Eat more meat*

Conservation organizations are beginning to allow that some animal agriculture can be benign if not beneficial for the environment. Still, many continue to advise the public to avoid eating much meat, citing the common concerns surrounding industrial meat production--inefficient land use to graze animals or grow their feed, methane production from ruminants, destruction of rainforests for grazing land, inhumane practices in the industry, and so on. 

The idea is that if one is to offer a directive to wide swaths of the human population, an overly nuanced one runs the risk of over-complicating things for the inconsiderate public. Better to have them eat less of it than to think that meat is OK. 

I contend this is deeply misguided and may produce the opposite results of what is intended. Worse, it misses an opportunity to create ecological change at a meaningful scale. 

Don't get me wrong, I am sympathetic to the cause. I want nothing more than to discourage people from eating meat borne of bad practices. But I don't think encouraging people to eat less meat actually achieves net ecological health. 

What's taken for granted is that it's somehow appropriate or useful for a large organization to offer simple dietary guidelines to people living in vastly different and unique agroecosystems. The problems with this are manifold.

For one, it's absurd to tell people in (for example) the mid-Atlantic region of the United States, with its mild winters, abundant summers, and year-round precipitation that they should eat less meat because of what the beef industry does with itself. Industrial agricultural economy involves millions of acres and often international trade agreements and more often than not are irrelevant to the question of any given person's dinner plate. Systems that can easily support multispecies grazing, leader-follow systems, silvopasture, etc. can produce meat in almost completely closed loop systems that bear no resemblance to chicken, pork, and beef raised within the commodities sector. By responding solely to the offenses of industrial agriculture rather than the rancher down the road we usher in the very agrodystopia we seek to avoid. 

Secondly, telling the public to consume less of anything frames that item as a guilty pleasure, and thereby exempts it from the standards to which we hold our staple foods.

For example, I consider beer an indulgence--always an afterthought, more akin in my mind to a treat or dessert. So I don't give it as much consideration as I give the foodstuffs I rely on to form the bulk my nutrition. While I insist on organic eggs raised in complex agroecosystems, I rarely buy organic beer. (If I honestly reckoned with how often I "wound up" drinking beer every week, perhaps I would make better choices).

Animal agriculture is land and resource intensive, in the sense that it's impactful. A single 1,000 lb cow will consume 2 - 3% of his or her body weight per day (in dry matter, so many more lbs of wet grass than this). That adds up to a lot of land. They drink on average 10 to 20 gallons of water a day, depending on bodyweight and weather.

Where people often get this wrong is that what goes in must come out; the forage eaten and water consumed is not necessarily wasted. The inputs into an animal's digestive track can become the source of renewal for the very land it came from, or not, depending on management. So even a few ounces a week of animal flesh has tremendous capacity to improve upon its resources or to degrade them depending on the animals' relationship with those resources, and thusly, on our relationship with that animal. How much land it takes to raise an animal, then, is not a meaningful metric until management is considered. Eat less meat ignores management.

Hence, eat less meat comes at tremendous opportunity cost, and I believe it's time we held this suggestion accountable for this. Because suggesting to the omnivorous public that they should eat less of something means fewer farms working with animals to improve ecosystems. I say this as someone whose sole compensation for grazing animals in an ecologically restorative context is beef sales. 

Despite its good intentions, eat less meat means greater dependence on synthetic or imported fertility for their vegetables, less carbon stored in their soil, less effective cycling of water, less efficient use of sunlight to create calories. It means broad acres of pasture land is valued not for the habitat it offers to wildlife above and below ground, but as real estate for development. It means people eager to work with plants and animals are without the economic opportunity to do so. It means abundance unrealized. It means bellies unfed. 

Because ultimately, there is no "too much" when meat comes from a dynamic and responsible production system. If we want people to consume meat raised within its environs, the carrying capacity issue will by definition sort itself out. But this all the more requires that we sanction eating meat for ecological reasons, rather than shaming it, sending our meat-eating habits into the shady corners where our higher-minded selves don't visit. 

The thing about regenerative agriculture is that somebody has to do it. And for us to do it, somebody has to pay for it. And for it to be paid for, it must be valued. Not as a guilty pleasure, but as a dietary and ecological staple.

There's one more problem with eat less meat, and it's this: it uses the same over-simplified logic to try to improve our planet that has wrought so much damage to begin with. The modus operandi of agriculture since its inception has been to codify, commodify, command and control. Agriculture has been a tool for warfare, and the justification and fruit of it t'boot. To rely on reductive rules-of-thumb to try to restore a vitality and health to agroecosystems worldwide, we simply cannot use the same thinking that created the problem to begin with. 

So what do we tell people instead? Short of a heady articulation of the role of the human eater in the global food web, or a romanticized appeal to the role of stewards in a bioregional biology, how can we compel people to turn their attention away from dubious meat and direct their attention instead to the animal agriculture that improves their land and watersheds nearby, without turning meat into something considered an occasional treat or guilty pleasure?

I don't know. What do you think? Leave a comment.

Soil turns death to life: reflections on Toby Hemenway, from a distance

Yesterday evening was a memorial service for dear Toby Hemenway, author of Gaia’s Garden and Permaculture City. Hearing from so many elders and practitioners from our Northern California community was profound. There’s a particular feel to a room full of those who’ve come to be sad together, like soaking your bones in thick salty water. 

What struck me most was everyone’s account of Toby’s spirit. Gentle, yet brave; warm, understated, thoughtful, listening. 

This resonates with my memory of Toby, too. My first exposure to his work was the assigned reading for my permaculture class with Will Hooker back in college in North Carolina. Will was a tenured design professor who remains a stalwart member of the Southeastern permaculture contingent. It’s his urban homestead that graced the first edition of Gaia’s Garden.

When I first met Toby, it was at a book signing. I told him I was one of Will’s students garden and that I'd tromped around that Kirby Street garden.  Since then, we occupied many of the same spaces at the same time, but I never engaged him much. I sometimes fall into shyness around those I most respect.

Like many of my friends, I first heard Toby discuss his view of an anarchist horticulture society at Permaculture Voices conference in the spring of 2015. I was moved. Actually, I sat there deeply skeptical, frustrated with the seeming naïveté of it, and remember ranting to my friend Grant about how much more complicated all of this is.

But in reality, that frustration stemmed in part from recognizing Toby as one I wanted to argue with directly—wanted to forge an intellectual bond with, to hammer out the problems in my own ideas, not his—and didn’t know how to do this. Looking back, my energy surrounding it was so comically immature that I have to laugh about it now.

