As I reactivate this blog after a couple of years of absence, and return to actively posting (rather than drafting article after article without publishing any), I've been asking myself whether the main topics I chose to cover when I started - almost four years ago - are still relevant to me; whether they're still something I'm passionate about, and also whether I still have some expertise in them.
Cycling was the easiest topic to answer the question. The amount of active cycling I do has decreased in the past couple of years, partly as my son has grown older and required more of my time as a taxi service. At the same time, my job has developed to a level that I have less readily available slack, and the cycle commute has fallen out of favour.
But cycling is still a part of me. I trained for and rode my first ever (and perhaps last ever!) century ride last year; I still use my bike to nip to the shops or to collect a takeaway. I still delight in the feeling of the wind on my wheels.
As for Design Matters - user experience - my change in job role has meant that I'm not as active a practitioner as I used to be. But my eye is still drawn to detail; I still embrace those same philosophies and see good (and bad) design in all kinds of everyday places. It's still close to my heart, and I want it to remain so.
Which brings us, then, to Pragmatic Environmentalism. Is there still space in my life (and this blog) for my homegrown approach to environmentalism? Is it still relevant to me?
It's certainly true that the ethics that led me to environmentalism are still part of me. Yes, I have made more compromises along the way, some of them as a result of being a parent. But I've continued to draw the line too; refused to do what I felt was wrong or inappropriate. I've continued to delight in seasonal food, for instance, and am currently stuffing myself with good old asparagus.
What about that word "pragmatic"? As I reflect now, I realise that I first used it to make environmentalism palatable to people who saw environmentalists as tree huggers with beards and hair shirts, to tone down the dark green. And I think that I also used it as an apology for my dilute brand of environmentalism; a justification, or an excuse for my failings and limits.
But yes, a green life for the 21st Century - pragmatic environmentalism - is still important to me. And this is, I think, my chance to rediscover and re-develop what it means to me, and how relevant it is to my life now. A chance to re-launch and re-boot and, where I can, recycle.
Showing posts with label pragmatic environmentalism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pragmatic environmentalism. Show all posts
Friday, May 9, 2014
Friday, June 17, 2011
Food Miles Oversimplify Local Food
There's an interesting article over at TreeHugger this week on how (and why) the notion of "Food Miles" oversimplifies local food.
This article raises many of the points I wanted to address in a very popular article I wrote after watching a disappointing report on BBC television's Countryfile.
Local food is a good idea. It is likely to be fresher, which quite likely means more tasty. It's almost certainly going to be seasonal. And it's going to require less fuel to transport (which, ultimately, means less carbon - good news if that's your measurement of choice). Besides which, the money for the food is more likely to go straight back into the local economy. All of which, I'm sure, are very good things, and important to me.
But locally-produced food doesn't automatically guarantee decent welfare for animals; local food won't always be produced without pesticides or fertilisers. And for some people, local food might mean genetically modified food - it's got to be grown somewhere, right?
As for food miles, they are one (vastly over-simplified) measure of the environmental impact of food production and consumption - largely a measure of carbon impact (which, it could be said, is yet another oversimplification). They're certainly not the only consideration.
As ever, the choices come down to what's right for you; what's important according to your own personal principles.
Related articles:
This article raises many of the points I wanted to address in a very popular article I wrote after watching a disappointing report on BBC television's Countryfile.
Local food is a good idea. It is likely to be fresher, which quite likely means more tasty. It's almost certainly going to be seasonal. And it's going to require less fuel to transport (which, ultimately, means less carbon - good news if that's your measurement of choice). Besides which, the money for the food is more likely to go straight back into the local economy. All of which, I'm sure, are very good things, and important to me.
But locally-produced food doesn't automatically guarantee decent welfare for animals; local food won't always be produced without pesticides or fertilisers. And for some people, local food might mean genetically modified food - it's got to be grown somewhere, right?
As for food miles, they are one (vastly over-simplified) measure of the environmental impact of food production and consumption - largely a measure of carbon impact (which, it could be said, is yet another oversimplification). They're certainly not the only consideration.
As ever, the choices come down to what's right for you; what's important according to your own personal principles.
Related articles:
Friday, March 4, 2011
On Plastic
I am not a great fan of plastic.
I mean, I like the qualities of plastic: that it's unbreakable (or, at least, shatterproof), durable, watertight. Lightweight. It's a great idea. But I don't like that it's made from a non-renewable resource (crude oil, ultimately), and is rather tricky to recycle. It's not great at rotting, tending to stick around for ages, clogging up the place for hundreds of years.
So wherever possible, I prefer to avoid plastic, and choose alternatives that are made from renewable materials, or can be more easily disposed of at the end of their life, through recycling or bio-degrading, or composting.
I eschew plastic bags, choosing instead to use my hands and pockets, or cardboard boxes.
I buy my milk in glass bottles (that, as well as being made from the wonderfully renewable glass, are rinsed, returned and reused). I buy baskets and wooden storage boxes. I have a metal toolbox I inherited from my father (and might yet pass on to my son).
There are, though, times when only plastic will do. To store something in a sometimes-damp garage, safe from rodent's teeth, protected from the weather - plastic is pretty much the best choice.
In these cases, I choose plastic that is durable, robust, and - if possible - made from a type of plastic that can be recycled (or, at least, downcycled). And I plan to keep it for a long time; I weigh my current needs, my future plans, and choose the best fit that will last. If I'm going to buy plastic, I want it to be as infrequently as possible, and I don't want to be throwing it away any time soon.
Getting the best - the most - out of what I spend my time and money on. That's my kind of environmentalism.
I mean, I like the qualities of plastic: that it's unbreakable (or, at least, shatterproof), durable, watertight. Lightweight. It's a great idea. But I don't like that it's made from a non-renewable resource (crude oil, ultimately), and is rather tricky to recycle. It's not great at rotting, tending to stick around for ages, clogging up the place for hundreds of years.
So wherever possible, I prefer to avoid plastic, and choose alternatives that are made from renewable materials, or can be more easily disposed of at the end of their life, through recycling or bio-degrading, or composting.
I eschew plastic bags, choosing instead to use my hands and pockets, or cardboard boxes.
I buy my milk in glass bottles (that, as well as being made from the wonderfully renewable glass, are rinsed, returned and reused). I buy baskets and wooden storage boxes. I have a metal toolbox I inherited from my father (and might yet pass on to my son).
There are, though, times when only plastic will do. To store something in a sometimes-damp garage, safe from rodent's teeth, protected from the weather - plastic is pretty much the best choice.
In these cases, I choose plastic that is durable, robust, and - if possible - made from a type of plastic that can be recycled (or, at least, downcycled). And I plan to keep it for a long time; I weigh my current needs, my future plans, and choose the best fit that will last. If I'm going to buy plastic, I want it to be as infrequently as possible, and I don't want to be throwing it away any time soon.
Getting the best - the most - out of what I spend my time and money on. That's my kind of environmentalism.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Local, Seasonal Fruit and Vegetables
I like tomatoes, I really do. I love their sharp sweetness, the way those little cherry tomatoes burst under the roof of my mouth. I love beef tomatoes, sliced thickly and layered with mozzarella or onion. I can't understand that people don't enjoy them. It's something to do with the texture, apparently.
For me, there's something about the deep red (or orange, or tiger-stripe) of tomato fruits that evoke summer; I can see the colour of the sky as I think about eating tomatoes outside. And there's something about the smell of tomatoes that transports me to my father's greenhouse in my childhood house, green fruit swelling on the plants; and to my own greenhouse, where the thick dark-green stalks with their downy covering exude that intense aroma.
But I can't and won't eat tomatoes when they're watery and tasteless. I asked my wife, not so long ago, if she remembered eating the last tomato she'd had, if she had tasted it. When she remembered eating one that she tasted.
She couldn't.
After that, we agreed not to buy tomatoes out of season, from foreign shores. We've made the same agreement for asparagus and strawberries and all those other vegetables that it's possible to get year-round, but which taste best of all when they're in season, and grown locally (meaning they're picked and sold in short order, still fresh).
So last week I was pleased and surprised to find the local supermarket had tomatoes ostensibly grown in Britain. And they were tasty enough, even if they're doubtless grown with the help of lots of heated greenhouses rather than in the heat of the sun. A guilty pleasure at this time of year.
This week, they did not. Oh, they had tomatoes, from Spain and Holland, from Morocco and the Canary Islands. Too far afield. Too well-travelled. No tomatoes for me this week.
But they did also have Cox's apples and Conference pears, both from the UK. So this week I have no tomatoes, but I am knee-deep in apples and pears. The break from tomatoes will make them more special when they're available again. If I can wait for asparagus, I can wait for tomatoes. Especially when I've got apples and pears to console me.
For me, there's something about the deep red (or orange, or tiger-stripe) of tomato fruits that evoke summer; I can see the colour of the sky as I think about eating tomatoes outside. And there's something about the smell of tomatoes that transports me to my father's greenhouse in my childhood house, green fruit swelling on the plants; and to my own greenhouse, where the thick dark-green stalks with their downy covering exude that intense aroma.
But I can't and won't eat tomatoes when they're watery and tasteless. I asked my wife, not so long ago, if she remembered eating the last tomato she'd had, if she had tasted it. When she remembered eating one that she tasted.
She couldn't.
After that, we agreed not to buy tomatoes out of season, from foreign shores. We've made the same agreement for asparagus and strawberries and all those other vegetables that it's possible to get year-round, but which taste best of all when they're in season, and grown locally (meaning they're picked and sold in short order, still fresh).
So last week I was pleased and surprised to find the local supermarket had tomatoes ostensibly grown in Britain. And they were tasty enough, even if they're doubtless grown with the help of lots of heated greenhouses rather than in the heat of the sun. A guilty pleasure at this time of year.
This week, they did not. Oh, they had tomatoes, from Spain and Holland, from Morocco and the Canary Islands. Too far afield. Too well-travelled. No tomatoes for me this week.
But they did also have Cox's apples and Conference pears, both from the UK. So this week I have no tomatoes, but I am knee-deep in apples and pears. The break from tomatoes will make them more special when they're available again. If I can wait for asparagus, I can wait for tomatoes. Especially when I've got apples and pears to console me.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Nothing Too Nice To Use (Moleskine Notebooks)
One of my personal principles is the avoidance of clutter: owning nothing that I don't use regularly, having nothing Too Nice To Use. Clutter - aside from lying around, waiting to be dusted, cluttering up the place - is a sneaky kind of waste. After all, if I'm not using something, then I don't need it. Which means I've wasted time, money and effort on buying it, and I'm going to have to waste more on getting rid of it. Not to mention the cost of producing it in the first place; cost that has no pay back in use because it's just not getting used.
