Life Salubrity

It was the only place I ever really felt at peace.  None in my family understood it.  They all believed that their religions lay in their hearts and not in any buildings, but for some reason I always stood out.  Maybe because in that place I didn’t have to worry about what I was going to do with my life.  I’d always believed that God would show me the way.

Sophia sighed and set her pen down on the page, pushed it into the binding crease of the journal, and closed it.  She rarely went home these days.  In a few short weeks she’d be found bleeding on one of God’s pews without any clues to guide her family, but in this moment no one could know that. 

The breeze stirred her long blond hair across her hazel eyes, features she’d inherited from her father.  For a moment, she was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice it.  The journal and the church had become the staples that kept her life together especially in recent days—especially the journal.  She’d taken particular care to record events as a historian would, with as much detail as possible.  Times, places, people, people’s features, scenery, mood, feelings; it was all meticulously noted.  It was necessary because things were changing.  Not all things were simple to record.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the book, tightening; thumbnail dragged across the brown leather cover; eyes watering, narrowing; the serenity intruded on by anger.  In a rush it was flung open once more and the previous page was torn violently from within.  “It’s all wrong.”  Sophia muttered fiercely as she ripped the page into smaller pieces and threw them to the wind so that it would carry those pieces far, far from her.

How do you explain to another person—“No.”  She scratched out the line and tried again, the words gradually coming more and more easily to her. 

If I don’t figure out how to fix it soon, I’ll stop it by any means necessary.

Sophia closed the journal at that and locked it, then tucked it and the pen away into her bag.

I opened my eyes and there before me was the end of my life.  There were no flashes of scenes past or things that could be.  I did not envision my children or a moment with my lover.  It was a blinding light that erased everything as if it had never been; erased doubt; erased longing; erased desire.  I thought then that I would soon be walking with God with my very next step.

Those instants are so easy to fantasize, romanticize.  Giving it all up for the ones you love, to protect the world, for the moral right.  This is why war continues, because we all have that longing for the meaning that such sacrifice can ascribe our lives that peace cannot.  I think everyone deep down longs for that one defining moment where they can immortalize their souls forever with a single act.  An act that would bring people to their knees, bring tears to their eyes, lay silence like blankets upon their hearts just at the mere thought of it.

I was no different.  And the life that I lead now taught me my error.  I thought I would die a glorious death that would forever immortalize my mortal soul in a world of angels and demons with powers I could never fathom.  It is shameful to admit, but I gave up everything in that moment not for the ones I loved or for any noble inclination of virtue.  I gave up everything for vanity.

How ironic, then, that I gained it all back and fled from it.

I stayed as long as I possibly could.  Every day was like a twisting coil building tension.  Every doctor’s visit, every parent-teacher conference, every load of laundry… A little over twenty years, it was no wonder when the taut line was struck how the wire recoiled--cracked.  Ever since that day, my father had nicknamed me his wild angel.  I fled from that too.

I know I hurt them, hurt them all, but I didn’t know what else I could do.  I had no other choice, you see, I had to leave.  I couldn’t stay there any longer.  After that day I was not who I had been, I was someone else.  They say that when an individual experiences a loss, that individual often has trouble maintaining friendships formed before that loss and tends to shift into new friendships formed afterward.  It’s too hard, you see, to look into those faces, those eyes, and tell them over and over again that you’re just not the same anymore.

Ambiguous losses are those that lack clarity.  They cannot be defined or explained; there is no reason that can be attributed to them, and it is this uncertainty that creates a space between ourselves and others that often cannot be bridged.

Reconciliation to most means atoning for a wrong or making things right with someone.  There is an implied hierarchy of right and wrong, moral and immoral, or my personal distaste: should.  In Theology, Reconciliation describes a change in the relationship between man and God.  This change recognizes the capacity  and the inevitability of acceptance in nature, in ourselves.  I believe that God exists within our innermost feelings: in our wrath and our love, in our hurt and our healing, and that to be closer to this we must first submerge ourselves in it.

The battle for the welfare of the environment tends to be waged among politics, economics, and public health; the major players of change tend to be government officials, corporate CEOs, and environmentalists. Technological advancements continue to serve as catalysts for debate via causing problems as well as providing means for solving them. Internationally, the issue of addressing this debate began with the stapling of issues to solid scientific evidence and testimony from the affected, who were charged with the burden of proof. In recent years, a new means of looking at environmental problems has arisen: the Precautionary Principle. The origins of the policy structure arose from the 1960’s German “foresight principle” that has over the past twenty years grown into a major influencing framework for international treaties like the North Sea pollution treaty.

The Precautionary Principle (PP) is simply the idea that the implications of action must be considered and addressed before the action is taken rather than after the action is taken (Easton 2). However, that definition in itself is vague and does little to highlight how policies must change specifically. To address this, four specific tenets were introduced: “taking preventive action in the face of uncertainty, shifting the burden of proof to the proponents of an activity, exploring a wide range of alternatives to possibly harmful actions, and increasing public participation in decision making” (Kriebal et. al). In terms of policy this is a vast shift. Now the burden of proof lies on the party that wishes to initiate an action rather than those that are or may be affected by the action. Now environmental decisions can be made without absolute scientific evidence—meaning, for example, that even if there is no absolute proof that a pesticide causes birth defects the city can still ban its use based on “clues” like correlations between pesticide use and birth defect rates. The Principle sounds all well and good, but has created a rift between business practice and public health. The question has become: how much precaution is too much?