That talk catalyzed a lot of thoughts in me, as it did in others. It inspired an ongoing fictional world I play in called Circle A Cattle Company (set in a post-climate-apocalypse planet where a rat tailed band of graziers struggle with the internal dynamics of restoring their ecology through subsistence herding… of course!). He’s a part of why I named my beef Circle A Beef. He drew me to the work of James C Scott, which has overturned my understanding of the mechanics of governance, people, and how ecosystems are shaped and managed. 

Toby’s talk irritated me, and provoked me. That’s so much more a gift than seamless agreement. He was a gentle  provocateur.

One day some months later, an online discussion examining the intersection of Permaculture and feminism had us rubbing virtual shoulders, and addressing one another directly. It led to my reaching out to him to spend time with me at Pepperwood, and his saying he would love to join, and to bring his wife Kiel. I flattered myself to believe that I had qualified myself in that discussion as consideration as a peer.

But as I age and review pivotal relationships in my life, I realize that some of the ones I considered mutual mentorships were actually my flailing about with the consternation of an awakening conscience within view of someone more calm and collected, who then invited me into their perspective with such deftness that I did not realize it. So perhaps more accurately, I struck him as someone worth investing in. 

Alas, I’ll never know. I was overwhelmed with sadness and regret last night, snotty and red-faced--true marks of someone not at peace with the situation, for I’d never managed to prioritize having Toby out.  

I think about what it would have been like—what paths we’d walk, what views of the contentedly grazing herd I might have chosen, from what rock nestled against some live oak or California bay tree.

What has struck me about Toby in his writing, in person, and especially in his friend’s accounts of him after he died is something like this: he led with an invitation. Rather than broadcasting his views with bravado, he expressed them lucidly but remained open to being wrong, and available to the feedback that would suggest as much. He was attentive to the minds of others, and not just those who viewed him as a thought-leader. He managed to negotiate a simultaneous softness and resolve, gesturing at the same twinkle on the horizon that we recognize from our own hearts. 

 How many revolutions are incited with flame and burn their own scaffolding before the old ways can be ascended to see a new dawn? There are many ways to lead, but I’m attuned of late to the leadership of those who invite an inevitable tomorrow rather than charge against the gates of this day.

I'm not writhing this because I knew Toby well. I'm writing because I didn't. My last post about the loss of my father gives context to my view of the world lately – I am hungry for wisdom, for mentorship, for eldership. I am beginning to seek it out—to get over the fear that those sitting on years of wisdom and knowledge don’t want to be bothered by some young spit of a thing.

It's easy for me to feel that our global epoch is so urgent that there's no time to reach into the past. But really, the situation we're in has a lot to do with our failure to learn lessons. So I'll retain my sadness for Toby’s loss as a thread stitched into my heart—a reminder to craft a life with some room to be filled only by the wisdom of wiser souls.  

Daughters Without Dads

My father John died suddenly five years ago, when I was 21. The time since his death has been complicated but clarifying for my family. And with that fated day of October 1st rolling past again,  I felt something a little different this time. For one, I cried about it – a lot, and multiple times. In fact, a week out, I still do. This has been strange. I'm not a crier. Why feel it now, when I’ve pretty much kept it together, dry and contemplative?

What’s occurred to me is that enough time has passed for me to no longer mourn the loss of my father, specifically. When I think of what I like about my father, and what I didn’t, I consider them thoughtfully, objectively, and rather dispassionately. He was prone to self-pity and depression… womp womp! But he sure could fix Volvos, and loved nature. What a neat guy!

Rather, the grief I feel is something larger than who he was: very simply, I miss having a father.

I won’t make the mistake of comparing grief. I have male friends who've lost their fathers prematurely, and I have seen the grief shake them to their core and haunt them forever. But I do think women without fathers experience something unique from fatherless men—no better, no worse, but unique in ways I want to discuss.

When you’re a woman with a living father (assuming he’s not a total deadbeat, or deeply depraved), you always have someone who you can count on to offer something very basic, and yet irreplaceable: deep, abiding, unconditional and wholly platonic love from a man. Lose a father, and you lose that forever.

In many ways, this love is valuable because it’s deeply practical. Pardon my perpetuation of gender norms*, but by and large, the sort of tough love, the world-wisened perspective, and the practical skills many men acquire are invaluable to women. 

I’ll spare you the foray into the nature-or-nurture question but, with the world as is, women are on the whole more vulnerable to abuse, violence, and being taken advantage of than men. So that the very act of being born guarantees (until it doesn’t) a guardian and champion is not to be taken lightly. In the handful of times when I had to call my dad for help, the assurance I received from his being able to save the day resonated on a very ancient and biological level. I don’t think I’ll feel that depth of safety again.

The thing is, when you’re a woman without a dad, you have to look elsewhere to cobble together the sorts of skills and care that good fathers offer their daughters. I’m lucky to have a mother who is technically savvy and deeply logical, with lots of experience I avail myself of regularly. But living across the country from her, I’ve had to rely on a broad swath of bosses, significant others, friends, coworkers, and so on to help me with some challenges life presents that I used to only have to call my dad to hash through.

In some ways, this is a beautiful example of social resiliency in the wake of losing a father. But in other ways, it sucks. Because my dad was always overjoyed to help. There is no one else in the world who will ever feel happy to help me with my problems, time and time again.

So when you don’t have a dad, you become very conscious of your imposition on others’ time and resources. Asking for help becomes an economic exchange: am I going to seem too needy? Will this person see me as a worthwhile investment? Will this strain our relationship? What will they expect in return, and can I make good on that?

Even love between spouses is not without condition, nor should it be. There are plenty of other parents out there with abundant love for folks beyond their own kids, but ultimately, it’s not their job to take on a whole new human as their charges. Truly, we just haven’t got it in our DNA. And besides, everyone is overtaxed these days. We don't have the surplus attention. We don't have the surplus time. 

There’s another element to this that leaves me feeling a bit vulnerable, and it’s this: as a young woman, I’m subject to the objectifying eye of men, regardless of age. Don't get me wrong - I'm not disparaging the naturalness of human sexuality. And what's more, I deeply appreciate the many men out there who can perform the mental acrobatics to not consider even the most attractive of young women as fair game. Gotta love the compartmentalizing capacities of masculine minds. 

But many men don’t. Many men are happy to take the youngest, most attractive women they can find—nevermind if what that woman really needs is a father figure, not a platform for her to work out her daddy issues, or for him to try to conjure some long lost youthful vitality. How often do older men ask the question, "Will I be good for her?" 

How many of us even ask that of our relationships to others?

The more I think about it, the more I think my complaints are merely symptoms of broader cultural dysfunction. We're shattered. When we interact, we are often doing so out of a basis of need. We constantly want something of others. To be a modern human is to swim in the perception of constant scarcity. To be successful is to be political. 