In short, I'm a practical person and I can't have ornaments, by which I mean something I might use one day in the future, or which I'm saving for a special occasion. Something, in other words, that's just Too Nice To Use.
When I find something that has become an ornament in my life, I give myself two options: use it (and I mean really use it, regularly, not just some token effort every now and again). Or get rid of it; if I don't use something, then it has become waste, clutter, so it needs to be passed on, recycled, re-purposed, disposed of. I give myself a little time to trial the process; an amnesty, if you like. I set a reasonable time to understand my habits, and whether I can and want to change them. If, after the trial period, I can look honestly at what I've done, and say that I'm using the items - I keep them. If, on the other hand, it doesn't work out, then we part company equitably.
But after a time it became clear that all I was doing was carrying them around. I wasn't using them for taking notes, wasn't writing in them. I realised that my Moleskine notebooks had slipped out of use, crossed the line beyond Saved For Best. I was saving my Moleskines for Something Special, never using them: too nice for To Do lists, shopping, jottings.
They'd become ornaments. Too Nice To Use.
So I started to use the Moleskines. I gave myself two weeks. I stopped carrying any other notepads, stopped using the back of envelopes for those sudden thoughts, started writing in the books I'd been saving for best.
And you know what? It turns out that I don't like Moleskine notebooks very much. The lines are too close together for when I'm feeling expressive, or when I don't have a decent surface to write on and my handwriting goes all crazy. They're too small for when I need space to think. The paper doesn't play very well with my fountain pen (which was especially disappointing, because I had been saving them for Something Special). And writing every on other line makes me feel like I'm a child at handwriting class, feels like I'm wasting paper.
In short, I realised that the Moleskine notebooks weren't as nice as I'd thought.
Which is when it got even better.
I realised that my Moleskine notebooks didn't warrant saving for best. They really weren't too nice to use, not by a long distance. And that realisation was particularly satisfying, because it allowed me to use them more; for more than just my most important thoughts. I didn't need to be precious about them. Their function was to be jotted in, not carried around primly or kept on a shelf.
Now I use my Moleskine for everything. I scribble in them, doodle in them, write my shopping lists and idle thoughts. I tear pages out to give to other people. I use them, really use them. Oh, I'm not profligate with them; I don't waste them. But I do use them, and gladly. They're not clutter, they're useful, and used. They're no longer ornaments; they're utensils, something to be used up.
Which is something of a result.
Related articles:
In short, I'm a practical person and I can't have ornaments, by which I mean something I might use one day in the future, or which I'm saving for a special occasion. Something, in other words, that's just Too Nice To Use.
When I find something that has become an ornament in my life, I give myself two options: use it (and I mean really use it, regularly, not just some token effort every now and again). Or get rid of it; if I don't use something, then it has become waste, clutter, so it needs to be passed on, recycled, re-purposed, disposed of. I give myself a little time to trial the process; an amnesty, if you like. I set a reasonable time to understand my habits, and whether I can and want to change them. If, after the trial period, I can look honestly at what I've done, and say that I'm using the items - I keep them. If, on the other hand, it doesn't work out, then we part company equitably.
Example: Moleskine Notebooks
I'd been quietly collecting notebooks for a short while, the result of some whimsical shopping and a few choice presents from wonderful friends. I particularly liked the Moleskine notebooks; the idea of them, the feel of them, the history. I liked the size of the notebook; they fit the hand very nicely. I liked carrying them around. I thought the hard covers were likely to be handy for on-the-go jottings, for writing anywhere.But after a time it became clear that all I was doing was carrying them around. I wasn't using them for taking notes, wasn't writing in them. I realised that my Moleskine notebooks had slipped out of use, crossed the line beyond Saved For Best. I was saving my Moleskines for Something Special, never using them: too nice for To Do lists, shopping, jottings.
They'd become ornaments. Too Nice To Use.
So I started to use the Moleskines. I gave myself two weeks. I stopped carrying any other notepads, stopped using the back of envelopes for those sudden thoughts, started writing in the books I'd been saving for best.
And you know what? It turns out that I don't like Moleskine notebooks very much. The lines are too close together for when I'm feeling expressive, or when I don't have a decent surface to write on and my handwriting goes all crazy. They're too small for when I need space to think. The paper doesn't play very well with my fountain pen (which was especially disappointing, because I had been saving them for Something Special). And writing every on other line makes me feel like I'm a child at handwriting class, feels like I'm wasting paper.
In short, I realised that the Moleskine notebooks weren't as nice as I'd thought.
Which is when it got even better.
I realised that my Moleskine notebooks didn't warrant saving for best. They really weren't too nice to use, not by a long distance. And that realisation was particularly satisfying, because it allowed me to use them more; for more than just my most important thoughts. I didn't need to be precious about them. Their function was to be jotted in, not carried around primly or kept on a shelf.
Now I use my Moleskine for everything. I scribble in them, doodle in them, write my shopping lists and idle thoughts. I tear pages out to give to other people. I use them, really use them. Oh, I'm not profligate with them; I don't waste them. But I do use them, and gladly. They're not clutter, they're useful, and used. They're no longer ornaments; they're utensils, something to be used up.
Which is something of a result.
Related articles:
Friday, January 21, 2011
Lapses, Relapses and Celebrating Success
There's a phrase I like, a lapse is not a relapse, meaning that a single slip-up is not evidence of habitual, systemic behaviour. One small misdemeanour does not undo months and years of work.
Being environmental, as I've said before, is a continuum, a gradient. There are shades of green. It's simply not a black-and-white thing.
So when we slip-up (and we do, being human), it doesn't stop us being environmentalists. It doesn't change our core principles, our beliefs. Sure, there are those detractors who are all too willing to fall upon our slip-ups, usually as evidence that we can't be truly environmental because we've had a small lapse.
Whatever the reasons, it was still a lapse.
And I've been vocal about my choices over the years - not criticising others, so much as sharing my own principles - so there are those that are quite happy to pick me up on it when I slip up. Which is fine. So long as I have a reason for my behaviour - and I mean a reason rather than an excuse - then I'm comfortable answering their questions. I have nothing to be defensive about. My principles are intact.
These are my own principles, after all. I live by them because I chose to. When I compromise them, or fail to meet them, I'm answerable to the highest authority in my life - myself. Compared to that, there's not much anyone else can say (but they do).
That doesn't mean we get to hide our mistakes. We have to admit to them, and figure out why they happened, so we can stop them happening again.
Over on TreeHugger, they put it like this:
My commentator was kind enough to say that seeing me with a supermarket carrier bag is something he hasn't seen in nearly a decade. Which is kind of proof that my efforts are being noticed, are making a difference. But I'm not going to lose sleep over it. On balance, I'm happy with my choices and my positive actions. If I pick up a carrier bag occasionally, if I miss recycling something every now and again, I still believe in the same things. I'm going to keep doing what I do.
A lapse, after all, is not a relapse.
Being environmental, as I've said before, is a continuum, a gradient. There are shades of green. It's simply not a black-and-white thing.
So when we slip-up (and we do, being human), it doesn't stop us being environmentalists. It doesn't change our core principles, our beliefs. Sure, there are those detractors who are all too willing to fall upon our slip-ups, usually as evidence that we can't be truly environmental because we've had a small lapse.
A Lapse of my Own
Last week, I was spotted (outed!) walking out of a supermarket with a carrier bag. Yes, I was caught there unexpectedly; my wife had asked me to get more things. I didn't have my reusable bags with me. And believe me, it hurt no one as much as it did me to take one of the carrier bags that I've avoided for years. But that doesn't take away from the fact that I've been consciously - actively - taking a position on this for years. Refusing bags at every turn. Using boxes. Carrying my own bags made out of canvas or linen.Whatever the reasons, it was still a lapse.
And I've been vocal about my choices over the years - not criticising others, so much as sharing my own principles - so there are those that are quite happy to pick me up on it when I slip up. Which is fine. So long as I have a reason for my behaviour - and I mean a reason rather than an excuse - then I'm comfortable answering their questions. I have nothing to be defensive about. My principles are intact.
These are my own principles, after all. I live by them because I chose to. When I compromise them, or fail to meet them, I'm answerable to the highest authority in my life - myself. Compared to that, there's not much anyone else can say (but they do).
Dealing with a Lapse
All of us at some time may - despite our best intentions - just fall a little short of our own personal standards. We can't do everything, not all the time at any rate. And we needn't kick ourselves for our little lapses. We can celebrate what we do, not castigate ourselves for what we don't.That doesn't mean we get to hide our mistakes. We have to admit to them, and figure out why they happened, so we can stop them happening again.
Over on TreeHugger, they put it like this:
...[when] you slip up (or just plain can't be bothered), don't fall into a state of depression or despair. Just analyze what factors contributed to you falling short of your goals or intentions, and then figure out ways to circumvent those circumstances next time.(from The Lost Eco-Art of Cutting Yourself Some Slack)
My commentator was kind enough to say that seeing me with a supermarket carrier bag is something he hasn't seen in nearly a decade. Which is kind of proof that my efforts are being noticed, are making a difference. But I'm not going to lose sleep over it. On balance, I'm happy with my choices and my positive actions. If I pick up a carrier bag occasionally, if I miss recycling something every now and again, I still believe in the same things. I'm going to keep doing what I do.
A lapse, after all, is not a relapse.
Friday, January 14, 2011
The Hypocrisy of Environmentalists
An interesting (and brief) post on TreeHugger this week about the so-called hypocrisy of environmentalists (In Defence of Hypocrisy - In Search of the Sustainable Double Standard).
I've written about this subject before, because I reject the idea that environmentalism is a black-and-white, all-or-nothing proposition. These issues are much deeper, far more complex than simply the fact of - to use a popular example - having or not having a car.
There are, for example, many different models of car, with varying engine sizes and fuel types. The conditions these vehicles are driven in, how they're loaded, even how much air is in the tyres - all these considerations will affect fuel consumption, and as a result the carbon emissions of the car.
Beyond the crude - but concrete - measures we could draw from the scientific data about a particular car, there are the harder-to-calculate effects of the owner's behaviour. Someone who drives their car less often will obviously use less fuel - will emit less carbon - than someone that drives more regularly. But several short, lower speed journeys will consume different amounts of fuel than a single long journey at cruising speed.
And carbon emissions are just one measure of environmentalism. A popular, well-reported, easily-understood measure, I grant you, but no more valid because of that. What about pollution, of resource consumption, of lifecycle and disposal? What about electric cars?