Nancy Myers, communications director for the Science and Environmental Health Network, argues that there is no such thing as too much precaution. She argues that the principle “makes sense of uncertainty” (Easton 6) because there is no such thing as absolute proof of harm, even in science; no problem can ever be linked to a single cause. Nevertheless, making sense in this argument means looking at the clues and trends already present and making predictions about what is likely to happen in the future as a means of making decisions. Opponents often argue that the principle promotes a lack of proof in decision-making as it mandates operating under uncertainty, however, proponents including Myers rebut that PP encourages and even promotes higher standards of proof before the problem even occurs, as action-takers would have to analyze the complex interaction between the suggested action and the affected environment prior to taking action. In the same breath, the absolute proof argument can go the other way in which opponents also argue: “how much proof is necessary to initiate action?” This has lead to the zero-risk stalemate that can never be resolved completely. The focus must remain on preventing a problem from becoming a snowball effect of irreparable harm. The World Commission on the Ethics of Scientific Knowledge and Technology (COMEST) cites the example of asbestos in its report on the Precautionary Principle. Asbestos mining began in the late 1800s because it was found to be useful in a variety of construction projects. Production exploded exponentially up to 1998 when it was finally banned after nearly 50-60 years of lung cancer and other complications reported but not sufficiently linked to asbestos until then. “In the case of asbestos, a lack of full scientific proof of harm contributed to the long delay before action was taken and risk reduction regulation was put in place. The early warnings of 1898–1906 were not followed up by any kind of precautionary action to reduce exposure to asbestos, nor by long-term medical and dust exposure surveys of workers that would have been possible at the time, and which would have helped strengthen the case for tighter controls on dust levels.” This is a worst case scenario of the lack of precaution: production of a severely harmful product skyrocketed and inflicted harm upon millions for almost 100 years before it was finally caught. What allowed this problem to get out of hand was a lack of definitive proof of harm versus the profits and uses of the product. Hence the argument similar to fuel efficiency standards debate: mandate versus free market. The Precaution Principles serves as a bright line that defines boundaries and makes actions clear. Without this mandate, there is no means of effectively managing action.

Bernard Goldstein, professor of Environmental and Occupational Health at the University of Pittsburgh, says that while the Principle sounds like a good idea, there are too many problems plaguing it to make it truly effective (Easton 14). He argues that it is likely to create more problems down the line. The first problem Goldstein identifies is that there is no clear definition of the Precautionary Principle. He cites the UN Environmental Health conference in Rio’s definition versus the Wingspread’s (a non-profit environmental protection organization) definition whereas Wingspread calls for action even if cause and effect relationships are not established fully while the UN definition calls for cost-effective measures taken to reduce damage. Which definition is the right one to follow? Without a distinction, it is impossible to determine how to initiate and evaluate actions. He also notes that this lack of distinction—or maybe even the wording itself—leads people to believe that the principle demands zero risk to begin with, thus stagnating any kind of action whatsoever; some even believe that the principle is not an environmental protection policy, but a trade policy meant to erect a barrier between countries without skinning any elbows. Another issue with PP is that it demands an all or nothing stance: once a substance is identified as toxic it is banned outright from use. What Goldstein argues is that this ban damages other primary prevention methods such as Toxicology from further researching such substances and learning about safe ways to use them via promoting health and/or business. Julian Morris, director of think-tank International Policy Network, formerly a Research Fellow and subsequently Director of the Environment and Technology Program of the Institute of Economic Affairs, cites many more arguments against PP in his book: Rethinking Risk and the Precautionary Principle. For one, he argues that poisons are a part of natural life (spider venom, plant toxins, etc) and that to ban all toxic substances simply because they are toxic is ignorant to their potential for future uses. This is tied to the lack of solid proof used to fuel precautions, often based on what might happen rather than what is likely to happen. He also argues that exploring the full spectrum of alternatives is time-consuming and costly, since there could potentially be infinite methods and technologies to examine. Not only that, but making proceedings open to all people via democracy is unattainable as it is impossible to include all the billions of people in the world that could potentially be affected. While the Precautionary Principle has good intentions, its ideals cannot be effectively translated into reality.  

What this boils down to is whether or not PP establishes feasible guidelines for effective policy and whether the downtime of establishing a level of safety to consumers outweighs societal gains or losses.  The Precautionary Principle specifies four tenets for action: “taking preventive action in the face of uncertainty, shifting the burden of proof to the proponents of an activity, exploring a wide range of alternatives to possibly harmful actions, and increasing public participation in decision making” (Kriebal et. al).  For example, assume Company A is seeking a permit to remove the top of mountain X for mining purposes.  PP would mandate that Company A would need to present a case describing how their process would not endanger the environment or the people that live there, research other alternatives such as prior methods of tunneling or potential drilling technologies available, and would need to consult the people affected by this process (people who live within hearing distance of the blasts, people whose water supply might be near toxic coal sludge deposits, people whose homes or businesses may be in potential landslide or flying debris proximity) before blowing off the top of mountain X.  The problem with the opposition is that the extreme negative cases are used to bring PP down.  The process described before is called mountaintop removal and is a primary process for extracting coal used to power most of the United States.  However, PP would not mandate that every single citizen in the United States would be a part of the decision making process.  It would only be that target population as identified previously.  Also in the process Company A may find an alternative technology that would be less time-consuming than blowing up a mountaintop and clearing away the rubble manually.  The Environmental Research Foundation explains that, “instead of asking the basic risk-assessment question -- "How much harm is allowable?" -- the precautionary approach asks, "How little harm is possible” (Montague)?  PP is a simple analytical process that every individual uses in his or her own lives.   Consider going to the doctor about an abnormal growth.  Even if the doctor finds it harmless and opts to remove it, just straight cutting off the growth could cause scarring, abnormal bleeding, and will cause pain; there are options such as laser removal or surgery that can safely remove growths with little pain, minimize scarring, and control bleeding effectively.  So long as the Precautionary Principle is used correctly, as a rational tool of action evaluation rather than a fear-based lock, it is an effective tool and a sound approach to risk analysis.

