large and small, the course of my life and the content of what I have to give to others.
What is Education For?
When I was twenty years old, I went to Ecuador for five months. Never having traveled farther than Canada, arriving in South America was a bit of a shock. I will never forget my first impression of the walled courtyards topped with razor wire and broken glass stuck into cement, the guards at the grocery store carrying automatic weapons, the beggars who looked poorer than anyone I’d ever seen. And I will never forget the kindness and patience of my host family as they enfolded me into their daily activities, explained to me things they took for granted when I didn’t understand, and struggled to comprehend my halting Spanish. I remember the mountains that scraped the sky and the smell of the Amazon at night. And I remember the walls inside of me that came crashing down in the face of all that brand-newness.
To me, education is a process without end, because there are limitless experiences for a lifetime. Gradually, as doors are opened and new ideas unfold, you learn to see the world through your own eyes, as no one else has quite seen it before. True education does not prepare you for a career; it prepares you to live your life more fully.
Whether it is learning to read and write or submerging yourself in an entirely foreign culture, an encounter with something new is both exhilarating and terrifying. It can bring people to a place within themselves where the world shifts and it will not be the same again. The job of teachers and educational institutions, formal and non-formal, is to temper these experiences, provide a safety net for the scary parts, and help navigate through each occurrence and extract the meaning.
Teachers ask us to put ourselves in others’ shoes. When we read a novel and “become” the hero or heroine, when we shudder at acts our ancestors committed, take part in a cultural ritual, or even read the newspaper, we hold what we know to be true up to the light and examine it against the thing we’ve just seen. Then we make changes that reconcile the two.
Over time, education builds a mind and a heart that are expanded to take in the full richness of the human experience. It inspires valor, humility, empathy, and restraint. Each of us holds inside ourselves a spectrum of human feeling ranging through joy, sorrow, anger, courage, hope, and things less easily defined. As we learn more, these categories become more nuanced, and the depth of emotion that each contains expands. We think of ourselves and others in new terms; we move outside of our personal concerns to feel compassion and responsibility for places we have never seen and people we will never meet. We feel more joy, but also more pain. As we tap into the depth of what is possible, our imaginations are unbounded.
To me, education is a process without end, because there are limitless experiences for a lifetime. Gradually, as doors are opened and new ideas unfold, you learn to see the world through your own eyes, as no one else has quite seen it before. True education does not prepare you for a career; it prepares you to live your life more fully.
Whether it is learning to read and write or submerging yourself in an entirely foreign culture, an encounter with something new is both exhilarating and terrifying. It can bring people to a place within themselves where the world shifts and it will not be the same again. The job of teachers and educational institutions, formal and non-formal, is to temper these experiences, provide a safety net for the scary parts, and help navigate through each occurrence and extract the meaning.
Teachers ask us to put ourselves in others’ shoes. When we read a novel and “become” the hero or heroine, when we shudder at acts our ancestors committed, take part in a cultural ritual, or even read the newspaper, we hold what we know to be true up to the light and examine it against the thing we’ve just seen. Then we make changes that reconcile the two.
Over time, education builds a mind and a heart that are expanded to take in the full richness of the human experience. It inspires valor, humility, empathy, and restraint. Each of us holds inside ourselves a spectrum of human feeling ranging through joy, sorrow, anger, courage, hope, and things less easily defined. As we learn more, these categories become more nuanced, and the depth of emotion that each contains expands. We think of ourselves and others in new terms; we move outside of our personal concerns to feel compassion and responsibility for places we have never seen and people we will never meet. We feel more joy, but also more pain. As we tap into the depth of what is possible, our imaginations are unbounded.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
The Lakeshore Limited, all aboard.
I took the train from Wisconsin to Massachusetts. Most of the saner people I know wonder why I would do such a thing. I continue to seal my fate as a whackjob in the eyes of my friends.
In part, it was a continuation of my quest in slow, in part an expression of my frustration with the deterioration of the air travel experience, and in part an effort to internalize my own carbon footprint, to understand viscerally what it means for me to use less.
Aboard the train I had lots of time. I read a book. I listened to music. I looked out the window. I reveled in the fact that I didn't have to do anything at all.