It's a complex world out there.
To use the word "hypocrisy" when talking about environmental views - to allow others to use that word - accepts the suggestion that these matters are that trivial, really are black and white. We get sucked into an argument that demeans and disregards our views. And we can't make any headway against that kind of simplistic, childish, flawed reasoning.
Life - happily! - is just not that simple. If it were, environmentalists would just wear green shirts and be done with it.
Oh, wait. If that were the case, then we'd need to pick our preferred shade of green...
Related articles:
I've written about this subject before, because I reject the idea that environmentalism is a black-and-white, all-or-nothing proposition. These issues are much deeper, far more complex than simply the fact of - to use a popular example - having or not having a car.
Car ownership as a measure of environmentalism
Car ownership is such a poor measure of environmentalism. Car engine size is no better.There are, for example, many different models of car, with varying engine sizes and fuel types. The conditions these vehicles are driven in, how they're loaded, even how much air is in the tyres - all these considerations will affect fuel consumption, and as a result the carbon emissions of the car.
Beyond the crude - but concrete - measures we could draw from the scientific data about a particular car, there are the harder-to-calculate effects of the owner's behaviour. Someone who drives their car less often will obviously use less fuel - will emit less carbon - than someone that drives more regularly. But several short, lower speed journeys will consume different amounts of fuel than a single long journey at cruising speed.
And carbon emissions are just one measure of environmentalism. A popular, well-reported, easily-understood measure, I grant you, but no more valid because of that. What about pollution, of resource consumption, of lifecycle and disposal? What about electric cars?
It's a complex world out there.
Avoid people that accuse you of hypocrisy
The hypocrisy argument is at best the result of lazy, uninformed thinking - and I for one am not interested in wasting time or energy debating with people like that. At worst, accusing someone of hypocrisy because they don't fit a simplified, inaccurate model of the world is an insidious way of undermining them and their views. Sneakily, it forces people into a tiny pigeon hole and then lambasts them for it.To use the word "hypocrisy" when talking about environmental views - to allow others to use that word - accepts the suggestion that these matters are that trivial, really are black and white. We get sucked into an argument that demeans and disregards our views. And we can't make any headway against that kind of simplistic, childish, flawed reasoning.
Life - happily! - is just not that simple. If it were, environmentalists would just wear green shirts and be done with it.
Oh, wait. If that were the case, then we'd need to pick our preferred shade of green...
Related articles:
Friday, January 7, 2011
Vegetables Need Not Come in Plastic Bags
Large vegetables, at any rate, don't need a bag to contain them, to help us carry them home. Cabbages, lettuce, I mean. But they're sold in bags, alongside shrink-wrapped cauliflowers, broccoli.
There are arguments about packaging protecting the vegetables; stopping the outer leaves of lettuce or cabbage from being damaged. And yet it's possible to buy vegetables in markets and greengrocers where this isn't an issue. Cauliflowers helpfully come with a thick leafy covering that's not nice to eat, and which helps to protect the nice bit inside. Clever old nature.
Who is the packaging for? Who does it help? It's all very well saying that it's for the consumer if it's true. But much of the time the packaging is for the benefit of the retailer. It's not easy to put a barcode on a cabbage leaf, is it?
Which means that I end up bringing home plastic that I can't recycle, that I have to spend time and effort disposing of, which I didn't want in the first place - certainly not once I'd got through the checkouts. What a waste.
Unless, that is, I shop at the local greengrocers, at the butchers, at those shops that aren't mass-market enterprises that need to wrap, bag and barcode everything because there's no way any of their people can know the price of the thousands of things they sell.
So a vote against veg in plastic bags is also a vote for small businesses, for people that know their stock, who are passionate about what they do. People that I can have a conversation with, build a relationship with. People that will smile and stop and chat when I visit. Most of all, people that will listen and nod when I say that I don't want a plastic bag rather than putting on their weary, fixed smiles, and absently piling thin plastic carrier bags at the end of the checkout aisle.
Vegetables need not come in plastic bags. And I need not buy them from stores that insist on wrapping vegetables in barcoded plastic waste, supposedly to make it easier for me to buy them.
Pretty straightforward, really.
There are arguments about packaging protecting the vegetables; stopping the outer leaves of lettuce or cabbage from being damaged. And yet it's possible to buy vegetables in markets and greengrocers where this isn't an issue. Cauliflowers helpfully come with a thick leafy covering that's not nice to eat, and which helps to protect the nice bit inside. Clever old nature.
Who is the packaging for? Who does it help? It's all very well saying that it's for the consumer if it's true. But much of the time the packaging is for the benefit of the retailer. It's not easy to put a barcode on a cabbage leaf, is it?
Which means that I end up bringing home plastic that I can't recycle, that I have to spend time and effort disposing of, which I didn't want in the first place - certainly not once I'd got through the checkouts. What a waste.
Unless, that is, I shop at the local greengrocers, at the butchers, at those shops that aren't mass-market enterprises that need to wrap, bag and barcode everything because there's no way any of their people can know the price of the thousands of things they sell.
So a vote against veg in plastic bags is also a vote for small businesses, for people that know their stock, who are passionate about what they do. People that I can have a conversation with, build a relationship with. People that will smile and stop and chat when I visit. Most of all, people that will listen and nod when I say that I don't want a plastic bag rather than putting on their weary, fixed smiles, and absently piling thin plastic carrier bags at the end of the checkout aisle.
Vegetables need not come in plastic bags. And I need not buy them from stores that insist on wrapping vegetables in barcoded plastic waste, supposedly to make it easier for me to buy them.
Pretty straightforward, really.
Friday, December 31, 2010
My Pen Ran Out
...ran out of ink, that is. I exhausted the ink cartridge, I mean.
And I don't mean that I emptied one of those mean little fountain pen cartridges that last five or six minutes. This cartridge was the slender refill in my Cross ballpoint.
When I wrote about the environmentalism of pens, and the act of using a pen until the ink ran out, it didn't occur to me that I'd be in that situation quite so soon.
It's a pleasing situation to be in, having used something up completely; it's like realising the full potential of the ink cartridge. Kind of like using a chicken carcass to make stock or soup once the meat has been picked from the bones. Nothing is wasted. I like that. There's a sense of completeness, too, of finality.
I suppose, on reflection, I could have guessed that the skinny Cross refills would not last as long as the slightly portlier Parker or Faber-Castell refills. But the Cross has been my every day work pen for the last couple of years, so I've had a good run out of it. It's an uneven comparison, but I'll be interested to see how much longer the refills from the other manufacturers last.
I'll also be interested to see how long the new Cross refill lasts. That said, my replacement refill has a medium nib (the original had a fine nib) so may not last as long as the original. It's a curious thought, that a fine nib pen is somehow better value - less wasteful - than one with a thicker nib.
So I have a fresh ink cartridge for a fresh new year. What perfect timing.
Related articles:
And I don't mean that I emptied one of those mean little fountain pen cartridges that last five or six minutes. This cartridge was the slender refill in my Cross ballpoint.
When I wrote about the environmentalism of pens, and the act of using a pen until the ink ran out, it didn't occur to me that I'd be in that situation quite so soon.
It's a pleasing situation to be in, having used something up completely; it's like realising the full potential of the ink cartridge. Kind of like using a chicken carcass to make stock or soup once the meat has been picked from the bones. Nothing is wasted. I like that. There's a sense of completeness, too, of finality.
I suppose, on reflection, I could have guessed that the skinny Cross refills would not last as long as the slightly portlier Parker or Faber-Castell refills. But the Cross has been my every day work pen for the last couple of years, so I've had a good run out of it. It's an uneven comparison, but I'll be interested to see how much longer the refills from the other manufacturers last.
I'll also be interested to see how long the new Cross refill lasts. That said, my replacement refill has a medium nib (the original had a fine nib) so may not last as long as the original. It's a curious thought, that a fine nib pen is somehow better value - less wasteful - than one with a thicker nib.
So I have a fresh ink cartridge for a fresh new year. What perfect timing.
Related articles:
Friday, December 24, 2010
Utensils and Ornaments: On Waste and Clutter
One of my personal principles is the reduction of avoidable waste.
I imagine that when many people think of waste, they think of rubbish, trash, effluent. They might also think about things that are bought and paid for but not actually used.
The first sort of waste we might call byproduct waste; waste as a consequence of consumption. This sort of waste can usually be reduced - minimised, even - but not always avoided. After all, bananas must be peeled, apples have cores that are not usually eaten. Sure, these particular things can be composted (that's another article) but they're examples of consequential waste.
The second type of waste - wasting something by not using it at all - is entirely avoidable - with planning, with careful, considered choices and decisions. Carrots that rot, unused because we bought too many (buy one, get one free!). Apples that lay wrinkled and forgotten in the fruit bowl because the easy-to-grab bag contained more than we eat in a week.
I think there's a third type of waste (in some ways a variation of the second type) in the form of clutter. Things bought for projects we haven't started, and likely never will. Impulse purchases that we turn out not to be what we want or need. And those unexpected presents of beauty products we never use (I'm not the only person that gets these, am I?). They're all waste in the same way as leftover food; bought and paid for, but not used. They've lost their utility.
I'd far rather have utensils than ornaments; things to be used as opposed to things to be looked at. I don't mean that I don't like art, because I do; the function of art - of pictures and paintings - is to be looked at. But things that are intended to be used - utensils - but which end up sitting on a shelf, waiting to used - these that have become unintentional ornaments. Clutter.
Another sneaky kind of waste is the stuff that's waiting for the right occasion, something saved for best (but best never comes). This is the Too Nice To Use kind of waste. Clothes often fall into this category, hiding in the wardrobe, waiting for the right occasion, or the day they will fit once again.
When I find something that has become an ornament in my life, I give myself two options: use it (and I mean really use it, regularly, not just some token effort every now and again). Or get rid of it; if I don't use something, then it needs to be passed on, recycled, re-purposed, disposed of. I give myself a little time to trial the decision; an amnesty, if you like. I look honestly, objectively, at my habits and make the decision: use it and keep it. Or get rid.
I like using something that is intended to be used. But I don't regret getting rid of genuine waste.
But those decisions can be saved for the New Year. Whatever you give, whatever you get, I hope your Christmas doesn't bring you too many ornaments.
I imagine that when many people think of waste, they think of rubbish, trash, effluent. They might also think about things that are bought and paid for but not actually used.
The first sort of waste we might call byproduct waste; waste as a consequence of consumption. This sort of waste can usually be reduced - minimised, even - but not always avoided. After all, bananas must be peeled, apples have cores that are not usually eaten. Sure, these particular things can be composted (that's another article) but they're examples of consequential waste.