And as a result, we lack patterns of meaningful intergenerational caretaking. We lose interest in our elders and shut them away behind closed doors to die of loneliness and stagnation. We have allowed our time and attention to be commodified and thus, I think, sexualized, such that old men view young women as fair game, regardless of whether the relationship would be beneficial to either… and because of this, those who wish to serve as friends or mentors to young women must endure suspicion of ulterior motive and try to forge a relationship without signposts, thereby perpetuating the cycle. We are, in a phrase, fucked up. (Sorry, mom - but I mean it).

So, what’s a way forward? Well, I don’t actually have any idea. I hate writing a blogpost without a shimmery conclusion at the end to inspire us to organize and actualize some new and better future. But I don't think there are any social hacks here. There may not be any shortcuts.

What I do know is this: the current paradigms of relationship across genders and generations is mostly broken, and it needs changing. This problem is systemic, and I am very open to others' opinions on the root causes of these problems. Is it capitalism? Is it our desecration of nature that contributes to our commodification of one another? Is it somehow rooted in our puritanical past? I'm sure my religious friends will have a subset of beliefs, and my secular friends another, and my animist friends another yet. I would like to hear them all, so please leave a comment. 

*note: I recognize that this post may stir some discontent for some who have grown up happily without fathers, whether thru circumstance or because they had two mothers. please consider that I looking at society as a whole from the very specific and personal viewpoint as someone who had a dad, and lost him. perhaps, regardless of our family or origin, there's benefit to father figures, even if not biological. 

What's Still Difficult When Everything Seems Easy

these days I take a moment to snap a photo mid-catastrophe. in this photo I'm moving a portion of the herd back where they belong. 

these days I take a moment to snap a photo mid-catastrophe. in this photo I'm moving a portion of the herd back where they belong. 

Most of my discussion surrounding my role as a grazier in a conservation context takes place on the Land Log, which is the other half of this blog (top right). But I chose to include this post here because it's a bit more expansive.

Our grazing system is simple in its parts, and complex in its arrangement. So while many of our components are discrete, modular, and derived from a petroleum economy, the relationship between them is more akin to the biology we're beholden to--complex, variable... emergent.

There are some days when I pack my standard provisions (lately: food, tea, rain gear, axe, extra phone battery, hammer, drive cap, and so on) and find myself overprepared. Things go as planned, tasks prove to require the expected degree of exertion or ease, and the critical reflective scanning of grass, soil, and herd condition is easy to fit in. On these days the system sings.

Other days, I naively head out (sometimes miles deep in the Preserve) expecting to just move the herd or perhaps invest an hour or two in picking up fence or planning ahead... and find catastrophe. Perhaps midnight winds meant spindly oak branches gobbled up a fence line, releasing the whole herd into distant unfenced areas. Perhaps there is a health issue suggestive of missed indicators earlier on. And perhaps, due to schedules and weather and all of the things that life presents, the shit hits the fan at the worst possible time. It's then that the system--even if only in that moment of shortsighted panic--seems fragile.

But the longer you work with big animals in broad acreages, the higher your threshold for crisis. I remember the first time the herd escaped into steep and uncharted territory not accessible by the ATV. I thought all was lost. There goes hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of cow.

Now when that happens--which isn't often, but it's part of the deal--I pack my lunch in my backpack, take a long draw of water, stretch my muscles, and strategically set to work slinking past the nearest animals to block the path of the furthest rascals like a Siskyou wolf laying claim.

I've developed a method of retrieving over 100 animals singlehandedly, on absurdly steep terrain, and on foot, that you won't see in YouTube videos or workshops but it works for the relationship system that's emerged between myself, the cows, and the land. And there is a certain animalistic glory involved in looking back over perhaps a hundred acre stretch at dusk knowing I managed to corral my resources, animals, and psyche to skirt disaster.

So even these crises phase me less than they used to. Yet this work is still not for the faint of heart. It still seems hard. I'm asking myself, why?

Maybe it's that every day we stride into the unknown, knowing only how little we know, and having to walk that path regardless. This work of sensitively grazing broad acreages requires us to voluntarily immerse ourselves in complexity beyond our scope of comprehension. It requires us to do so consciously, intentionally, and confidently.

And yet, to at least the same degree, we must second guess our actions without slowing our pace. We have to prove ourselves right, rather than prove our actions wrong, which is the mind's preferred orientation. So, applying such a significant management tool as animal impact, and working with those animals themselves, requires absolute confidence and absolute humility at the same time. Confidence without humility is arrogance, and invites disaster. Humility without confidence is inept, and often fear-based. We're bound to nature--there is no time or room for attachment to one direction that prevents us from pivoting on our heels to walk just as intently in the complete opposite way.

Aaron, the founder of our cattle company who did this for years before I came on the scene, has been struggling to impart this to me since I started grazing about a year ago, and I'd say it's only beginning to sink in.

Maintaining this posture, this mix of nimbleness and decisiveness, every day, across multiple scales of consideration, is challenging. And add to this that we are working in a scene (ranching) with a fairly rigid historical schema attached to it, and doing so in a fairly academic conservation context, and matters get more complex. I'd say it's the social sphere that surrounds this work that most requires that tandem confidence and humility, and most tests it. This is another reason why it's still hard even when the fieldwork is easy.

Amongst some ranchers, we are the odd balls creating a no-hay system who use terms like "rewilding" with sincerity, and go hours out of our way to manage drainages and waterways with care. And in the conservation scene we've inevitably inherited a tinge of the profiteering and recklessness associated with a lazy ranching legacy that degraded the very soils and grasslands we're now working to fix from the bottom up. There will always be those days when we're beat up in the field by loose cows or harsh weather and then must fend off the projections of those who don't know what to make of a cattle company whose aim is complex, not singular.

I like to call our work light in infrastructure and heavy in relationships. It feels true. Our tools are simple and modular, we run one herd, we harvest the excess when it's ready. It's the psychological underpinnings that make or break it. It's the lead cow that follows me and pulls the herd along seamlessly into a new cell. It's the ranching friends who advise and lend a hand when we need it.

It's the landbase we graze that is willing to show leadership in land management by leaning into possibilities when others would have them lean only on what is proved. It's the late night beef and risotto with foraged mushrooms eaten while staring at a Google Earth map, the caffeine-fueled arguments, and the wine-fueled apologies. It's the moments when everything goes wrong, when nature seems to be spitting in your face, and you have you rub your own chest for courage and carry on because it's literally do or die out there sometimes. At every level, there is a relationship to work within. So even when it's hard, it's a hardship we humans are adapted for, and that's more than enough to keep me (and the herd) forever on the move. 

Thanks, Jane Jacobs

While reading James C. Scott’s Seeing Like a State, I encountered the ideas of Jane Jacobs. A few moments of investigation reveal that it’s the anniversary of her death back in 2006. So unprepared and unworthy though I feel, I’ve cobbled together these thoughts as a little ode to her.