I wrote.
9.29.08
The sleeping was wretched, but now, in the daylight, I'm glad to be on the train. Like driving to South Carolina it makes me see that in the space between here and there are a million places. Not only the cities that are the big dots on the map: Chicago, Toledo, Cleveland, Erie, Buffalo, Syracuse. Everyone mostly remembers those exist whether they see them or not.
Flying has turned places into destination or blank space in between: it's "Arrival" or "Departure" or it doesn't exist. The separate identities of all those blanks is lost--small towns with main streets and furniture stores, cornfields, cabbages, scrapyards and graveyards, a woman washing dishes at her kitchen window.
Who knew, for example, that northwestern Pennsylvania is grape country? Fields of vines, straight rows stretching in long lines until they end abruptly at the next field which begins again in perpendicular lines. Wine grapes, I found out later. The vast vineyards of PA.
I see snapshots of the passing cities, little tastes of America. Gary, Indiana, is more eerie than Erie, with foundries and gas flares burning and steaming and smoking in the weird street-lit night glow. Buffalo is grim and resigned under a steely sky. In the Illinois suburbs, lawns are luminous green after new rain. In Angola, PA, there's a store called "Slutz." Lake Erie lies flat and silver as a fish in the early morning light. The leaves are changing color.
In part, it was a continuation of my quest in slow, in part an expression of my frustration with the deterioration of the air travel experience, and in part an effort to internalize my own carbon footprint, to understand viscerally what it means for me to use less.
Aboard the train I had lots of time. I read a book. I listened to music. I looked out the window. I reveled in the fact that I didn't have to do anything at all.
I wrote.
9.29.08
The sleeping was wretched, but now, in the daylight, I'm glad to be on the train. Like driving to South Carolina it makes me see that in the space between here and there are a million places. Not only the cities that are the big dots on the map: Chicago, Toledo, Cleveland, Erie, Buffalo, Syracuse. Everyone mostly remembers those exist whether they see them or not.
Flying has turned places into destination or blank space in between: it's "Arrival" or "Departure" or it doesn't exist. The separate identities of all those blanks is lost--small towns with main streets and furniture stores, cornfields, cabbages, scrapyards and graveyards, a woman washing dishes at her kitchen window.
Who knew, for example, that northwestern Pennsylvania is grape country? Fields of vines, straight rows stretching in long lines until they end abruptly at the next field which begins again in perpendicular lines. Wine grapes, I found out later. The vast vineyards of PA.
I see snapshots of the passing cities, little tastes of America. Gary, Indiana, is more eerie than Erie, with foundries and gas flares burning and steaming and smoking in the weird street-lit night glow. Buffalo is grim and resigned under a steely sky. In the Illinois suburbs, lawns are luminous green after new rain. In Angola, PA, there's a store called "Slutz." Lake Erie lies flat and silver as a fish in the early morning light. The leaves are changing color.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Being Slow
Yesterday was World Carfree Day. I had no idea until late afternoon, but when I found out I felt pretty smug that I'd ridden my bike to work.
I’ve been doing that a couple of times a week for about a month now. I only learned to ride a bike about two months ago, so I feel a bit conceited about my dedication. I met a guy once who had been vegan and gave it up. He said he didn’t really feel bad about eating eggs and milk again, but he missed being able to feel morally superior to everyone else in any given room. That’s sort of how I feel about it.
My commute is eleven miles each way. It gives me plenty of time to think about the process and why I am putting myself through this grueling ordeal day after day. I’ve drawn several conclusions:
1. Tire inflation actually does make a difference. If my legs can tell, so can the engine of your car.
2. It takes a lot of energy and effort to move the weight of my body and bicycle eleven miles. Add half a ton of plastic and steel and you can start to appreciate the work that gasoline is doing for you.
3. Really, nobody should live more than five miles from where they work. More than that extends us beyond our means to travel without the assistance of fossil fuels. Sure it can be done; I’m happily doing it and so are many others. But the greater the distance, the greater the effort, the greater the time commitment, the less the average person is willing to make that commitment.