The second type of waste - wasting something by not using it at all - is entirely avoidable - with planning, with careful, considered choices and decisions. Carrots that rot, unused because we bought too many (buy one, get one free!). Apples that lay wrinkled and forgotten in the fruit bowl because the easy-to-grab bag contained more than we eat in a week.
I think there's a third type of waste (in some ways a variation of the second type) in the form of clutter. Things bought for projects we haven't started, and likely never will. Impulse purchases that we turn out not to be what we want or need. And those unexpected presents of beauty products we never use (I'm not the only person that gets these, am I?). They're all waste in the same way as leftover food; bought and paid for, but not used. They've lost their utility.
When Utensils Become Ornaments
I like to think that when something is not used, it becomes useless. To put it another way something unused stops being useful - a utensil - and becomes clutter - an ornament. Ornaments are time-consuming; they need dusting, protecting; they need effort. Or perhaps they're hidden away, forgotten about; in which case they stop being ornaments and become (even worse) junk.I'd far rather have utensils than ornaments; things to be used as opposed to things to be looked at. I don't mean that I don't like art, because I do; the function of art - of pictures and paintings - is to be looked at. But things that are intended to be used - utensils - but which end up sitting on a shelf, waiting to used - these that have become unintentional ornaments. Clutter.
Clutter is Sneaky Waste
Clutter is a sneaky kind of waste - lying around, waiting to be dusted, cluttering up the place. They're basically taking up space whilst they're waiting to be thrown out - because if I'm not using something, then I don't need it. Which means I've wasted time, money and effort on buying it, and I'm going to have to spend more time and effort getting rid of it. Not to mention the cost of producing it in the first place; cost that has no payback in use because it's just not getting used. Clutter is distracting, too, wasting mental effort and energy.Another sneaky kind of waste is the stuff that's waiting for the right occasion, something saved for best (but best never comes). This is the Too Nice To Use kind of waste. Clothes often fall into this category, hiding in the wardrobe, waiting for the right occasion, or the day they will fit once again.
When I find something that has become an ornament in my life, I give myself two options: use it (and I mean really use it, regularly, not just some token effort every now and again). Or get rid of it; if I don't use something, then it needs to be passed on, recycled, re-purposed, disposed of. I give myself a little time to trial the decision; an amnesty, if you like. I look honestly, objectively, at my habits and make the decision: use it and keep it. Or get rid.
I like using something that is intended to be used. But I don't regret getting rid of genuine waste.
Christmas Clutter
The subject of waste and clutter is something I expect I'll be thinking about quite a lot over the next few days. I'm not a killjoy; I love the festival of giving that we celebrate at this time of year. But it can bring unwanted, unused gifts too. In these circumstances, I think it's possible to separate the intention of giving from the gift itself. Whether a present is a utensil or an ornament is a decision made by the receiver, not the giver.But those decisions can be saved for the New Year. Whatever you give, whatever you get, I hope your Christmas doesn't bring you too many ornaments.
Friday, December 17, 2010
An Environmentalist at Christmas
Don't worry. This isn't another of those ghastly "How to Have a Greener Christmas" articles. No, that's your business. I'm just sharing a few thoughts on how the so-called festive season poses a few challenges for those with environmental interests. For me, it's about hanging on to my environmental principles in a holiday season that seems to be encouraging me to do quite the opposite.
The major part of my objection is to the waste. Christmas is not inherently wasteful any more than environmentalism is inherently frugal. but this time of year does seem to go hand in hand with indulgence, over-indulgence and excess. And Christmas waste - where value is somehow diluted or removed all together, from my perspective at least, comes in many forms.
And I don't really get those "Buy a Goat for a Village"-type presents, either. Charity is a good and laudable thing, but it's becoming a commodity. Buying a goat for a village as a present for someone is being charitable on their behalf. As if they can't do it themselves. You're giving someone your own feel-good factor. I don't understand it.
Recycled wrapping paper is hard to find. Oh, I've tried wrapping paper alternatives, attempting to be arty with brown kraft paper and string. One year I saved my Sunday newspapers for weeks, choosing sheets by matching the article to the present and person. With a bit of cunning visual association, I didn't need to use tags either. It wasn't as much fun.
These days I've come to think of my presents as something to put under the tree and enjoy looking at for a week or two; a temporary art installation, as it were. Wrapping at the eleventh hour on Christmas Eve somehow doesn't get as much value out of the wrapping paper. It's certainly less enjoyable.
And speaking of trees...
And even buying trees with rootballs I struggle to keep them alive for more than a couple of years. But when I see the discarded trees piled up in January I wonder that we couldn't do something better than chucking out so much over-priced firewood.
Last year, we bought a little wooden advent calendar that we can re-use from year to year, filling it with personalised treats. I hope it becomes a family tradition. I'm going to keep trying to find locally-produced turkey, and make home-made crackers.
I like home-made presents too; jams and chutneys were honestly among some of the more delightful presents I've received in recent years.
For me Christmas is about spending time, slowing down a little and enjoying things a little more (or a lot more). It's about the personal touch; being with people because we want to, not because we ought to.
Step by baby step. Making Christmas what I want it to be. What will you be doing for your holiday season? Leave me a comment and let me know.
Related articles:
The major part of my objection is to the waste. Christmas is not inherently wasteful any more than environmentalism is inherently frugal. but this time of year does seem to go hand in hand with indulgence, over-indulgence and excess. And Christmas waste - where value is somehow diluted or removed all together, from my perspective at least, comes in many forms.
Unnecessary presents (often over-packaged)
There's all those presents that people buy because they feel they ought to, but don't really know the person well enough to know what to get. So we end up with "smellies" and bath sets - all boxed and be-ribboned and festooned with all sorts of "festive" packaging. Which is just so much waste.And I don't really get those "Buy a Goat for a Village"-type presents, either. Charity is a good and laudable thing, but it's becoming a commodity. Buying a goat for a village as a present for someone is being charitable on their behalf. As if they can't do it themselves. You're giving someone your own feel-good factor. I don't understand it.
Vast Amounts of Food
Looking at the bulging cupboards at Christmas, it sometimes seems like we try and cram all our food treats into a few days, buying loads of different treats and stuffing ourselves with them. Surely it's better to spread it out over a longer period; winter has a few weeks left in her after Christmas. And all that food - you know it - comes in a variety of distinctive seasonal packaging - even more unnecessary than usual, and adding no actual value; it's the same biscuits inside that festive wrapper.Piles of Paper
All that wrapping! All those cards! Yes, I like shiny presents and brightly coloured packages as much as the next person. But I deplore the piles of paper that are left after the festival of unwrapping. And much as I love getting letters and cards, there's quite a lot of usually-not-recycled cards and envelopes. I'm happy to receive what comes and make sure that I do recycle it when the time comes. But I'm left with a feeling of disquiet, a sense that there's a better way.Recycled wrapping paper is hard to find. Oh, I've tried wrapping paper alternatives, attempting to be arty with brown kraft paper and string. One year I saved my Sunday newspapers for weeks, choosing sheets by matching the article to the present and person. With a bit of cunning visual association, I didn't need to use tags either. It wasn't as much fun.
These days I've come to think of my presents as something to put under the tree and enjoy looking at for a week or two; a temporary art installation, as it were. Wrapping at the eleventh hour on Christmas Eve somehow doesn't get as much value out of the wrapping paper. It's certainly less enjoyable.
And speaking of trees...
Christmas Trees
I love Christmas trees. And I'm completely convinced of the benefits of a living tree rather than some plastic fabricated monstrosity. I mean buying a locally-grown real tree - something with a root ball rather than a cut tree. But I'm quite aware of the arguments against planting non-native species, and the land set aside for it.And even buying trees with rootballs I struggle to keep them alive for more than a couple of years. But when I see the discarded trees piled up in January I wonder that we couldn't do something better than chucking out so much over-priced firewood.
My Environmental Christmas
I'm no killjoy. We all need some joy and celebration in these darker months. I want to enjoy my Christmas, and live my principles at the same time. I'm going to keep doing the small things, shifting my Christmas gradually towards something more satisfying to my pragmatic environmentalist principles.Last year, we bought a little wooden advent calendar that we can re-use from year to year, filling it with personalised treats. I hope it becomes a family tradition. I'm going to keep trying to find locally-produced turkey, and make home-made crackers.
I like home-made presents too; jams and chutneys were honestly among some of the more delightful presents I've received in recent years.
For me Christmas is about spending time, slowing down a little and enjoying things a little more (or a lot more). It's about the personal touch; being with people because we want to, not because we ought to.
Step by baby step. Making Christmas what I want it to be. What will you be doing for your holiday season? Leave me a comment and let me know.
Related articles:
Friday, December 10, 2010
An environmental policy worth something
Many hotels have little cards in the bathrooms that talk about saving water by not washing towels every day. The picture below shows one from a Hilton hotel. I'm not singling out Hilton but for the fact that I stayed in one of their hotels recently.
At first glance, the message is good. There is a clear statement identifying the area Hilton want to address: reducing water consumption. Good! Now we know what we're talking about we can do something about it. After all, achieving a meaningful kind of environmentalism starts with understanding what it means to you.
Even worse, although the hotel appears to sign-up to this policy, the emphasis to actually do something is all on the guest. The hotel is the facilitator, and it is the guests that must take responsibility for their actions (which, of course, it is). This is good; empowering the guests. But there's no matching commitment from the hotel.
There's also a problem in practice with this policy. In many hotels, and in the Hilton on this occasion, although I never left my towels on the floor, they were still replaced every day. Which reduces the message to little more than lip service. Worse, it's a slap in the face: the hotel has offered something I can participate in, and they're ignoring my requests, my instructions. "Hilton gives you the choice". And then ignores it.
Ultimately, cards of this type end up being nothing more than a feel-good exercise for hotel and guests. The hotel appears to be considerate about the environment, and may make their guests feel like they're doing a Good Thing - but in fact the hotel does whatever they want to, without any consequence.
What's your definition of environmentalism? How would you make this a more toothy policy, something worth signing up to? Leave a comment below.
At first glance, the message is good. There is a clear statement identifying the area Hilton want to address: reducing water consumption. Good! Now we know what we're talking about we can do something about it. After all, achieving a meaningful kind of environmentalism starts with understanding what it means to you.