For context, I’m feeling pretty post-city these days. I realize such a wholly dismissive attitude betrays unsubstantial thinking—I can’t really defend this point of view; for now, it’s pure sensibility. But the basis of my distaste for urban life is how easily our natural reality is shoved aside make room for constructs, whether brick and mortar or social. 

It’s just hard to situate one’s self close to nature when one lives in a city. Drawing associations between one’s actions and one’s impact requires a cognitive stretch that exhausts the resources of even the more conscientious among us when buildings and HOAs get in the way. So the feedback loops that can be potentially quite short and obvious when one lives unsupervised in the countryside become sprawling and obscured in urban places. Outside of cities, ignoring our impact on nature requires cognitive dissonance. Within them, it’s just the path of least resistance.

But if I ever again live in a city I hope it’s one with a little of Jane Jacobs’ blood flowing through its proverbial veins. In an era still shaped by High Modernist thought, which prescribed upon cities a gridwork of legibility and planned utility, Jacobs advocated for a design ethic that caused people to collide in a bustle of informal activity and exchange. Concepts we take for granted today, like the value of urban density, social capital, and mixed-use—ideas at the heart of New Urbanism—owe Jacobs a debt of gratitude for being their champion.

Jacobs’ vision for city life is one of involvement and connectivity, a metaphorically mycelial dynamic wherein the otherwise fracturing effects of roadways and city blocks are overcome with sensible design--where the planning institutions facilitate humanity over legibility, and natural activity over controlled predictability.

This is why, in a foray of admitted geekery, I gave a shoutout to Jane Jacobs in a recent panel discussion at Raleigh City Farm. The beauty of that farm is that it’s situated at the nexus of otherwise distinct parts of the city. What used to be an unproductive empty lot is now a lively, multidimensional hub of economic and ecological activity. Perennial permaculture plantings flow in and out of highly productive annual row crops. Youngsters with a savvy hydroponics enterprise rub shoulders with old folks born and bred in Raleigh. When citizens buying a bike or a bottle of wine at the nearby shops (which arguably would never have found a footing had the Farm not moved in first), they encounter land, which as Henry George reminds us is the basis of all economy… and all life. And because the farm exists at a common corridor, they also meet neighbors of vastly different socioeconomic backgrounds whom they may otherwise never encounter.

When co-founder Josh Whiton and I sought the council of a stalwart of the organic farming milieu some years back, before a single spade was dug into the urban soil, we were asked if we couldn’t find a better place outside the city to grow food. Our advisor missed the point, yet we couldn’t exactly articulate why the value of visibility, of access, of farming at the edge made more sense than growing somewhere with a more reliable lease and more fertile soil.

But now we don’t have to—the farm speaks for itself. And I think we have Jane Jacobs to thank for the intuition that more interaction, more activity, is better. The farm is robust, yet interstitial, and serves to direct citizens’ attention to the rural land beyond city boundaries that provide the bulk of what we eat. Raleigh City Farm thus produces more than what it can grow on its 1.3 acres by serving as the lynchpin of an urban-rural connection that extends many miles beyond the heart of Raleigh.

What Jacobs contributed to the disciplines of architecture, urban planning, and city politics can hardly be overstated. Yet beyond her specific ideas, it’s the nature of Jacobs’ contribution that most stirs me. Jacobs didn’t “belong” to any one of the disciplines she reformed. She had no formal training in architecture or city planning. Her college education was postponed, her vocations were iterative, and the observations that formed the basis of her fresh perspective were garnered through gazing out the window of her home and office with eyes unclouded by cumulative lenses of sanctioned thought.

Critics questioned her authority (though she claimed none), and deemed her a wrecking ball, threatening the towering contributions of centuries of urban theory. But Jacobs made no apologies. She had the self-assuredness to acknowledge that she was witness to something others missed, and did not demure when others pulled rank. It was her very lack of enculturation of contemporary thought that allowed her to see what others could not.

I wonder about Jane Jacobs. What went into her making that enabled her to be so bold—to support her thoughts with confidence, promoting her ideas without necessarily promoting her self?

Jacobs also resounds in my mind as a resolution of the tension between the individual and the community. To Jacobs, this was not a zero-sum equation: her cultivation of her own observations contributed directly to the integrity of her community. She managed a complementary arrangement when so many of us feebly sacrifice our obligation to neighbors at the altar of our own self-promotion and success. Similarly, her ideas were borne of a specific place, yet relevant to cities well beyond. 

Jacob's ideas have made cities more habitable for us all. But maybe more importantly, she models a posture relative to institutional authority that leverages the individual mind to the benefit of the community. Thanks, Jane.

For more on Jane Jacobs, check out this NYT bio and of course, her Wikipedia entry.

Jane Jacobs, photographed by Christopher Wahl.

Re-humanizing ourselves through land work

My official title is Herdess for Holistic Ag. When people ask what I do, I usually say something like “I work with a herd of holistically managed cattle on a nature preserve, and various other agroecological pursuits on the side.” It’s a lot to take in—holistically managed? Cattle on a preserve? Agro-what? You?

One day I'll find a better way to convey what I'm doing to the uninitiated. But for now, leaving out any part of that feels like an injustice. We (Holistic Ag) are not exactly ranchers, and we’re not a herd-for-hire. We are motivated by ecological restoration and right livelihood, intentionally situated at the edge of food production and ecology--the ecotone, the edge where two unique environs meet.

Edges are funnily hard to define. Schematics and instruction manuals use edges to delineate between one item or object and another; we make lines to show where one discrete thing ends and another begins—but how can we show it when the edge is a world unto itself? This takes a more granular view, a zoomed-in perspective. That’s a lot to impart to a culture that views complexity with suspicion: complex things are resistant to commodification. In a world motivated by scarcity, this is frustrating.

One day, I want to be able to say my job is “herdess” and see the glint of understanding in the eye of those with whom I’m speaking (beyond my agrarian cohort). Herding, shepherding, is one of the world’s oldest professions, after all—when did we forget what it meant to spend one’s days working with animals? Unlike many more modern agricultural undertakings that involve the application of significant force to yield consumable goods at the cost of ecosystems, I help the cows lilt across the landscape, leaving boosted biomass and biodiversity in their wake. The beef is the byproduct.

I have been doing "farm stuff" since I was 16, before I knew sustainable agriculture was a thing, and was steeped in a rural context prior to that. The more of American culture that I encounter, the more disappointed I am to find that many people stigmatize, fetishize, or ignore land-based work. There are many forms of violence, and I posit that cultural violence—that which cleaves us from our historical selves and induces a tragic amnesia—may be the most insidious of all. It means landscapes go untended, people go unfed... and souls are sold to companies at market rate.