References

Easton, T. Is the precautionary principle a sound approach to risk analysis? Taking Sides: Clashing Views on Environmental Issues (2-19). New York: McGraw Hill.

Kriebel, D., Tickner, J., Epstein, P., Lemons, J., Levins, R., Loechler, E., Quinn, M., Rudel, R., Schettler, T. and Stoto, M. (2001). The precautionary principle in environmental science. The National Institute of Environmental Health Sciences (NIEHS). Retrieved April 27, 2009 from JSTOR online database.

Montague, P. The precautionary principle in the real world. (2008). Environmental Research Foundation. Retrieved April 27, 2009 from http://precaution.org/lib/pp_def.htm.

Morris, J. Defining the precautionary principle. (2000). Rethinking Risk and the Precautionary Principle (1-21). Oxford: Butterworth-Heinemann.

N.a. The precautionary principle. (2005). The United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization. Retrieved April 27, 2009 from http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0013/001395/139578e.pdf.

Images

Deustch, B. Precautionary Principle Cartoon: Progress. Retrieved April 27, 2009 from http://www.leftycartoons.com/category/environmental-cartoons/.

Precautionary Principle Poster. Retrieved April 27, 2009 from http://www.northlandposter.com/cgi-bin/search.cgi?menu=1&item_no=p821&category=posters&keyword=Health%20%26%20the%20Environment&newproduct=&discountproduct=

I confronted two of my greatest fears last weekend: opening up to people honestly and dealing with bees.  There were hundreds of them--bees, I mean.

Friday evening our van pulled into the long stretch of farm that would be our lodging for the weekend.  There was nothing for miles; the nearest house had to be about two miles back the way we came.  The pastures near the farm were empty but we heard that the cows were simply further back.  The house was a log cabin whose notable features included stairs that were cut from a live oak that, while beautiful, did not match human calculation of stair height and tended to cause more than a few stumbles, a septic tank built for two not fourteen, and Song Catcher.

But it also highlighted a common theme I encountered as I met the locals on Saturday.  When people call the area "Appalacia" it is sometimes implied to be a poor area in need of help.  People get this idea to send money off to charities or come swooping in to the rescue and... no one really wants to be rescued.  I had to admit that I myself was one of those rescuing types--they're called do-gooders by the locals.  The problem they've had with do-gooders is that they tend to exploit those people they are supposedly helping and others simply come for the week, plant a tree, and go home feeling better.

I spent the morning sitting in various thickets--being the smallest one in the group--cutting barbed wire fences since the property line was being re-established.  I came home with some fantastic scars that I tried to pawn off as evidence of a fight with a bear, but no one bought that story.  Afterwards we go a briefing on mountaintop removal that coal companies use to extract coal from the mountains in the area.  The picture on the right is an illustration of the end result.  The process is exactly what the name sounds like: explosives are planted along the mountain to blow the top off so that workers can more easily extract coal veins that are difficult to reach through conventional means like tunnel-digging.  The process is brutal to the environment so the companies typically practice what's known as reclamation, which is the process of replanting the vegetation that was destroyed; what it really means is that they spray hydro-turf after they're done blowing stuff up.  MTR also has a nasty habit of creating serious problems: explosions disrupt topsoil and create faults in the ground that destroy private wells; explosions also create intense noise pollution to local residents; chemicals that are used to clean coal create a coal sludge that has been known on occasion to slip into water supplies when dams break.

(image source: Ohio Valley Environmental Coalition)

So how does this continue?  Well the nice thing about MTR is that it's cheaper than sending in miners because it does not take as many of them to extract coal.  Yes this leads to lost jobs and that's bad, but the issue is perched on a wire here.  MTR is safer for workers than traditional tunnel mining.  Workers are removed from the area before explosions begin versus venturing into mine shafts that have occasionally collapsed and trapped people before.  The unions gunned for MTR as a safety issue.  Last I heard, Obama's administration put a ban on new MTR permits pending investigation.  O' the lobbyists shall come.

But I digress, the rest of the evening was spent clearing brush for an metalworking artist who would be hosting a bonfire for us.  He's a true craftworker.  Every piece is started from scratch and sculpted into any number of pieces from decorative flowers to elaborate staircases.  It's not about the profit, he says, all the money goes right back into buying materials or promoting his trade or improving.  Looking at the studio is like looking at the American Dream.  Pulling yourself up by your bootstraps.  This guy is his own businessman, deliveryman, artist, accountant, and everything he needs to keep his passion alive.

I spent the night then wondering, what does Service really mean?  Our guide presented service to us as being beneath the status of those people that we are serving.  But I don't know that I buy that.  I determined from my Cleveland trip that Service implied presence.  So after this trip I think Service also implies equal status.  I can no longer believe that I'm swooping in to save someone who cannot save him or herself, but neither can I think that they are better than me.  I think it's more like a fair trade, where you allow yourself to help and be helped.

"If you have come to help me you are wasting your time.  But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together."

Cleveland, Ohio was once the poorest city in the entire United States.  Only recently has it lost its spot to Detroit.  If you know anything about the Big Three, you’re probably not surprised.  Last weekend I spent time in the former city doing a different kind of service.

I always thought that service meant you had to be doing something like building a home, walking to raise money, cooking or distributing food, or conducting interviews to name a few.  Last weekend’s trip had some of that, we chopped up compost and spread it over a garden on the last day before we left.  But the focus didn’t lay so much in what we did, it was what we heard.