Empty promises
But the stated goal of reducing water consumption is neither measurable nor achievable in any meaningful sense. There are no targets, no commitments, no governance - only a vague aspiration.Even worse, although the hotel appears to sign-up to this policy, the emphasis to actually do something is all on the guest. The hotel is the facilitator, and it is the guests that must take responsibility for their actions (which, of course, it is). This is good; empowering the guests. But there's no matching commitment from the hotel.
And what about that cheesy, corny phrase "staying at the Hilton will never cost the earth"? A phrase that's been used, in various forms, in so many other places, it's become hackneyed, clichéd.
Ultimately, cards of this type end up being nothing more than a feel-good exercise for hotel and guests. The hotel appears to be considerate about the environment, and may make their guests feel like they're doing a Good Thing - but in fact the hotel does whatever they want to, without any consequence.
What's your definition of environmentalism? How would you make this a more toothy policy, something worth signing up to? Leave a comment below.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Environmentalism, Clutter and Smart Thursday
Every Thursday, I wear a suit out of choice rather than necessity, as part of my personal brand of environmentalism. Why? How? I'm glad you asked. Read on.
This clutter-prevention principle applies at the front end of ownership, which is a fancy way of saying that I’m careful about what I buy. There's no need to purchase the unnecessary, no need to bring into my house (and life) things I simply don't need; things that will sit on a shelf or in a wardrobe, unused.
In other words, clutter.
As well as strenuously avoiding acquiring clutter (and things I will dispose of the moment I get them, or their contents home – the principle of least packaging), the clutter-prevention principle also applies to what I already have. Every so often, I spend time evaluating whether I still need what I own, and passing it on if I don't; a kind of non-perpetuation of clutter.
Whenever I find something I haven't used for a while, I ask myself why. Is it something I simply don't need any more? Is it time to pass it on? Or is it a reminder of a habit that I want to practice and have somehow slipped? If I can’t answer all those questions satisfactorily, the item in question gets moved on (I pass it on, re-purpose, re-sell, recycle it).
But I also work to find new ways to use what I do have, rather than throw it out.
Which is how Smart Thursday happened.
During the research period, I'd bought a few suits, some of which are rather nice (and some very nice). But, due to various circumstances and job changes, they’re seldom worn, except for those exceptional occasions like weddings. I had no need to wear a suit to work so these beautiful clothes were hiding in my wardrobe. They had become clutter, or were certainly on the verge of doing so. Applying my own principles meant that - since I didn't use them - I would have to dispose of them.
And yet - I really loved those suits, felt great wearing them. I wasn't quite ready to get rid of them. So I turned the principle on its head. If I started using them, used them regularly, then by definition they were no longer clutter. And I could keep them.
So every Thursday, regardless of what I'm doing, wherever I'm working - yes, when I work from home too - I pick a suit to wear. I enjoy it. I delight in the pleasure of dressing up one day a week. Smart Thursday was born.
Why Thursday? Why not? Perhaps a reaction to the tradition of Dress-Down Friday. Perhaps because it suited (ho ho) the way I arrange my working week. Just because.
Smart Thursday has been going for a year or so. People are used to it. My wife looks forward to it. Certain colleagues navigate their week by it. When I wear a suit on another day, perhaps because I have an important meeting, I see people start and I can practically hear them thinking Is it Thursday already? When I move Smart Thursday to Friday for logistical reasons, people comment.
And you know what? On top of all the feeling good whilst wearing my suit, on top of the pleasure of "dressing up" - on top of all the nice comments I get, every week, from colleagues, about how smart or dapper I look - best of all is that other people have started joining in.
Smart Thursday has spread. Other people are wearing their own seldom-worn smarter clothes, their unused-but-still-loved suits. I'm reducing clutter in other people's lives.
Which is very cool.
Related posts:
Environmentalism and Clutter
One of my personal environmental principles is the prevention of clutter; partly by not owning anything I don't regularly use, and also by having nothing that’s too nice to use.This clutter-prevention principle applies at the front end of ownership, which is a fancy way of saying that I’m careful about what I buy. There's no need to purchase the unnecessary, no need to bring into my house (and life) things I simply don't need; things that will sit on a shelf or in a wardrobe, unused.
In other words, clutter.
As well as strenuously avoiding acquiring clutter (and things I will dispose of the moment I get them, or their contents home – the principle of least packaging), the clutter-prevention principle also applies to what I already have. Every so often, I spend time evaluating whether I still need what I own, and passing it on if I don't; a kind of non-perpetuation of clutter.
Whenever I find something I haven't used for a while, I ask myself why. Is it something I simply don't need any more? Is it time to pass it on? Or is it a reminder of a habit that I want to practice and have somehow slipped? If I can’t answer all those questions satisfactorily, the item in question gets moved on (I pass it on, re-purpose, re-sell, recycle it).
But I also work to find new ways to use what I do have, rather than throw it out.
Which is how Smart Thursday happened.
Smart Thursday
In the last few years, I've been exploring the whole bespoke suit concept. I love the idea of having clothes that were made specifically for me - a kind of perfectly-tailored consumption - there's no waste in producing something to order. I'm also drawn to the notion of having something unique, personal, something I can cherish and keep for years; something crafted, made to last.During the research period, I'd bought a few suits, some of which are rather nice (and some very nice). But, due to various circumstances and job changes, they’re seldom worn, except for those exceptional occasions like weddings. I had no need to wear a suit to work so these beautiful clothes were hiding in my wardrobe. They had become clutter, or were certainly on the verge of doing so. Applying my own principles meant that - since I didn't use them - I would have to dispose of them.
And yet - I really loved those suits, felt great wearing them. I wasn't quite ready to get rid of them. So I turned the principle on its head. If I started using them, used them regularly, then by definition they were no longer clutter. And I could keep them.
So every Thursday, regardless of what I'm doing, wherever I'm working - yes, when I work from home too - I pick a suit to wear. I enjoy it. I delight in the pleasure of dressing up one day a week. Smart Thursday was born.
Why Thursday? Why not? Perhaps a reaction to the tradition of Dress-Down Friday. Perhaps because it suited (ho ho) the way I arrange my working week. Just because.
Smart Thursday has been going for a year or so. People are used to it. My wife looks forward to it. Certain colleagues navigate their week by it. When I wear a suit on another day, perhaps because I have an important meeting, I see people start and I can practically hear them thinking Is it Thursday already? When I move Smart Thursday to Friday for logistical reasons, people comment.
And you know what? On top of all the feeling good whilst wearing my suit, on top of the pleasure of "dressing up" - on top of all the nice comments I get, every week, from colleagues, about how smart or dapper I look - best of all is that other people have started joining in.
Smart Thursday has spread. Other people are wearing their own seldom-worn smarter clothes, their unused-but-still-loved suits. I'm reducing clutter in other people's lives.
Which is very cool.
Related posts:
Friday, November 26, 2010
Types of environmentalism
My last couple of posts on the subject of what makes an environmentalist have prompted some strong reactions and comments. Some people hold a belief that there is a precise definition of environmentalist that excludes those people that don't meet the criteria. Or that environmentalism is somehow an either-or concept.
Last week, I wrote about how environmentalism is not binary. This week I want to deal with the many different types of environmentalism.
The answer to those questions rather depends where you're standing.
Every environmentalist is concerned with - interested in - the environment. That definition is not limited to the green environment, the natural world; there are social, ethical, financial environments.
Physical environmentalism is perhaps the most obvious kind; the conservation of the wild, green environment; the preservation of natural resources, perhaps through the avoidance of fossil fuels and the associated pollution. Perhaps through some kind of - if not rejection, then amelioration - of the first world lifestyle. This kind of environmentalism is often easy to measure, in terms of carbon emissions, for example, or food miles.
And then there's what might be called social environmentalism - something harder to see, harder to measure. The kind of environmentalism that is concerned with the well-being of the human environment, of the people around us. Corporate-social responsibility, philanthropy: surely these are forms of environmentalism enacted not on the physical stage, but on a social (ethical, moral) stage?
Social environmentalism embraces the everyday around us; the people around us. If I walk past an empty room, I switch the lights off. If I see dirty plates in the kitchen sink, I put them in the dishwasher (and if the dishwasher is full, I put it on). Some people would call that being decent, a kind of moral code (and some people would claim that it's impossible to have without some kind of religion). I regard it as ethical environmentalism.
There are as many different types of environmentalism as there are types of environmentalist. From the dyed-in-the-organic-wool hardy greens, who eschew cars entirely and live in sustainable communities, to those occasional recyclers, environmentalism has broad arms and embraces many practitioners. This does not make it weak or dilute, it makes it all-encompassing and relevant.
Environmentalism can be expressed in a number of ways; whether it's to save money, or conserve natural resources; whether it's philanthropy or a set of ethics .
There are, in other words, many different shades of green.
Me, I'm mostly happy with my choices (and working on the rest), and comfortable with the fact that they stack with my own personal morals. I understand the choices that I make, and I know that they're reasoned decisions.
Really that's all any of us can ask for, all any of us can strive for. And, actually, that's more than enough.
Related posts:
Last week, I wrote about how environmentalism is not binary. This week I want to deal with the many different types of environmentalism.
Types of environmentalist
What makes an environmentalist? Which principles and actions, which morals and ethics, choices and beliefs make a person "environmental"? What intrinsic characteristics do all environmentalists share? What can we point at to measure whether someone is green?The answer to those questions rather depends where you're standing.
Every environmentalist is concerned with - interested in - the environment. That definition is not limited to the green environment, the natural world; there are social, ethical, financial environments.
Physical environmentalism is perhaps the most obvious kind; the conservation of the wild, green environment; the preservation of natural resources, perhaps through the avoidance of fossil fuels and the associated pollution. Perhaps through some kind of - if not rejection, then amelioration - of the first world lifestyle. This kind of environmentalism is often easy to measure, in terms of carbon emissions, for example, or food miles.
And then there's what might be called social environmentalism - something harder to see, harder to measure. The kind of environmentalism that is concerned with the well-being of the human environment, of the people around us. Corporate-social responsibility, philanthropy: surely these are forms of environmentalism enacted not on the physical stage, but on a social (ethical, moral) stage?
Social environmentalism embraces the everyday around us; the people around us. If I walk past an empty room, I switch the lights off. If I see dirty plates in the kitchen sink, I put them in the dishwasher (and if the dishwasher is full, I put it on). Some people would call that being decent, a kind of moral code (and some people would claim that it's impossible to have without some kind of religion). I regard it as ethical environmentalism.
There are as many different types of environmentalism as there are types of environmentalist. From the dyed-in-the-organic-wool hardy greens, who eschew cars entirely and live in sustainable communities, to those occasional recyclers, environmentalism has broad arms and embraces many practitioners. This does not make it weak or dilute, it makes it all-encompassing and relevant.