A common sight in today’s workforce is that of millions of smart minds situated atop ossifying spines slowly bending to the shape of office chairs. We sacrifice sunrises at the altar of a dehumanizing morning commute. We depend on stimulants (and depressants) to shake our weekend minds out of their workweek-induced stupors. And, “work/life balance” is characterized by the steel and foam of office gyms we hope will stave off the damages of using our minds at the expense of our bodies. We have been told that jobs with three weeks vacation are attractive, and assured that all of our other interests can surely be attended to on nights and weekends.

We pride ourselves on being employed full-time by our jobs. This makes us seem and feel very involved, very committed, to being a generative person; whereas “part time” conjures notions of retail jobs peddling goods at the mall. Yet so many of us report hating the very jobs we take pride in having, yet see no viable alternatives. “Who else would hire me?”

It makes you wonder, who designed this system, anyway? Are these norms serving us?

Office jobs are considered a higher leverage point than land work. And it’s hard to argue that someone pulling invisible strings from their position within their company, managing money or personnel (often to very good ends) is not exerting more force in the world than an alternative self trimming apple trees all day. But this is only true when the two activities are allowed to become mutually exclusive.

Every year I am hired by a handful of landowners to prune fruit trees on their property. For me, pruning is one of the most psychologically and physically enlivening activities I can do, so getting paid to do it is a real win. Every season I wonder when the landowners will catch on that they are paying me to do what is not a chore but an act of revival that would probably benefit their office-addled minds more than it would serve my wallet. Just as we partake in sleep even though it means hours away from work, engaging features of our landscape attends to physical and psychological needs that are inescapable because they are encoded in our DNA.

Building on this, when did working with land mean subjugating it instead of stimulating it? When did we allow our narrative about land-based work to be co-opted by suburban landscapers or exhausted Depression-era farmers?

We are so forgetful. There is a brilliant constellation of land-based work available to anyone who wants to take it on that sculpts the body, enlivens the mind, revives the ecology, and often pays for itself. Why do we look upon those activities as lowly, as unimpactful? We've gone crazy, friends.

I wonder if part of our viewing land work in an unfavorable light has to do with the difficulty of controlling or quantifying the results of dabbling in natural systems. You can observe and measure what a land manager has done, but it’s difficult to intelligently tell them what to do.

Here, I’m not alluding to some kind of inborn stubbornness inherent to farmers or land managers so much as noting that good decisions are highly context-dependent. Only those working on the very same land in a very similar capacity will have witnessed enough variables to be able to instruct another to sound ends. And, even then, a shift of temperature or precipitation changes the equation entirely. Land work is dealing in complexity and, as I said, complexity can be deeply inconvenient.

So, land managers are tough to control or predict. They are an x factor. In our attempts to wrap our heads around an increasingly oversized and unwieldy world, we tend to pay selective attention to that which can be controlled and measured. Land managers and the results of their decisions are thus often discarded as outliers.

To speak carefully:  I am not critical of the value of quantifiable data. On the contrary, I see my role as herdess as being a liaison between the researchers and the researched. That which is obvious to the eye of the human manager should be translated into terms the broader world can understand, because we only preserve and provide for that which we take into account.

But those of us dealing in, for example, grassland management and restoration with livestock are situated at a critical interstice—a temporal ecotone, if you will—between the relatively unstudied decisions made by ranchers on their own sites and prescriptive management plans that seek to govern land henceforth. How do we make our work available to the process of science to inform better land management without eradicating the essential role of the land manager?

We must re-value the minds of the sensitive, autonomous, and well-informed land manager. We must view their deep affection for their home ecologies as a vital asset. And more of us must consider the vocation for our own lives--even, and perhaps especially, if only for part of our lives.

I am a young person, so my specific interest is in seeing that my gig is as viable as possible not only for myself but for the myriad other youngsters like me. Because there have to be more ways to do agriculture than the owner-operator model. Being a land-based person must be sound across triple-bottom-line dimensions within one’s personal- and community-level economy. This is of particular relevance in the Bay Area, where land is expensive and increasingly put to absurd uses by hapless new landowners with more money than agroecological awareness. 

How can we show the rest of the world that land work complements high-leverage office work—that hours spent, say, pruning fruit trees fosters growth and refinement in one’s own thoughts as much as in the tree itself? How can we demonstrate that the hours we choose to invest in “mind work” would be more productive and wizened when buffered by the high-quality thinking that working with nature is proven to facilitate?

I’ll not try to convince anyone beholden to the nine-to-five to exchange part of their workweeks and paychecks for the unknown quantities of land work. I’ll certainly not pretend doing so would be an easy or obvious transition, especially for those with families. (It’s easy to herald existential benefits of land work when I’m not providing for the livelihoods of other humans—expansive thinking does not directly generate diapers or pay hospital bills).

Rather, the burden of proof is on people like me—people striving to live diversely, situated across several vocations and with relevance in more than one domain. My aim is to be a land-based person with as few dealings in value-compromising work as possible. My goal is to spend part of my time abstract endeavors—writing, consulting on projects within my wheelhouse, connecting people; and the rest in literal dealings: pruning, foraging and hunting for sustenance, herd work.

The idea is to span distinct but complementary substrates, following paths that lead from the tangible terrain of cows and trees into intangible landscapes of ideas and possibilities. I aim to live publicly, that I may be held accountable to this experiment in lifestyle design, and to steward a reunion of the land and the mind—a re-humanizing of ourselves as a species.


How to Protect Your Pigs From Terrors

A mountain lioness and her cubs found the pigs I was raising in the woods this summer. Ironically, the first attack happened a few hours after I began reading The Beast in the Garden. The first victim was a feeder pig that weighed about as much as me. And then I lost a few more, due in large part to a make-shift dog pen that proved woefully inadequate at containing them. It's not that the cat was getting in–it's that the pigs were busting out, and getting eaten.

Predators and pastured animals can co-exist relatively peacefully if you have a safe place to lock up your herd at night. Photo from

Predators and pastured animals can co-exist relatively peacefully if you have a safe place to lock up your herd at night. Photo from

Pigs are strong. Most anyone who has kept has a story about their breaking out of impossible places. I once had a pig escape her farrowing shed just by plowing straight through the side of it, popping out the nails that held in the siding. Get a few of them together and you’ve got hundreds of pounds of mass bearing down on each square foot of infrastructure.

So I needed something tough. And besides the capacity to contain legion behemoths, other factors affecting my strategy were 1) I needed to be able to build it myself and in one day, because I didn’t have a lot of help at the time and I knew I'd lose another pig that night if not adequately protected; and 2) it needed to be modular, so that I could move it to the next pasture (also by myself). 