Listening is defined as attentiveness, trying to hear, focusing on what is being said to us without trying to advance an agenda.  It means that the listener won’t often respond immediately following pause.  There may be that 15 seconds of silence that are required for processing.  Part of listening is engaging, and part of engaging is serendipity.

Crossing the street from the West Market, my companions and I encountered Raymond selling copies of The Grapevine.  The Grapevine is a publication that focuses on homelessness and related issues.  Raymond told us that he was a demo expert in Vietnam and when he came home, he received a less-than-welcome homecoming.  He was unable to return to work and eventually had to resort to theft to pay the bills.  He was caught and arrested and served up to 26 years in prison.  He had been transferred up to Ohio because he left cops in their underwear and handcuffs.  When he got out he had $24 to his name and ended up homeless.  He spends most of his nights in shelters and most of his days selling The Grapevine to try to earn a living.  Vendors buy papers for 35 cents and sell them for $1.25.  Some of that money goes toward charities that work with the homeless, some of that money goes to the vendor.  Ray stays in Ohio because he passes for white here, but he was originally born and raised in New Orleans.  One parent was black, the other white.  He says he has friends that stayed in the city and saw the “sky light up like the 4th of July.”  He believes wholeheartedly that the levees were blown up on purpose, that he saw where the plastics were.

Heading back toward the Catholic Worker House where we were housed, we watched a mobile meals van pull up to the Public Library we passed through.  One of the workers was embracing one of the homeless women, swearing up and down that God and Jesus loved her and that Jesus died for her so that she would be saved.  The homeless woman was adamant, “God don’t love me.  If God loved me he wouldn’t let me do this.”  She pulled back her sleeve and displayed brutal scars across her wrist where she had cut herself.  Her name was Sylvia, she was 55 years old, and she was right there in front of me.  Sylvia was immediately hostile toward us as we approached her later where she sat on a bench to eat her meal.  One of the three of us sat next to her and began to talk to her, and she was quick to turn a suspicious eye on the remaining two of us gathered around her.  But just as quickly as she became suspicious, she became generous also.  She offered us her food, food that she needed.  Sylvia wanted to die; life wasn’t worth living if all you had was living on the street.  Gesturing to all the homeless residents that had gathered for their meal, she turned to me and asked me, “Do you want to see this?”

My companion seated beside Sylvia instructed me and another companion head back toward the worker house to seek help on what to do.  All I could think to myself was, “Did I want to see that?”  We met up with the rest of our group, and two of them left to go be with the one we’d left.  I found out later that they had called emergency responders, intending for an ambulance but instead receiving the police.  Sylvia was angry, telling them that their method had been dirty.  They had meant well.  The police officer had been kind though, insisting on not knowing last names or histories and instead providing an escort to the nearest hospital.  Sylvia will at least have a warm, safe roof over her head for a day or two.  Beyond that, I don’t know what will happen to her.

I later stood at a table at St. Herman’s hot meal service, signing my name as the worker eyed up my driver’s license.  I wondered in my mind how many homeless people had licenses?  Would this man reject me?  He would have every right, I come from a wealthy home and did not need this food like the other people in line surely did.  He slapped the card back on the table with a yellow ticket and told me to get back in line, so I did.  My companion did not have an ID, so her name was added to another list and a note card was made for her.  We stood in the shadow of the building completely silent, waiting to be called in by twos.  Once inside, we had to hurry to see where the person ahead of us went so we wouldn’t mess up the order.  Sign in again, wash your hands, get your plate.  The woman ahead of me asked for a smaller portion—it looked exactly like the normal portion of food, which was far larger than I expected. 

I sat down at a table with three men, two white men engaged in conversation across the table and a black man across from me.  I tried to start a conversation with the black man but he offered me very terse answers and focused on his food in a way I interpreted to mean he didn’t want to talk to me.  At one point he asked me if I was in school and what I was studying.  I told him Community Health Education and he nodded, went back to his food.  There was another awkward quiet until the white man next to me stood up and left.  Then the remaining white man turned to me and told me that I couldn’t just jump into a major like CHED from the suburban life.  I needed more field experience; I needed to eat at more hot meal services and stay at more shelters and experience as these people did what the lifestyle was like.  I couldn’t know.

I nodded politely, not really knowing what to say, and eventually he, too, left.  The black man had finished his meal and would glance up at me every so often as if he wanted to say something, then would look away.  I continued my meal, almost halfway through. 

“What’s your favorite dish?”

“Excuse me?”

“Dish, what’s your favorite dish?”

I figured this too would end in silence but I tried my best to seem friendly and not nervous.  “I’m a chocolate person myself.”  He smiled and chuckled, and I could tell that wasn’t what he was really looking for but it was still funny.  My group had left.

Then he surprised me, “Was high school hard?”

I didn’t really know what to say at first.  I told him that sometimes it was hard, sometimes I just didn’t want to go and sometimes subjects were really hard.  Sometimes I wondered what I was going to do with the information and sometimes I just got depressed.

And he asked, “How did you do it?”

I was silent for a long time because truthfully I had never thought about it.  I didn’t know how to explain how.  I told him this, and I told him, “Sometimes it was just as simple as waking up in the morning.”

“I like that,” he said, smiling and stroking his chin as if thinking of how to use it somewhere else, “would you like to see something I’ve been working on?”  Of course I agreed, and he set before me a drawing of space and the planets with two smaller drawings of space wrapped in saran wrap.  “It looks different this way.  I like it.”  It did look different, and without thinking I reached out to line up the smaller images in the larger one.  I suggested art school and he told me he was interested in animation.  His niece liked his work; I suggested gifting another such drawing to her.  His name was Greg, he offered to take my plate up for me as we were leaving.