Making myself do this day after day has also made me think harder about other choices I make, and as I find the small joys in my commute that I wouldn’t have noticed in a car—watching the cranes in the hayfield, catching the fleeting scent of some unknown flowering thing, noticing the wind direction—I am more willing to change other things. As I make choices that are increasingly consistent with what I believe, I find that not only do I feel good about it, there are almost always unforeseen rewards.
None of this is easy. Despite the ubiquitous list that promises “small changes that make a big difference” or “ten surprisingly simple ways to green your lifestyle,” committing to a life that is less resource-intensive takes just that: commitment. It isn’t just buying products that are labeled “environmentally friendly,” it’s questioning whether you need to buy them at all; it’s not only owning a fuel-efficient car, it’s making decisions about how often and how far you really need to drive it.
The answers frequently require more of us: they take more time, forethought, and planning. They are complicated by a society that has built shopping centers away from residences and shunned public transportation. They risk being labeled a whack-job by neighbors Mr. Fastidiously Manicured Lawn and Mrs. Always Takes The Minivan.
We want everything to happen so fast. It’s the way our world is structured. We have no time for ourselves or each other (which begs the question: just what are we spending our time on?). But just the action of getting on that bike in the morning, planning my day to include that time, has forced me to slow down. Once I did, I found that there was a whole new opportunity: it’s not only about getting to your destination; everywhere you go has a journey that gets you there. It’s up to you to use or forsake the adventure of it. I like the slow way. I notice things. I have time to reflect, time for myself. I'm starting to think that the wasted time is the 20 minutes it takes in a car; the 50 minutes on the bike is an investment.
I’ve been doing that a couple of times a week for about a month now. I only learned to ride a bike about two months ago, so I feel a bit conceited about my dedication. I met a guy once who had been vegan and gave it up. He said he didn’t really feel bad about eating eggs and milk again, but he missed being able to feel morally superior to everyone else in any given room. That’s sort of how I feel about it.
My commute is eleven miles each way. It gives me plenty of time to think about the process and why I am putting myself through this grueling ordeal day after day. I’ve drawn several conclusions:
1. Tire inflation actually does make a difference. If my legs can tell, so can the engine of your car.
2. It takes a lot of energy and effort to move the weight of my body and bicycle eleven miles. Add half a ton of plastic and steel and you can start to appreciate the work that gasoline is doing for you.
3. Really, nobody should live more than five miles from where they work. More than that extends us beyond our means to travel without the assistance of fossil fuels. Sure it can be done; I’m happily doing it and so are many others. But the greater the distance, the greater the effort, the greater the time commitment, the less the average person is willing to make that commitment.
Making myself do this day after day has also made me think harder about other choices I make, and as I find the small joys in my commute that I wouldn’t have noticed in a car—watching the cranes in the hayfield, catching the fleeting scent of some unknown flowering thing, noticing the wind direction—I am more willing to change other things. As I make choices that are increasingly consistent with what I believe, I find that not only do I feel good about it, there are almost always unforeseen rewards.
None of this is easy. Despite the ubiquitous list that promises “small changes that make a big difference” or “ten surprisingly simple ways to green your lifestyle,” committing to a life that is less resource-intensive takes just that: commitment. It isn’t just buying products that are labeled “environmentally friendly,” it’s questioning whether you need to buy them at all; it’s not only owning a fuel-efficient car, it’s making decisions about how often and how far you really need to drive it.
The answers frequently require more of us: they take more time, forethought, and planning. They are complicated by a society that has built shopping centers away from residences and shunned public transportation. They risk being labeled a whack-job by neighbors Mr. Fastidiously Manicured Lawn and Mrs. Always Takes The Minivan.
We want everything to happen so fast. It’s the way our world is structured. We have no time for ourselves or each other (which begs the question: just what are we spending our time on?). But just the action of getting on that bike in the morning, planning my day to include that time, has forced me to slow down. Once I did, I found that there was a whole new opportunity: it’s not only about getting to your destination; everywhere you go has a journey that gets you there. It’s up to you to use or forsake the adventure of it. I like the slow way. I notice things. I have time to reflect, time for myself. I'm starting to think that the wasted time is the 20 minutes it takes in a car; the 50 minutes on the bike is an investment.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