Some small livestock farmers are devising clever shelters built on skids that can be moved from pasture to pasture. This is great for rotational pasture systems; like a chicken tractor, towable shelters allow for easy distribution of manure, mitigate the broad dead zone of compacted soil that typically surround shelters at all sides, and ensure the animals have shelter no matter what paddock they're in. But this just wasn't practical for the hilly, forested terrain where my pigs spent part of the year.

My solution? Livestock panels! For all my enthusiasm about it, my hack is not that special: I made a pen out of livestock panels… and then I put a roof on it (because I was trying to keep out cougars, after all). This isn't too unique from a permanent pen, yet I hope to show you how it can be used in a rotational context. For those whose minds don’t yet immediately think of livestock panels as the solution for many a farming quandary, I’ve got you (exhaustively) covered.

Livestock panels are sometimes called feedlot panels. How ironic, because they can be the best friend of those aiming to use their animals for restorative ends. There are a few different types out there; 16’ long seems standard, but they range in height, spacing, and gauge. 

This is what I bought. I bought mine from a local farm supply store, so they cost a little bit extra, but it goes without saying that if you can swing the extra few bucks per panel it’s worth investing in a relationship with a local independent dealer.

Sheep & Goat Livestock Panel, measuring 16'x48" with  4"x4" openings. Photo from Tractor Supply Company.

The advantage to this panel is 1) the height – go as tall as you can, because you’re going to want to walk around inside on occasion; and 2) the gauge and spacing—this wire is thicker than cattle panels, and the 4” spacing means it’s practically unbendable and scary things can’t stick their whole arms inside and grab your goats and pigs by the leg. Equally as important: the small openings prevent goats from getting their heads.

It’s conceivable that you could go for the less expensive cattle panels, which have graduated spacing (the bottom two openings are 4” tall, followed by 6”) but these have half the vertical wire count as those designed for smaller livestock, meaning they aren’t as sturdy and therefore more prone to bending up and out at the nose of a few determined pigs. However, they are a lot lighter, and you’ll save some money by using these for the roof of the cage.

To make an 8’x16’ cage you’ll need the following:
- 5 livestock panels
- six 6’ tall T-posts, driver (+ earplugs), puller
- two 10’ long T-posts
- bolt cutters
- nylon baling twine or something similar.

I was transporting these panels in the bed of my Toyota pickup truck, so I had them cut in half (to 8’) at the feed store to fit. Even if you can get them to your farm in one piece, consider halving them to make them easier to maneuver. Ease of removal is pretty critical for pasture-based anything.

I picked a spot in the pasture with relatively flat ground and started by driving in two T-posts at 8’ apart. Make sure they aren’t too far apart or you’ll be trying to patch gaps with twine, and that won’t hold against pigs. That’s why it’s important to have a puller around while you’re setting up—it’s worth taking the time to withdraw a post that’s in wrong than to try to make it work, have pigs get loose, and lose a $500 investment to a predator.

Key here is to only drive the posts in about 6". The pigs will be bumping around at the base of the cage, so half a foot of depth is sufficient. If you drive them much deeper you'll find that they are a huge pain in the ass to withdraw later, especially once the soil is a bit compacted around them (though it should be less compacted than it would be around a permanent shelter).

With the two posts in, I went ahead and affixed the first 8’ panel, which would be my non-opening end of this rectangular cage. I made sure the bottom edge of the panel was as flush with the ground as possible, and tied it tight to the T-post beginning at the bottom such that pig noses couldn’t lift the panel up and burrow under.

I repeated this for the sides. Only instead of making the pen its longest possible 16’, I overlapped the two panels on each side a bit. This reduced the square footage but reinforced the sides, because they flexed into one another. In hindsight, this might not have been necessary—I think really tight lashing with twine would have been sufficient, but it means you can collapse the length of the pen if necessary, which can be helpful if you’re fitting it in between stands of trees.

Before I attached the end panel that would function as my door, I vaulted the roof pieces atop. These were supported by what I had around: two 10’ long T-posts, placed width-wise. Essentially, these were the rafters. But you could also use planks, conduit, pipes, branches, whatever. Just make sure any gaps are wrapped tight with twine!

The twine becomes pretty ratty after a while, but looping it through itself  lets you pull it tight at every increment but is easy to take apart and reuse.

The twine becomes pretty ratty after a while, but looping it through itself  lets you pull it tight at every increment but is easy to take apart and reuse.

For the opening “gate,” I only tied the top seam of the end panel about 1/3rd of the way so that it had a flex point. And on the side that I wanted to open for pigs to enter/exit, I tied a piece of twine at the base that I would lash as I did the others each night and tie off with a slip knot. Make it something that you can quickly tie and untie, though, because it’s tough to work under the pressure of bratty pigs. Keep a rock or a bungee around to keep the gate open as wide as possible during the day because pigs will scratch themselves against the sharp wire without even realizing it if they don’t have enough clearance. 

Pigs will destroy the soil integrity in their pen in a matter of days, but tossing in half a bale of straw will mitigate the damage and allow them to goof off and hunker down. Keep their water away from the door but accessible, so you can fill it up through the side. And if you ever have to enter the cage while the pigs are in there, take a stick.

For rainy weather, get yourself some tarps and toss some objects on top of the roof to promote drainage off the sides. Be mindful of how water accumulates in the pen for the sake of your animals’ comfort. Pigs will likely root up the soil around the perimeter, creating a rain-proof bank of sorts, but good tarp-fastening and a slightly sloped site will be sufficient for rain-ruers of the caprine variety. And I’d recommend lifting the overhang of the tarps atop the cage during the day, because pigs love playing tug of war with tarps and their teeth will swiftly ruin a good investment. 

One added advantage of tarps is that they obscure the presence of looming predators. Based on the cat tracks I observed I believe the mountain lions harassing my pigs totally gave up on them after a few days of their being out of reach, but it may be worth buffering your pigs from the psychological distress of a prowling predator in the mean time.

When it comes moving time, cut your twine and save it to re-use, stack your panels, pull your posts, and repeat at the next spot. Having a truck to move the material is only necessary if you’re traveling more than 100 yards. And if you have everything on hand, it shouldn’t take you more than 2 hours to set this up once you have the material in your next pasture—not a bad tradeoff of time for any pasture-based operation if it means safe livestock and portable, reusable materials.

O Bioneers!

A piedmont North Carolinian brand new to coastal California, I’m just getting my feet wet out here and sure didn’t know what to expect at this year’s Bioneers Summit Conference (this past October 17th - 19th). What I discovered has left me profoundly altered. As a Digital Media Ambassador for Bioneers this year, I thought it fitting that I share some reflections from my time, so here's an effusive yet painfully inadequate roundup of my experience, written from a place of resonant gratitude.