The next day we ate breakfast at The Storefront.  It felt like walking into someone’s kitchen and grabbing a plate.  The place was packed, there were tables with many chairs pulled up or stolen from others and couches for people to just plop down anywhere.  I found an open seat at a table next to a couch where one of the homeless men I talked to at the park the day before was sitting.  “Hey I know you, you’re with Kent State right?”  He commented about the food and how there was so much of it.  He said, “It’s because we’re here on the west side.  On the west side you eat good, on the east side you starve.”

A man sat down next to me and introduced himself as Gary.  “I feel kind of bad eating here sometimes because I don’t really need the food,” he explained, “I come here because I like the company.  I like to talk to these people, to learn their stories.”  Gary spent time in the army like many of the people myself and my group had spoken to.  He asked me if I’d ever been in a relationship I later regretted and after admitting that I had, he admitted to me that he had also.  He advised me to get to know someone for a long time first, as he learned with his ex-wife.  She went to college and he didn’t, and that created some tension.  “She’d embarrass me in front of her colleagues or my friends, saying I’d used the wrong words.  It made me feel bad.”  The other man on the couch teased me about Gary’s advice.  He’d guessed my age perfectly and told me that as a Libra, I was a good person at heart but I’d fall in love too fast.  He said he was a Libra too, that’s how he knew.  Gary laughed, said I seemed like I had a good head on my shoulders.  My group called me to leave shortly after and he volunteered to take my plate for me when he was finished.

I’d always believed that service meant doing something.  I always thought there had to be a visible product at the end.  One of the greatest sorrows that the homeless bear is invisibility, loneliness.  Though I did not build homes or prepare food, I still feel satisfied with what I did even if only for that one day.  What I realized in talking to all these people was that service does not imply a product.

It implies a presence. 

This past week I had the opportunity to join 64 of my peers in a 20 hour charter bus ride down to Long Beach, MS.  We stayed at Camp Coast Care and worked on projects through the camp as well as through Habitat for Humanity.  This most recent trip would make my 5th trip down, and I think it was perhaps my best one yet.

My crew’s task was mainly flooring.  However, the front room also needed sanding on the ceiling (curses, of course it needed ceiling work) along with 2 coats of ceiling paint, 2 coats of primer, and 2 coats of finish.  When finished with that, the painters moved on to help install laminate flooring and tile.  I’m proud to say that my crew finished all tasks except for laminate simply because we ran out of material.

I realized something during our reflection time; every trip I’d gone on I’d expected to have that home makeover experience where we finish a house, wrap it up in a nice bow, hand it over to the homeowner and cry a bit, then go home.  But in seeing the house we worked on, seeing it so close to finish, I also realized that it wouldn’t be that way if there hadn’t been others before me doing the jobs I’d done on previous trips.  Service isn’t about being the one to hand over the shiny gift-wrapped box, it’s about taking a step in the right direction and leading others along.

I learned something new this trip.  One of the unexpected hazards for residents living among the damaged areas were swimming pools.  Most wouldn’t even think of them, however, those pools became cesspools of decay and debris that gathered and spoiled into a sort of witch’s brew whose stench became a serious health concern.  The irony was that the governments ordered people to dispose of these materials and those people had nowhere to do the disposing.  Landfills would not take them because they were too dangerous and leaving it out in the street was not an option either.

I also learned that volunteer hours were calculated to be worth roughly $18/hour.  The federal government, so long as there were records of volunteer work, reimbursed cities for those hours of labor to make up for the costs of maintaining volunteer camps.

Our reflection time was perhaps the most eye-opening experience.  One group of volunteers was brought to tears by the discovery of a little boy’s shoe in a yard they were cleaning up.  Another swore up and down that she wanted a plane ticket home every day until she discovered the credit card of the homeowner she was working for underneath the cemented-in base of a palm tree—she promptly returned it to him.  One of my own crewmates found herself saddened by a tire swing with no home, and wanted badly to build one at the home we were working on as a 10-year-old granddaughter was to move in.

She had been driving her family for weeks now, at only--and recently so--ten years of age.  Their nerves frayed, they asked the small girl time and time again what made this sudden mission so dire, so particular?  And time and time again she would remind them, "It's important."

So it was that Damien found himself out again another frozen night, lips chapped, one hand stuffed in his jacket and the other clutched onto her growing hand as they entered yet another shop.  Her face was not the beaming visage of a child expecting a toy, no, this was the determined puckering of a purpose.

Her brother dragged his feet behind them.  "Soph... it's cold."  His complaints always fell on deaf ears.  Before she had turned vicious glares upon him that now trickled down into slight huffs.  Why drag him along anyway?  This was her vendetta, not his.  Sometimes he got out of it by staying home with Mom, but unfortunately for him she had work to attend to this snowy week before Christmas.

Little boots trudging across the carpet of the shop left clumps of moisture and snow in their wake.  The floor had previously been spotless; business had been slow this evening.  The shopkeeper, an older woman with thin-rimmed glasses and silver-black hair, watched her new patron with a knowing eye.  Children like these didn't often come through here, most of her patrons were art collectors or families looking to spruce up homes for sale.  For what child would go out of his or her way to look for antiques?

She smiled at the exhaust in who she guessed to be the girl's father, "This is not your first stop, I take it?"

He chuckled and nodded as he watched his daughter scrounging every last item, his hand absently touching the hair of the boy beside him who looked rather cross though increasingly curious.  "Afraid not.  Dunno what she's after, but none of us is about to stand in her way."