Environmentalism can be expressed in a number of ways; whether it's to save money, or conserve natural resources; whether it's philanthropy or a set of ethics .
There are, in other words, many different shades of green.
My type of environmentalism
As for me, I recycle. I choose local food. I limited my carbon usage, my consumption of limited natural resources - and a hundred other different expressions of my own environmentalism. This is my personal shade of green. It might not change the world, not overnight, not on its own. But it changes my world, and it does influence others. I've seen it happen.Me, I'm mostly happy with my choices (and working on the rest), and comfortable with the fact that they stack with my own personal morals. I understand the choices that I make, and I know that they're reasoned decisions.
Really that's all any of us can ask for, all any of us can strive for. And, actually, that's more than enough.
Related posts:
- Previous post: Environmentalism (still) isn't black and white
- Environmentalism is green, not black and white
- Shades of green
Friday, November 19, 2010
Environmentalism (still) isn't black and white
My last couple of posts on the subject of what makes an environmentalist have prompted some interesting reactions, especially amongst people who don't believe that environmentalists are allowed to drive large cars (they are). Or that there is somehow some tight, precise definition of environmentalism that doesn't include people that don't meet the criteria (there isn't).
There are two things I'd like to say about this: firstly - and I've said this before - environmentalism is not binary, and secondly there are many different types of environmentalism. I'll deal with the first point this week, and the other point next week.
Here we go.
How often does a person have to run to be a runner? Is it a one-off prospect, like doing a race once? Does a runner have to run every day? Does being a runner imply deep, life-changing, commitment to running, ordering one's life around running to the exclusion of everything else? Is it something that once-done, never leaves us?
Or is it somewhere in between, somewhere in the greys between the extremes of black and white?
It's not so clear cut, is it? I'd take a stab and say that a runner is someone for whom running is an important, perhaps major, part of their life. But there's a lot of room in that grey, and that's where the question of degree - of shades of grey - comes in. How much of a runner a person is depends on who is defining it. To non-runners, running a marathon - even training for one - seems like a big deal. To professional runners, it probably does not.
Environmentalism, like running, is not black and white. We can't say that someone is an environmentalist because they do one thing, and not another, marking them off against a ludicrous, imaginary checklist. Whether someone is an environmentalist or a runner is a matter of perspective, a question of degree. I'm considered a rabid foaming-at-the-mouth environmentalist by some of my friends and colleagues. And a very light-green just-dipping-my-toe-in-the-water sort by others. And guess what? The same is true for running, or cycling. I cycle more than some - much more. And I cycle less - much, much less - than others.
To say that an environmentalist doesn't - can't - drive large cars is kind of silly.
In one respect, such a statement raises a very interesting point - a point which also reveals the ridiculousness of that kind of statement. It leads to the question of what constitutes a large car; presumably there is some size of engine that it is acceptable to drive and still be considered environmental. But go a single cubic centimetre larger and it's just not compatible with any kind of environmental ethos. All of a person's good works are negated, wiped out, made null and void.
Which notion just doesn't work for me. A cubic centimetre of engine capacity is not a good a measure of environmentalism.
Ho ho.
On the one hand, this is a cheap shot: cheap, easy and obvious. On the other, it's an uncomfortable point: how can one take international long distance flights and still be concerned about matters environmental?
Having read the above, if you haven't got an answer for that, nothing else I write is going to help.
I'm not here to answer for Mr Gore; I can only give my own answers and reasons for my actions; can only try and explain (rather than justify!) my choices. To me, it's about being selective, informed and reasoned. To know why we do these things, make our choices; reasoning through them is neither rationalising them away, nor weakly defending them; it's understanding them, and that's at once less tangible and more powerful.
There's less waste in a reasoned decision than there is in a thoughtless action. And yet to know why we're doing something still doesn't excuse any kind of profligate wastefulness, any more than doing it for a good, informed reason somehow magically removes any impact or consequence of our actions.
My flavour of environmentalism doesn't tell other people off for their choices. I've thought long and hard to be satisfied with my decisions; let someone else make their peace with their own mind. I'm certainly not here to think for them.
And let's be honest. Some of this criticism of environmentalists with large, expensive cars is just sour grapes, disguised as a moral crusade. We can do much better than that.
Next time: Shades of green. What type of environmentalist are you?
Related posts:
There are two things I'd like to say about this: firstly - and I've said this before - environmentalism is not binary, and secondly there are many different types of environmentalism. I'll deal with the first point this week, and the other point next week.
Here we go.
Environmentalism is not binary
Or, to say it in a slightly less geeky way: environmentalism is a continuum, not an either-or prospect. (Was that less geeky? How about: environmentalism is grey, not black and white.)How often does a person have to run to be a runner? Is it a one-off prospect, like doing a race once? Does a runner have to run every day? Does being a runner imply deep, life-changing, commitment to running, ordering one's life around running to the exclusion of everything else? Is it something that once-done, never leaves us?
Or is it somewhere in between, somewhere in the greys between the extremes of black and white?
It's not so clear cut, is it? I'd take a stab and say that a runner is someone for whom running is an important, perhaps major, part of their life. But there's a lot of room in that grey, and that's where the question of degree - of shades of grey - comes in. How much of a runner a person is depends on who is defining it. To non-runners, running a marathon - even training for one - seems like a big deal. To professional runners, it probably does not.
Environmentalism, like running, is not black and white. We can't say that someone is an environmentalist because they do one thing, and not another, marking them off against a ludicrous, imaginary checklist. Whether someone is an environmentalist or a runner is a matter of perspective, a question of degree. I'm considered a rabid foaming-at-the-mouth environmentalist by some of my friends and colleagues. And a very light-green just-dipping-my-toe-in-the-water sort by others. And guess what? The same is true for running, or cycling. I cycle more than some - much more. And I cycle less - much, much less - than others.
To say that an environmentalist doesn't - can't - drive large cars is kind of silly.
In one respect, such a statement raises a very interesting point - a point which also reveals the ridiculousness of that kind of statement. It leads to the question of what constitutes a large car; presumably there is some size of engine that it is acceptable to drive and still be considered environmental. But go a single cubic centimetre larger and it's just not compatible with any kind of environmental ethos. All of a person's good works are negated, wiped out, made null and void.
Which notion just doesn't work for me. A cubic centimetre of engine capacity is not a good a measure of environmentalism.
My kind of environmentalism
There's a sort of joke about Al Gore and his film An Inconvenient Truth (which, if you haven't seen, I strongly encourage you to watch. You might not - should not, will not - agree with every point made, but it's food for thought and it may shape your personal decision making and choices). The joke goes something like this: the global warming that Al Gore describes in the film is partly contributed to by all the flying that he's done in the making of the film.Ho ho.
On the one hand, this is a cheap shot: cheap, easy and obvious. On the other, it's an uncomfortable point: how can one take international long distance flights and still be concerned about matters environmental?
Having read the above, if you haven't got an answer for that, nothing else I write is going to help.
I'm not here to answer for Mr Gore; I can only give my own answers and reasons for my actions; can only try and explain (rather than justify!) my choices. To me, it's about being selective, informed and reasoned. To know why we do these things, make our choices; reasoning through them is neither rationalising them away, nor weakly defending them; it's understanding them, and that's at once less tangible and more powerful.
There's less waste in a reasoned decision than there is in a thoughtless action. And yet to know why we're doing something still doesn't excuse any kind of profligate wastefulness, any more than doing it for a good, informed reason somehow magically removes any impact or consequence of our actions.
Sour green grapes
I guess when people have a go at environmentalists that don't fit their personal model or definition of environmentalism, there's also a kind of high-horse moral concern at work. After all, if a person - especially a public figure - is "guilty" of some kind of transgression (according to the observer), they can't possible tell other people off for doing it. In some kind of twisted reasoning, by not fitting a personal, private definition a public figure somehow permits - sanctions, even - behaviour that doesn't fit that definition. If a person's definition of environmentalist excludes any kind of air travel, yet Al Gore (publicly acknowledged to be an environmentalist) and his film crew can fly around the world, then it becomes okay for everyone to do it.My flavour of environmentalism doesn't tell other people off for their choices. I've thought long and hard to be satisfied with my decisions; let someone else make their peace with their own mind. I'm certainly not here to think for them.
And let's be honest. Some of this criticism of environmentalists with large, expensive cars is just sour grapes, disguised as a moral crusade. We can do much better than that.
Next time: Shades of green. What type of environmentalist are you?
Related posts:
Friday, November 12, 2010
Environmentalism is green, not black and white (or: the environmental chief executive)
Environmentalism is, to coin a phrase, a broad church. Which, if we remove the religious overtones, is to say that environmentalism is a term that we can all interpret in a way that's personal and meaningful to us individually without compromising its meaning or purpose. In order words, we can live environmentalism in the way that works for us.
During our conversation, I mentioned the reaction I often get when I express any kind of environmental interests; it usually starts with a question something like this: how can you say you're an environmentalist when you [insert some choice here]?.
He said that he experienced a similar thing: he is often invited to speak about corporate-social responsibility and during his talk, quite often someone in the audience will ask him how he can be committed to that cause when he drives a big car.
It's true, he does drive an expensive, luxurious car. A very fine car, if you like that sort of thing, with a large engine. An extravagant - to some unnecessary - car.
If that sounds anything like my definition of pragmatic environmentalism, it won't surprise you to know that I completely understand and respect his choices, and the informed, active decision-making involved.
Our conversation reminded me of the article I wrote recently about shades of green, about the idea that we don't live in a conveniently black-and-white world. We live in a grander, far more subtle, far richer world of shades. Our choices and actions exist in a continuum. When we consider where we exist on the continuum, and are active about our decision making, conscious about our choices, we become free to do the thing we believe in with passion, without distraction for justification.
To be successful environmentalists, we need to be considered about our environmentalism; we must understand our decisions, why we choose to do the things we do, and the boundaries and limits of our decisions. To do so only makes us more effective, not distracted by constant justification and rationalisation. That way we can spend more of our time and effort making a difference rather than wasting them explaining ourselves and our choices.
An informed set of choices; a set of reasoned, well-considered personal ethics. That's what environmentalism means to me. What does it mean to you?