When I first scoped out the conference on the web, a name that caught my eye was Severine von Tscharner Fleming. She’s been as a spirit hovering over the surface of the proverbial waters (or soils, if you will) of the young farmer scene for years, so I couldn’t wait to hear what she had to say. In her unassumingly poetic fashion, Severine announced that 400 million acres of farmland will change hands over the next two decades in the United States. “Land is the baselayer of the new economy. We need to reclaim it.” As a farmer, this clarion call served as a major re-up for my sense of purpose.

Bioneers seemed deeply rooted in a land ethic of facilitative stewardship. But the conference also demonstrated that how we encounter each other is as important as our relationship to nature. Alisa Gravitz, CEO of Green America, reminded us that we need to stop wasting our energy telling others how to do their work. “No more arguing about if it’s more important to be on the streets or in the boardrooms,” she said. “We need both.” This was profound to me—a timely reminder that othering goes both ways, and we must extend a hand to the powers that be if we hope to leverage their momentum to achieve positive change. As someone who is regularly disappointed by some of the moral absolutism I encounter in activist circles, this was refreshing.

Speaking of relationships, the presence of indigenous people at Bioneers meant the whole experience was imbued with an essential full-circle vitality. Joanne Campbell of the Coast Miwok tribe—residents of Marin County for the past six thousand years—gave me goosebumps as she welcomed the conference to her ancestral grounds. And hailing from the distant Amazon, Kichwa leader Patricia Gualinga shared the devastating truth of how the developed world’s appetite for oil means the destruction of her lifeways. She asked for our help to #KeepTheOilinTheGround, that the socioecology of her home in the lungs of the earth might be left intact. I've been reading M. Kat Anderson's book Tending the Wild, which describes the stewardship practices of California's original inhabitants, so discussions surrounding the desecration (and revitalization) of tribal lands really stirs this the heart of this European American.

This spirit of purposeful resistance spanned the speakers at Bioneers. Terry Tempest Williams invited us to join her in fighting the exploitation of the tar sands in her beloved Utah, and Arielle Klagsburn demanded that white people must join the opposition to white supremacy that has contributed an epidemic of police brutality. At Bioneers, there was no shortage of indigenous wisdom, strong women, and causes in need of loving champions. I kept asking myself, how could anyone ever be bored?

One speaker who had a big presence at Bioneers was renowned mycologist Paul Stamets. Evoking a touch of Radagast the Brown with his earthy hat made of a giant Amadou mushroom, Stamets’ work using mycelium to heal bees, purify water, produce food, detoxify landscapes and inspire the mind seems nothing short of wizardry—and echoed so many themes of the Bioneers organization of a whole.

In his keynote address on Friday, Stamets unveiled the results of unprecedented research demonstrating how “mycohoney,” neutracuticals made from polypore mushrooms, can dramatically improve the immune systems of bees.

This is profound. It means bee populations given mushroom extract can survive the viral loads and subsequent parasitic attacks that have until now spelled doom not only for pollinator populations but for our own food security.  Without a doubt, this research produced by Stamets and his team will have exciting ripple effects across disciplines. What this means for our ability to sustain bee populations and feed ourselves cannot be overstated.

The host of high-quality presenters spanning the sciences, arts, and activism means I could write about what I learned and loved for hours on end. Yet as anyone who has ever attended a Bioneers Summit can attest, some of the best parts of the conference happen off-schedule. Whether cruising exhibitor tents, standing in line for food, or just basking in the pristine San Rafael sunlight, one was bound to encounter new faces with whom to dream up a better world, and share the load as we make that world so. Just as biodiversity is an indicator of ecosystem health, the myriad of minds and messages at Bioneers bodes well for a resilient, robust movement.

As the last talks wrapped up on Sunday evening and the fellowship began disbanding to after-parties and airports, I felt like I needed to be alone in nature. So I borrowed some gear from filmmaker Jonny Kloberdanz, and headed for the hills by the Bay. I found a quiet place to bed down for the night--embarrassingly, my first time camping on my own, let alone without a tent--and let the weight of the past few days settle into my bones as mists tumbled up through the starlight overhead and strange birds hollered in the nearby dark. I awoke to the first real rain in months, and each transformative drop ushered Terry Tempest Williams' earnest words to mind: "This is our alchemical moment."

Some new friends on a rainy morning after Bioneers.

Some new friends on a rainy morning after Bioneers.

Irony is alive

I remember when irony first dawned on my twelve-year-old horizon. I greeted it with open arms: it helped me to demarcate myself as a new teenager—that twisty-turny pathway of development during which one becomes particularly attuned to the arbitrary and nonsensical in life, and the requisite nihilism conjured by such nonsense.   

Irony and its gang (cynicism, sarcasm, eyerolls) became my friends. You could tell us apart by the t-shirts we wore featuring inside jokes from absurdist comedies or vaguely sexual vintage ads. (This was the early 2000's, after all). With irony at my side, I was equipped and emboldened to express how predictably unpredictable and seriously farcical I found life to be, and irony made me feel imbued with universal street-smarts. 

But that was a few years back. By now I’m cresting my mid-twenties, and I think I’ve outgrown irony. Sometimes it’s a real drag. I regularly find myself mired in the pits of irony in almost every public forum I encounter today. You know them well: Twitter battles, asinine comments sections on blogs and articles, mudslinging on Facebook. These sorts of conversations habitually implode into a black hole of irony, out of which it seems no trace of light or meaning can escape. I crave uplifting, sincere, give-and-take conversation, and instead I find the rhetorical equivalent of curb-stomping.

I am not alone in this sentiment. Amidst the fray, countless astute observers of pop culture have taken aim at irony. Some have claimed that irony is dead, and deemed ours the era of New Sincerity, like this piece in The Atlantic from a couple of years ago calling irony utterly passé. Yet two years later, writers in Salon made the case that irony was still at large (and it must be stopped). Both articles purport to have their finger on the proverbial pulse of culture, and they are but a slim sample of the myriad of pieces out there mulling over the prevalence and value of irony. So, which is it? What's irony really up to?

Irony sure seems rampant, but perhaps my sensitivity to it further exemplifies the very trend identified by those social critics. Perhaps what's changed isn't the prevalence of irony but my own distaste for it, and maybe that distaste just means I’m part of a larger trend.

At the same time, it seems that for every upwelling of responses to a perceived coloring of cultural attitude, one could assemble enough evidence to suggest the opposite. Barring a true measure of the aggregate moods, Big Data style, it’s one word against the other as we share competing impressions of our age. If everyone could say a different thing about a moment in time, are we actually saying anything at all?

This seeming disparity between various cultural perceptions makes a lot more sense if we regard irony as having a life-force of its own—a living entity within our collective unconscious. Irony would be easily tracked and measured were it a static, fixed thing, but it isn’t. Irony is alive! Distributed and decentralized throughout our Western minds, it has a very comfortable existence as resident critic, disparaging the other parts of our selves and our society that seek meaning and crave substance.