The boy rolled his eyes.

"I see," the shopkeeper replied.  "No hints or anything?"

"None, she's dragged us to all kinds of stores saying she's gotta find something.  Poor Jay here has had to come on more trips than he's a mind for."

"Well then, Jay, there's a collection of Marvel action figures in good condition I just had brought in to me today.  You seem like a man with a fine eye for such things, could you perhaps look them over for me and help me decide a good value?"

His eyes still retained that bored look, but at the same time his posture seemed to indicate that he was grateful for something to do other than stand around and wait on his crazy sister.  She set out the collection for him to handle at his own discretion, trusting in the awe of children for such things that he would do no harm here.  Damien nodded his thanks, glancing over to where his daughter now rooted through a bin of old toys.

"Sophie!"  He scolded gently, "You can't make a mess of this lady's store like that."

"But I think I found it!"

He blinked, glancing at the object her hands so delicately extricated from the bin.  It was a simple doll with a mane of fiery red hair, aged over many years.  The facial features that had been hand-painted long ago were worn away; the gown that had once been white faded to an aged sepia tone; most telling of all was the tattered wing sticking out of her back awkwardly.

"...oh honey, what about the others?"  Damien sighed, glancing at all the perfectly good dolls that had been discarded carelessly all about the floor around her feet.  At a second glance, however, he realized that his daughter had at least taken the time to lay them out neatly so that none of them was damaged.  He was grateful he wouldn't be taking home a plethora of dolls to his wife to explain.

"No, this one.  It's important."  The look on her face was obstinate.  What could a girl want with a torn and faded doll?  What could have made her want it so bad that she'd spent weeks searching for it?  What made this doll different from its much nicer counterparts?

Sophia's face was touched by a hint of sadness, however, as she gently caressed the tattered gown and wing, barely hanging on by a thread.  Though it somehow matched the description of what she had been looking for, it was in worse condition than she'd hoped for.  Her little frown creased her father's eyebrows.  He couldn't help but feel a little disappointed.  "What's wrong?"

"It's this one... but she's not whole."

The shopkeeper had wandered close and now lent her voice, "She's been very lonely, so she's frayed a little.  Not many little girls come looking just for dolls like her."

"But it's this one.  I know it."  Sophia looked on the verge of tears.  Her mouth opened and closed as if lacking the words to describe what she knew in her heart.

By this time her brother had wandered over with an action figure in his hands to show his sister.  He frowned at the look on her face.  "That's the one, Soph?"

She nodded.

"Well then, we just fix her up, right?"  Damien kept silent.  He had expected his son to tease Sophia about the prize but had instead found Jay surprisingly unbothered by its poor condition.  "Everything's still there, it just needs some patching.  We can do that, Mom's good with that stuff."

Their father smiled and gathered the dolls his daughter had sprawled about, carefully returning them to where they had been stored.  "I'm sorry about this," he offered to the store owner as his children happily chattered plans about how they would fix up this doll.  "Thank you for being nice to 'em."  Then he reached for his wallet, "How much for the doll and the action figure?"

The woman smiled, "A good home and periodic reports."

"Huh?" Damien's eyebrows furrowed. 

"It's not often I get good souls like you coming in here looking to give old things a purpose again."  The next, she offered to Sophia in a soft tone, "I want to see what you make of that doll, so be sure to bring it back and show me and tell me all about it.  Deal?"

Sophia smiled big and nodded emphatically, clutching the doll to her chest.

"She's really got it in her blood."  Seyona commented as she watched her daughter set to work on the doll day after day.  The small, clumsy fingers worked diligently--more than was expected of a child her age--to restore the doll.  Each day the project progressed, it became apparent that this was not just some plaything that Sophia would drag through the mud like most of her toys.  This was was precious to her, and her mother wondered that they might have to go find a display case for her when this was finished.

Sophia kept her fingers carefully bandaged so that the numerous pinpricks did not bleed onto her precious idol.  There wasn't much time left so she hurried as best she could.  Even her brother seemed to sense her urgency; where normally he would have tormented her out of sheer sibling rivalry he now waited in the wings or occasionally offered to help bring thread or ribbon or whatever else she asked for.  No one understood her hurry at first, but they all supported her endeavor nonetheless.

Christmas Eve had arrived and the family prepared to receive a plethora of guests--friends they had made over the course of many struggles and many years.  Father Collins, Seyona's father, barely managed to fit through the entryway with his armful of presents.  His grandson, Jadyn, was more than happy to help him bring them all in and set them under the tree.  A few members of his service also stopped by to offer their well-wishes, but did not stay long.  Emily, who had taken them in back when they'd had nothing, filled the house with various weaving scents of culinary excellence; her cooking had always been notoriously desired especially within this family.  The shapeshifter, Alycion, whom Seyona had touched with her empathy and concern, still wore Seyona's offered shawl as she briefly hugged and greeted the entire family.

By then, Sophia had finished her project and sat perched in the windowsill with wide eyes.  She peered out into the snow as a house cat might scour the landscape for mice, tail twitching.  She wrung her hands impatiently, her fingertips damaged.  Jay sometimes sat with her for a bit, sometimes dragged her away to say hi to everyone, and sometimes left her alone in her vigil.

It had grown dark and many of the household were either preparing to go or preparing to settle in for the night.  They had mostly gathered by the hearth in the living room to talk, but none protested that the tree had not yet been lit.  In the weeks prior to this night, her parents had explained her steadfast devotion to this project and somehow the tree and her doll were related.  There was one last thing that needed to happen and all they could do was wait.