Philanthropy is a kind of environmentalism
Just the other day, I was talking to a friend that is chairman of a very successful business, someone I would describe as a philanthropist; he is passionate about businesses working to positively affect the communities they exist in. He gives a lot of his time, money and effort to causes that he considers important, and that affect those they touch in a positive manner. It's been a constant throughout his working life, certainly for all the time I've known him. To my mind, his attitude and approach are representative of a kind of social environmentalism.During our conversation, I mentioned the reaction I often get when I express any kind of environmental interests; it usually starts with a question something like this: how can you say you're an environmentalist when you [insert some choice here]?.
He said that he experienced a similar thing: he is often invited to speak about corporate-social responsibility and during his talk, quite often someone in the audience will ask him how he can be committed to that cause when he drives a big car.
It's true, he does drive an expensive, luxurious car. A very fine car, if you like that sort of thing, with a large engine. An extravagant - to some unnecessary - car.
Sidenote: I could so easily go off on a tangent here about how and why luxury cars have to have large engines. Why aren't there luxurious executive small cars? Seems like a niche in the market to me.My friend told me that his response to the challenge is always to say that the world is not black and white; not full of absolutes, but of degrees. A person and their ethics are not absolutely one thing or another; they are a happy combination of shades of grey (or green). He knows what big cars can mean, and he has actively chosen to express himself in this particular area. Having thought about it at some length, he has understood his reasons, and he is comfortable with them.
If that sounds anything like my definition of pragmatic environmentalism, it won't surprise you to know that I completely understand and respect his choices, and the informed, active decision-making involved.
Environmentalism is not black and white
My friend doesn't bother to attempt to justify his decisions, or become defensive about them - he doesn't need to. He has considered his choices and balanced them against his actions to find the definition of social responsibility, of environmentalism, that works for him. He doesn't waste time defending himself. Instead, he gets on with doing what he is passionate about: the things that drive him, and have driven him for years, that make a difference to people. The passion is enough. The knowledge that his actions and choices make a difference is enough. The number of lives he has affected, the good he does is not - will never be - outweighed by the car he chooses to drive.Our conversation reminded me of the article I wrote recently about shades of green, about the idea that we don't live in a conveniently black-and-white world. We live in a grander, far more subtle, far richer world of shades. Our choices and actions exist in a continuum. When we consider where we exist on the continuum, and are active about our decision making, conscious about our choices, we become free to do the thing we believe in with passion, without distraction for justification.
To be successful environmentalists, we need to be considered about our environmentalism; we must understand our decisions, why we choose to do the things we do, and the boundaries and limits of our decisions. To do so only makes us more effective, not distracted by constant justification and rationalisation. That way we can spend more of our time and effort making a difference rather than wasting them explaining ourselves and our choices.
An informed set of choices; a set of reasoned, well-considered personal ethics. That's what environmentalism means to me. What does it mean to you?
Friday, November 5, 2010
On The Subject of Provenance (including the Fish Man and the Butcher)
Simply put, provenance is where something came from; its origin. In foodie circles the word is used to describe the information about where a particular animal was reared or what it was fed. It helps understand that it came from decent stock, was well-treated, had a decent life perhaps.
Provenance is important to my personal principles of pragmatic environmentalism too. It's important to me to understand where something I'm buying came from, particularly when it comes to food.
I think the Fish Man is a Very Good Thing.
When I buy from the Fish Man, I know when the fish was landed; I know how far it has travelled. I've no idea (and no practical way of finding out) this information for the fish in the supermarket. Oh, they can tell me when it arrived at the store, but where and when it was landed? And how far it's travelled since then - to be packed, to be sent to a central distribution point, to the local store? It's unknowable. Every time I visit the store, I have to ask for this information, for every type of fish they offer. Gathering the information is complex and tedious.
And (a real bonus!) when I buy from the Fish Man, I'm buying from someone that genuinely knows and cares about what they're selling - passion being one of the great advantages of small businesses.
By contrast, the friendly lady on the fish counter at the supermarket freely admitted that she didn't like fish. She may be well-trained and eager, she may have all the certificates for handling food; and she may be cheerful and helpful. But she just can't compete with the passion and enthusiasm of the Fish Man. And he brings it right to my door.
So when people ask me about the time, money and effort I spend shopping from small businesses, rather than the efficiencies of buying everything in a single visit to the supermarket, I ask them where their fish was caught, and how long ago. I enquire after the breed of pig their bacon came from, where their beef was reared.
And then I tell them about the Fish Man and the butcher. And I offer them his number.
That's what provenance means to me.
Provenance is important to my personal principles of pragmatic environmentalism too. It's important to me to understand where something I'm buying came from, particularly when it comes to food.
The Fish Man
Every Tuesday, we are visited by the Fish Man. He drives from Grimsby on the east coast of Yorkshire with the fish of the day, and sells it door to door in my local area.I think the Fish Man is a Very Good Thing.
When I buy from the Fish Man, I know when the fish was landed; I know how far it has travelled. I've no idea (and no practical way of finding out) this information for the fish in the supermarket. Oh, they can tell me when it arrived at the store, but where and when it was landed? And how far it's travelled since then - to be packed, to be sent to a central distribution point, to the local store? It's unknowable. Every time I visit the store, I have to ask for this information, for every type of fish they offer. Gathering the information is complex and tedious.
With the Fish Man, I know when his fish is landed; firstly because I asked him, and even more fundamentally - because it's built into the system. I don't have to think about it. I asked once. I don't have to ask him all the time.
And (a real bonus!) when I buy from the Fish Man, I'm buying from someone that genuinely knows and cares about what they're selling - passion being one of the great advantages of small businesses.
By contrast, the friendly lady on the fish counter at the supermarket freely admitted that she didn't like fish. She may be well-trained and eager, she may have all the certificates for handling food; and she may be cheerful and helpful. But she just can't compete with the passion and enthusiasm of the Fish Man. And he brings it right to my door.
The Butcher
There are a number of traditional butcher shops near where I live. I count myself very lucky that some of them are very good indeed.One in particular is a truly fine example of how the trade should be. The shop is a joy; glass-fronted cabinets filled with neat trays of meat, dressed joints, sauces and marinades, and various cooked delicacies - pies, pates, brawn. It's a shop to inspire, to make the mouth water; a place to browse and plan meals.
Behind the counter, there are little chalkboards naming the breed of the beef or pork on offer, and the farm it came from. The butcher will gladly answer questions about how long the meat has been hung - how many days matured it is, to use the language of the supermarkets. He knows because he's hung it himself, on the premises.
Again, if I go to the supermarket, this information is in short supply. Without some real effort, and a spot of luck, it's nigh-impossible to answer these questions. With the butcher, it's perhaps marginally harder to discover than it is with the Fish Man, but the discovery is effortless, a joy.
So when people ask me about the time, money and effort I spend shopping from small businesses, rather than the efficiencies of buying everything in a single visit to the supermarket, I ask them where their fish was caught, and how long ago. I enquire after the breed of pig their bacon came from, where their beef was reared.
And then I tell them about the Fish Man and the butcher. And I offer them his number.
That's what provenance means to me.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Straight razors and orange juice: some limits to my environmentalism
I wrote that one of the cornerstones of pragmatic environmentalism is knowing what your limits are; knowing why you're prepared to do some things, and why you're not prepared to do others.
At that time, I had milk delivered by the milk man, both supporting a local business (with the convenience of to-the-doorstep delivery) and also reducing packaging because of the use of reusable glass bottles. And I noticed that the milk man also delivered apple juice and orange juice, also in the glass bottles that would be collected, washed, and reused.
It seemed like a perfect solution. And it was also one less thing I had to remember to buy, one less thing to spend time, money and effort buying, carrying home, recycling. Great! I made the arrangements and the next Monday morning, along with two bottles of milk, there were two bottles of juice on the doorstep.
Except that the juice wasn't very nice. Not a patch on the fresher stuff that came in non-recyclable (at least, not locally at that time) Tetrapak containers. For a few months I continued to buy juice from the milkman, the reduced packaging principle winning out over taste and flavour (and, frankly, provenance). Until one morning I woke up and realised that I really wasn't enjoying the juice, which made it more of a waste than a benefit: I wasn't spending money, I was wasting it on something I wasn't enjoying - another one of my personal principles.
I had unexpectedly discovered one of the limits to my personal environmentalism. I cancelled the juice order and pondered my next decision.
After looking into my options for some time, I took the plunge and bought a straight razor. It's made of metal, so is durable and can be recycled at the end of its life. But that should be many years in the future; because the straight razor can be sharpened over and over again, it will have a long lifetime; it is a thing to last.
On the face of it, this again seemed like an ideal choice; a product with a long lifetime, made from recoverable materials, that would last for years.
The problem was with how hard it was to shave properly with it.
If you've ever seen a film where a character is shaving with a straight razor (and Sweeney Todd springs to mind), the insouciance with which they use those (supposedly) razor-sharp blades is laughable, dragging them across the tender and vulnerable parts of their neck without fear.
My own experiences have always been much more cautious, timid, and far less a close shave than I had got used to with my disposable safety razors. Sometimes I ended up cutting myself into the bargain.
Although I persevered with my razor for some months, I could never get as clean a shave as I could with the disposables. And although I got quite competent - nonchalant even - with the razor sharp blade next to my throat, I never quite got rid of the fear. I love the idea of the straight razor, but I can't handle the practicality of it.
Every now and again I do get out the straight razor and see if I can shave with it, but I've found another of my boundaries, another one of my limits. And that's fine too.
Nowadays, happily, juice is available in Tetrapak-type containers that contain far fewer composite ingredients, and (even better!) the facilities for recycling them locally exist. And I enjoy the juice I buy.
What are the boundaries and limits of your environmentalism? Share your thoughts in the comments.
Orange juice
Several years ago, I was focusing on reducing the packaging that I bought and brought home. One of the areas that I knew was ripe for improvement was orange juice; at the time I was buying cartons of orange juice, and at the end of the week I had a couple of cartons that I couldn't recycle.At that time, I had milk delivered by the milk man, both supporting a local business (with the convenience of to-the-doorstep delivery) and also reducing packaging because of the use of reusable glass bottles. And I noticed that the milk man also delivered apple juice and orange juice, also in the glass bottles that would be collected, washed, and reused.
It seemed like a perfect solution. And it was also one less thing I had to remember to buy, one less thing to spend time, money and effort buying, carrying home, recycling. Great! I made the arrangements and the next Monday morning, along with two bottles of milk, there were two bottles of juice on the doorstep.
Except that the juice wasn't very nice. Not a patch on the fresher stuff that came in non-recyclable (at least, not locally at that time) Tetrapak containers. For a few months I continued to buy juice from the milkman, the reduced packaging principle winning out over taste and flavour (and, frankly, provenance). Until one morning I woke up and realised that I really wasn't enjoying the juice, which made it more of a waste than a benefit: I wasn't spending money, I was wasting it on something I wasn't enjoying - another one of my personal principles.