But irony is here to stay. It’s situated in our broader culture, but also within the micro-community of our own minds. It commands the evaluative attention of editorialists with a magnetism only a living thing can generate.

Regard irony as a living thing in a living community, and we begin to see that it behaves as any alive thing might: by jockeying for power and seeking significance within its social strata, just like we do. And more importantly, view it this way and we can see that the solution to an overly ironic culture isn't to vanquish irony any more than the appropriate to a crude dinner guest is to forcefully remove them from your table. Irony just can’t be done away with because it’s not a thing.

But if irony really is dead, we should mourn its passing. After all, irony is hugely valuable. For example, cloaked in irony, certain truths can be snuck into spaces where truth is otherwise not welcome. This is why, for example, one can offer social criticism within The Onion that could never be shared outright. Mockery, sarcasm, and satire are all really good tools for sussing out certain qualities from the aether that would otherwise go unnoticed. They repeat back to the world its most absurd features, pointing out the deficiencies of our time by outlining negative spaces. So it feels a little strange to be reading cultural critics’ condemnation of irony given that irony has become such a well-honed tool for social criticism. 

Yet at its best, irony describes. As good as it is at telling us where we are, irony is terrible at showing us where to go. In fact, irony looks at what is commonly regarded as inspirational or motivating and, with a roll of the eyes, dismisses it all as precious. It can’t help it—that's kind of its M.O., and it’s just not qualified to offer much more. Besides, irony has a vested interest in disparaging the sincere, because doing so means job security. When it comes generating meaning, irony is out of its depths.

The thing is, irony doesn’t have a problem—we do. We have mistaken the matter of irony gone unchecked with irony itself. If irony has some kind of persistent life-force of its own, as I like to think it does, then what is needed is for the other trammeled members of our singular and shared minds to show up and assert themselves in the form of some good-old social feedback.

Because some may say that a world full of irony is devoid of meaning and substance, but I suspect the opposite relationship—that sincerity and substance depose irony, unseating it from its authoritarian position and restoring it to its rightful place as social critic (but not king). Because irony offers commentary, but it’s sincerity that moves the world forward.

Happiness is what you know

The phrase “happiness is what you know” recently popped into my mind. As in dreams, where our understanding of the story is deeper than the semantic plotline, I understood the meaning of this phrase beyond the particular words that carried it--I reckon it meant that our sources of happiness needn’t necessarily be limited to our circumstance at any given time.

You know what I’m saying: the farmer may endure heartbreak and financial hardship amidst her physically taxing work, but she is made happy by the knowledge that her products sustain her customers and her land. Things like that.

(And there are probably other words for this than happiness. Satisfaction, for instance. Or maybe joy. But those weren’t the words that popped into my mind, so I’ll leave it be).
Sometimes when I want to be happier, I go for eating chocolate or taking a nap.  Delights such as these are characterized by experiencing stimuli instead of savoring our thoughts. Pretty available to anyone not living in abject poverty. Sometimes pleasures like these are just the ticket, but other times they lead us astray.

And sometimes things get really bad, and we find ourselves in such dire straights that we can’t contrive a single experience to make us feel happy. But we always have our brains with us; we always have our minds. Its storehouses are full of things we know. We can delight in those, too.

Nonviolent communication is a superpower

I've adopted a needs-based view of the world as of late. this is a tenant of nonviolent communication, which holds that people bump around in the world trying to meet their needs. In practice, it goes like this: in a potentially contentious interaction, I first ask myself (internally), "what am I feeling? what do I need?" and then I wonder about the other person, "what are their needs?"

The value in this is manifold. NVC doesn't require that you correctly guess what the other (or yourself) really needs. Sometimes that is unknowable. Rather, by developing the habit of asking what is required, you begin to deal in the essentials. You see that the other person, no matter how menacing, is actually needy. You realize that your own biases and offense are excessive and unhelpful (no time for fuss when dealing in essential matters only!). This renders the conversation far more fragile, and far more humane.

 By asking what is needed, your mind adopts a different posture to the world. One of humility (you're asking a question, after all), one of objective distance (by pausing to ask before acting), and one of receptivity (you're are availing yourself of the answer).

These three qualities add up to a compassion power-up. that's really helpful. And what's important to note is that NVC doesn't just train your mind to be more compassionate to others, but also to yourself. In fact, I think it's fair to say that not until you have asked (and to some extent, answered) "what do I need?" can you feel safe enough with yourself to inquire into the needs of others. 

What's especially cool is that with practice, I'd venture to say that NVC imparts near-psychic skills. While accuracy isn't the goal, it turns out that you can pretty accurately guess what another person needs in any given Interaction once you have arrived at a place of safety and understanding within yourself. You find this out by treating the person as if you've correctly guessed what their need is, and maybe even mentioning it. things just start to work out.

This shouldn't be a surprise. Our minds come equipped with a greater capacity for empathy than any other species alive today, but we block our superpowerful empathy-rays with our own musty, bottled up, undiscovered needs. What a waste of brainpower.

Buy into the idea that our minds--not just our brains--are made up of multiple entities and different parts, and you swiftly realize the value of inquiring into the needs of others and asking as much of ourselves are essentially one in the same. So if, like me, you can't help but cringe when you hear the increasingly prevalent self-love rhetoric, do consider that we must love ourselves because our selves are myriad and oftentimes as strange and alienated as are external strangers... and just as easy to misunderstand. So extend the same grace to yourself as you would another, because much of your mind is just that: an other. As you would invite another person into your company, smoothing the distinction between you and them, invite your mind into safe keeping.

I'm not yet very good at nonviolent communication. And there is a whole lot more to it than this little needs-based check-in. But it's a start. And once you begin, you might realize how much energy you might have been expending in trying to keep another person from saying what you don't want to hear. The dread of what they might say coupled with your attempts to thwart their saying it don't leave much energy for compassion, let alone empathy. (They are different).

This wouldn't be a problem except that unaddressed (note that I don't say unmet) needs far outlive any apparent resolution finagled out of a terse conversation. So by ignoring your own needs and those of the other you're only temporarily escaping the inevitable. and so much peace and progress lie on the other side of the inevitable. So get on with it, I say.

for more: (someone help them with web development)

Dogma & the web

The internet is supposed to host and foster a diversity of ideas. This seems to be true for the early stages of a discussion, when an issue is raw and an authoritative take has yet to be established. 

But conversations seem to become more polarized once buzzwords are exchanged and hashtags develop. These social tools sure can amplify long-neglected and silenced voices, but they can also crowd out divergent views. Must it be that the overturning of each dogma lends momentum to the coalescing of a new one?