"Sophia, honey, it's nearly time for bed.  Santa can't come if you're not asleep.  Your brother will be sore if he misses our house this year."

Sophia smiled up at her mom, who was pulling her hair back from her face with her fingernails lightly.  "I know, Mama.  It's important."

Seyona looked out the window down the dark walkway leading up to their home and smiled, knowing that soon her daughter would perk up with delight.  She was late every year, but she had never missed a special holiday like this one.  It took a minute, but Sophia shrieked out loud when she saw the familiar figure approaching.  Damien had smiled also, knowing what the sound meant instantly, and he and his son headed to the front door to greet their last guest.

"Please excuse me," she began as she had every year and brushed the snow from her things.  Seyona hugged her friend before taking the woman's coat, then her family did so in turn.  Sophia had mysteriously vanished.

"Welcome, El.  We figured you'd be right on time as you always are." Damien jibed playfully.  Though always appearing late, she always arrived at the same time every year.

Eliana removed her cap to reveal a shock of red hair that bounced along her shoulders, her milky eyes resting on each member of the family in greeting.  After conversing with each in turn, she noted the absence of one.  As people began to drift back toward the fireplace, Eliana caught Seyona's arm.  "Where is Sophia?"

"Oh... she was here just a moment ago.  She'd been waiting for you, I can't imagine where she's gone off to."  She turned then to call out to her daughter, who for a moment did not reply.

A minute later the little girl came rushing out from somewhere in the house--though she very carefully took the stairs--with an object bundled very carefully like a baby in her arms.  It was in the shape of a doll; everyone gathered turned to look at each other wondering if perhaps this had been the girl's burning project.

Sophia took Eliana by the hand and led her into the room with the Christmas tree before turning to face her, everyone watching.  Eliana sensed this was important to the little girl and knelt down to her level.  "What is it, Sophia?"

"Um... can you help me put th'a angel up?"  The tiny bundle was offered up shyly.

The brusque woman gingerly accepted the bundle for a moment, looking up and noting that the tree had not yet been finished.  The top lay completely bare.  Why did you wait for me?"  She queried, genuinely confused.  "I always arrive rather late and your parents could have easily helped you."

"It's important."  Was all she said.  Her eyes were fixated on the bundle.

Eliana nodded after a glance toward the rest of the family and turned her attentions to unwrapping the carefully wrapped swaddling.  The figure she found inside was not the typical perfectly porcelain angels that families bought from stores but a lovingly crafted original replica of... herself.

"What is this..." The former angel could not find the words to speak as her fingers traced over the bright red hair that had been left long but had obviously been brushed thoroughly; the soft white gown that bore the stitches quite obviously of a child; the single wing now strongly protruding from her back, not corrected but strengthened; the re-touched face with eyes left pupil-less and milky like her own; but most touching of all: the bright smile painted with a noticeably concentrated effort.

She wasn't sure how, but she suddenly found herself with silent tears streaming down her cheeks.  Sophia's eyes widened and she looked to her mom in panic, afraid she'd upset their close family friend.  Seyona smiled reassuringly at her daughter and at once the girl recalled a memory of her and her mom talking about happy tears.  So were these happy tears?

Eliana drew the girl close with an arm around her shoulders and whispered a soft thank you into her ear before standing to alight the top of the tree with this treasure.  Jadyn plugged in the lights as she did so and for a while the whole family enjoyed the finished project.

Seyona found her close friend sitting on the windowsill where Sophia had sat waiting for her before, long after the kids had been put to bed, staring up at the angel atop the tree.  Eliana was silent for a long time even after Seyona had sat down beside her, but after a while she took her friend's hand and grasped it tight.

"I saw the cuts all over her fingers... did she make that herself?"

"Turned down every angel we showed her for weeks and became intent with this desire to find something she wouldn't explain to any of us.  She worked on it for days and never asked for help.  Damien told me when they found it it was all beat up, and her brother urged her to mend it."

"But why?"

Seyona looked away from the angel and straight into the other angel's eyes, "Because it's important."  She said, repeating her daughter's insistent words.

"I don't understand."  Eliana turned to meet her gaze.  There were plenty of explanations as to why the children wouldn't go this far to create such a valuable, to wait for her so late into the evening.  Her appearance had always been intimidating and her demeanor tended to be awkward and aloof.  She had always been patient with the children but never overly kind or friendly as their grandfather was.

"Sometimes our hearts remind us there are things we've neglected..."  Her voice trailed off, unsure of how to finish.  Sophia's blunt insistence seemed the best and most complete answer there was to give for her actions.

"All this time I'd been trying to fulfill a role and prove my existence, and here... all this time... it had already been recognized."  Seyona yawned and after a while left her to her thoughts.

We are not saved because we are worthy, we are saved because we are loved.

It was her favorite passage.

I fell into community health education completely out of the blue one day and tried to stuff it all into a tiny little box, but things kept popping out.

For my sexual health promotion programs course, we were split into groups of four with two people being observers, one being a "professional," and one being a "client."  The observers were to take notes on the conversation between the client and the professional and note any listening skills that came up; skills included silence, reflection of content, reflection of emotion, confrontation, and etc.

I was the professional.  It was supposed to be easy.  Question and answer discussion groups and one-on-one's are much easier for me than lectures or other means of communication.  We decided that the client was a young man who recently found out his girlfriend was pregnant and was seeking the help of a Planned Parenthood counselor.  So he looks at me and says, "I'm so lost.  I don't know what a father is supposed to do--what I'm supposed to do.  Where's my role in all this?"

...well damn.