I had unexpectedly discovered one of the limits to my personal environmentalism. I cancelled the juice order and pondered my next decision.
Straight razors
Around the same sort of time I was looking at buying replacement heads for my razor, and realising how much packaging was involved in them; the cardboard box with all the marketing material on it, the plastic caddy within, and then finally the razor heads themselves, which lasted only a few shaves before they were blunt and needed to be disposed of.After looking into my options for some time, I took the plunge and bought a straight razor. It's made of metal, so is durable and can be recycled at the end of its life. But that should be many years in the future; because the straight razor can be sharpened over and over again, it will have a long lifetime; it is a thing to last.
On the face of it, this again seemed like an ideal choice; a product with a long lifetime, made from recoverable materials, that would last for years.
The problem was with how hard it was to shave properly with it.
If you've ever seen a film where a character is shaving with a straight razor (and Sweeney Todd springs to mind), the insouciance with which they use those (supposedly) razor-sharp blades is laughable, dragging them across the tender and vulnerable parts of their neck without fear.
My own experiences have always been much more cautious, timid, and far less a close shave than I had got used to with my disposable safety razors. Sometimes I ended up cutting myself into the bargain.
Although I persevered with my razor for some months, I could never get as clean a shave as I could with the disposables. And although I got quite competent - nonchalant even - with the razor sharp blade next to my throat, I never quite got rid of the fear. I love the idea of the straight razor, but I can't handle the practicality of it.
Every now and again I do get out the straight razor and see if I can shave with it, but I've found another of my boundaries, another one of my limits. And that's fine too.
Nowadays, happily, juice is available in Tetrapak-type containers that contain far fewer composite ingredients, and (even better!) the facilities for recycling them locally exist. And I enjoy the juice I buy.
What are the boundaries and limits of your environmentalism? Share your thoughts in the comments.
Friday, October 22, 2010
How Pragmatic Environmentalism Cures Choice Paralysis
Have you ever been in that situation where you're presented with too many options, too much choice? Maybe you're trying to buy a new kettle and the difficulty of balancing all your options to pick the "right" one (or the "best" one) means that you don't do anything at all? Not even blindly grab for the nearest, the shiniest, the easiest option.
And then someone comes along with an argument about the use of bleach in reusable nappies, and the environmental impact of all that washing every time junior needs a change. Which then brings reusable nappies into question again. We start thinking that perhaps reusable isn't all it's cracked up to be. Maybe disposables are better...
Dilemma! Which to choose? Which is the Perfect Right Choice? With all this information, all these conflicting requirements to balance, the end result is that it's often simply not possible to decide, so we end up stuck, doing nothing for fear of doing more harm. Of not knowing the right thing to do.
And yes, there are lifestyle elements here too. Like access to an energy efficient washing machine, to environmentally-friendly, non-chemically-based washing powders. Like our time and energy to do these things. There are no Environmental Police; no one is going to force us to do them, so it's better that we enjoy them - we're more likely to continue if we do. We're much more likely to stick to our guns if it's something we really, truly believe in, and something that actually fits into our lives.
We can chart a course out of choice paralysis by understanding what our priorities are, what motivates us, what we're prepared to do. And what we're capable of doing. We can take comfort in the fact that we're doing something, and we know why we're doing it. We understand the decision making; by doing so, we transmute all our excuses into reasons.
This is the foundation of pragmatic environmentalism.
Choice paralysis: too many choices prevent action
It used to be straightforward. We'd look at our choices, say between disposable nappies and reusable nappies, and it would be straightforward to identify which was the Perfect Right Choice. In the specific example: disposable nappies repeatedly consume resources that could be reused (which is a Bad Thing) and rot (or not) in landfill for years (a Very Bad Thing). Reusable nappies, as their name suggests, are reusable; they do not consume resources at every turn, they do not go to landfill. Hence reusable nappies are the Perfect Right Choice. Nice and straightforward.And then someone comes along with an argument about the use of bleach in reusable nappies, and the environmental impact of all that washing every time junior needs a change. Which then brings reusable nappies into question again. We start thinking that perhaps reusable isn't all it's cracked up to be. Maybe disposables are better...
Dilemma! Which to choose? Which is the Perfect Right Choice? With all this information, all these conflicting requirements to balance, the end result is that it's often simply not possible to decide, so we end up stuck, doing nothing for fear of doing more harm. Of not knowing the right thing to do.
Pragmatic environmentalism cures choice paralysis
There's two things you need to know about choice paralysis:- There is no absolute Perfect Right Choice. Not for everyone. There's only the one that's right for you, for the specific combination of circumstances that define you, your personal circumstance, and your brand of environmentalism.
- Doing something about it is almost always better than doing nothing.
And yes, there are lifestyle elements here too. Like access to an energy efficient washing machine, to environmentally-friendly, non-chemically-based washing powders. Like our time and energy to do these things. There are no Environmental Police; no one is going to force us to do them, so it's better that we enjoy them - we're more likely to continue if we do. We're much more likely to stick to our guns if it's something we really, truly believe in, and something that actually fits into our lives.
We can chart a course out of choice paralysis by understanding what our priorities are, what motivates us, what we're prepared to do. And what we're capable of doing. We can take comfort in the fact that we're doing something, and we know why we're doing it. We understand the decision making; by doing so, we transmute all our excuses into reasons.
This is the foundation of pragmatic environmentalism.
And, you know, perhaps bamboo-based biodegradable disposable nappies are the happy medium that balances personal situation with personal ethics. I can't tell you the answer for you; I can't give you your Perfect Right Choice.
You're the only person that can do that.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Uluru, Language, and Pragmatic Environmentalism
One morning in 2007, pretty much three years ago next week, I was walking 'round Uluru talking to an American woman about punctuation. I mean, there I was, in complete awe of the Rock, dusty and glorious in the thin light not long after dawn. And I was talking about language.
Our Australian guide had just made a comment about rainbow bee eaters, and I had wondered aloud if they were things that ate rainbow-coloured bees, or if they were rainbow-coloured things that ate bees.
The guide told me, straight-faced, that it was the latter.
Oh, I said. I must have got my hyphen in the wrong place.
There was a moment of silence.
We contemplated the Rock, and continued our walk. One of the group fell in step alongside me and asked if I was a writer.
I was surprised. Flattered. Puzzled. I asked her what she meant.
It turned out she was an editor on the travel desk of the New York Times. She'd heard my comment about hyphens and assumed I was a writer. I told her I was not. Not then, not in the way she meant.
And then we had a chat about words and language as the sun rose over Uluru, the most astonishing sight I've seen, absolutely breath-taking.
At some point in the conversation, we were talking about travel, and I commented that I thought books titled things like "1001 places to see before you die" were a bit unnecessary, because the "before you die" bit was redundant. I mean, there's not a lot of visiting after the Inevitable Event.
My new friend commented that there was a poetry to that title; a rhythm, a romance, and sometimes precision and grammar and brevity weren't all that was needed. Sometimes there needed to be a little sparkle.
I considered this. I understood what she meant. I nodded.
Because it's true. Sometimes we need the little excesses of language to give us a little poetry. Sometimes brevity and precision aren't the be-all and end-all.
The thing is, I really don't like the whole "It's not easy being green" slogan. There was a BBC TV show of the same name, and the Guardian newspaper has a whole section devoted to it on their website.
Yeah, I can see that it's a catchy little title; there's a rhythm and a poetry to it. There's a rightness to the phrase, a sonority, that strikes a chord. I recognise that.
But it's still damaging.
I applaud shows and articles that demystify environmentalism, that make it accessible and acceptable and move it farther into the public consciousness. That encourage us to aspire to greater efforts, that ask us to question our choices. But let's not make it sound harder than it is.
Because it is easy being green. It's as easy as deciding to recycle, and doing it. It's as easy as deciding what your own definition of green is, and acting it, living it. It doesn't have to involve buying a farm or living in the woods, or installing composting toilets. It's whatever works for you.
That's the whole point of pragmatic environmentalism; it's finding the Perfect Right Choice for you.
Uluru, by the way, is majestic and poetic and unspeakably magnificent. If you ever have the chance, go take a look.
The guide told me, straight-faced, that it was the latter.
Oh, I said. I must have got my hyphen in the wrong place.
There was a moment of silence.
We contemplated the Rock, and continued our walk. One of the group fell in step alongside me and asked if I was a writer.
I was surprised. Flattered. Puzzled. I asked her what she meant.
It turned out she was an editor on the travel desk of the New York Times. She'd heard my comment about hyphens and assumed I was a writer. I told her I was not. Not then, not in the way she meant.
And then we had a chat about words and language as the sun rose over Uluru, the most astonishing sight I've seen, absolutely breath-taking.
At some point in the conversation, we were talking about travel, and I commented that I thought books titled things like "1001 places to see before you die" were a bit unnecessary, because the "before you die" bit was redundant. I mean, there's not a lot of visiting after the Inevitable Event.
My new friend commented that there was a poetry to that title; a rhythm, a romance, and sometimes precision and grammar and brevity weren't all that was needed. Sometimes there needed to be a little sparkle.
I considered this. I understood what she meant. I nodded.
Because it's true. Sometimes we need the little excesses of language to give us a little poetry. Sometimes brevity and precision aren't the be-all and end-all.
The thing is, I really don't like the whole "It's not easy being green" slogan. There was a BBC TV show of the same name, and the Guardian newspaper has a whole section devoted to it on their website.
Yeah, I can see that it's a catchy little title; there's a rhythm and a poetry to it. There's a rightness to the phrase, a sonority, that strikes a chord. I recognise that.
But it's still damaging.
It's so easy to be green
This kind of language is neither positive nor supportive; it's saying that environmentalism is hard, and that's going to discourage more people than it encourages. Surely we should be celebrating the elegant and personal simplicity of "being green".I applaud shows and articles that demystify environmentalism, that make it accessible and acceptable and move it farther into the public consciousness. That encourage us to aspire to greater efforts, that ask us to question our choices. But let's not make it sound harder than it is.
Because it is easy being green. It's as easy as deciding to recycle, and doing it. It's as easy as deciding what your own definition of green is, and acting it, living it. It doesn't have to involve buying a farm or living in the woods, or installing composting toilets. It's whatever works for you.
That's the whole point of pragmatic environmentalism; it's finding the Perfect Right Choice for you.
Uluru, by the way, is majestic and poetic and unspeakably magnificent. If you ever have the chance, go take a look.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)