It was like an empty epiphany.  Or maybe a reverse epiphany would be more accurate?  Rather than having this sudden answer come to me, I instead was left dumbfounded with a single question: "What do I say to that?"

I had a similar epiphany weeks ago when I volunteered with a local health department.  A few surrounding counties received a grant for obesity reduction and part of that grant was a survey of local restaurants to gauge their feelings on offering nutrition information in their establishments.  It was about 3-4 questions, things such as "Do you offer nutrition information for your products currently?"  "Would you be willing to?"  "Do you/would you be willing to display calorie counts?"

I spent a good ten minutes jotting down "call back later" notes with names and numbers of managers since most regular employees are loath to speak with anyone from the health department--staff or volunteers.  I just found that last bit ironic. 

So I reach a number toward the bottom of my list and the woman on the other line is clearly of Asian descent, which I thought nothing of.  I proceeded with my little questionnaire beginning with the "Do you offer nutrition information for your products currently?"

"What is nutrition?"

"...excuse me?"

"What does nutrition mean?"

My thought process in that moment went a little something like, "Uh, I took a course last semester on nutrition.  I'm a Community Health Education major, this is gonna be my job someday.  So what the hell is nutrition?"  As much as we all toss the word about to pretend like we're keeping up with the health frenzy the media swishes in our ears, how many of us actually know how to explain it to someone who has never heard the word before?

I'm a Community Health Education major, this is gonna be my job someday.

So I said, "It's like the stuff that's in food."

And I got, "Oh, we put salt, pepper, meat, different sauces..."

So I said, "No, I mean like carbohydrates and proteins and essential nutrients."

And I got, "...what does that mean?"

"What does that mean?"

Dictionary.com has this to say about Nutrition:

1. the act or process of nourishing or of being nourished.
2. the science or study of, or a course of study in, nutrition, esp. of humans.
3. the process by which organisms take in and utilize food material.
4. food; nutriment.
5. the pursuit of this science as an occupation or profession.

Is it just me, or does that not help at all?  Let me consult my nutrition textbook.  Judith Brown's Nutrition Now says that the definition of nutrition is "the study of foods and health.  It is a science that centers on foods, their nutrient and other chemical constituents, and the effects of food constituents on body processes and health.  The scope of nutrition extends to food choices and to the effects of specific components of foods on health (1-6)."

Well, okay that's a bit better, but how do you put that on a menu?

The goal of health education isn't brainwashing, it's empowerment.  In order for people to be empowered, they must have knowledge.  However, for that knowledge to be retained and meaningful, there are three big conditions that need to be met as noted by Ausubel:

• The material to be learned must be conceptually clear and presented with language and examples relatable to the learner’s prior knowledge.
• The learner must possess relevant prior knowledge.
• The learner must choose to learn meaningfully.

I'll have to keep those tenets in mind as I struggle to come up with meaningful explanations for health and related items.  Half the battle is explaining yourself so other people know what the heck you're talking about, the other half is getting them to do something with it.

"Well... damn."  A shocking, curly redhead exhaled loudly, blowing wisps of smoke into swirls around her face; the smoking had become a recent past time.  She bumped her forehead against the palm of her hand and pinched a cigarette between her index and middle finger.  Ashes fell listlessly onto the bar counter.  Her eyes had dark circles like she hadn't slept in days, which did little to detract from the disheveled appearance of blue jeans and dark green, short-sleeved hoodie. 

The bartender offered another glass but she waved it away, her mind still hung up on a previous confrontation.

"Fuck you, Eliana.  You don't know shit!"

Jadyn had stood defiant in his grandfather's church valiantly defending himself from her barrage of blunt cruelty as the rest of the family looked on, Sophia's body limp where it lay prone and lifeless on a nearby pew.  At least his mother hadn't been there to witness the animosity.

"...you're just trying to regain God's favor again by doting on our family all the time!"

Eliana shook her head and mumbled a reply under her breath, "Ah... far from it, kiddo."

"Rough night?"

She glanced up at the bartender--quite popular with her patrons for her spunky personality but more so with her male patrons for her enormous bust--and forced a smile.  "You could say that."

"This stuff always passes."

"...that it does."

"It's that boy, isn't it?"

"Am I so predictable?"

"Not like you used to be, Winston."

"Don't call me that."

The bartender laughed aloud, her voice a high shrill that was disturbing to anyone that didn't get to know her.  It grew less irritating over time; the men just let their eyes wander to the small heart-shaped tattoo that stuck out like a sore thumb in her cleavage.  Sheila didn't mind, that's what it was there for after all.  "My point stands, sugar."

"Point taken.  May I have another?  Perhaps I can construct a fort."

Sheila tossed her hair back over her shoulder and burst into laughter again.  Bright dirty blond curls bounced across her shoulders gaily, accentuated by the dark too-thickly-applied mascara she applied every night before work.  Though a bit... robust, Eliana found that she appreciated the woman's temperament and enjoyed her company.  She was as good a friend as Seyona, though much more carefree.  Their banter was their trademark. 

There would be no retort to Eliana's previous quip for a while, though, as a customer was calling for another beer. In Sheila's wake, a single glass of scotch appeared in the space before her.  She tapped the tip of her cigarette against the rim and let the ashes fizzle out, ruining the drink.

"...El?"

The former fallen glanced out of the corner of her eye and spotted Seyona's son standing in the doorway of the bar, staring at her awkwardly as the door chime quieted.  He stepped inside and let the door rattle shut behind him, then approached her.  "What are you doing here?  I never thought I'd find you of all people in here."

"I suppose we all have our vices, don't we?"  She broke his gaze and stared back into the scotch, taking a drag on the cigarette.  "Have a seat."

Jadyn pulled up a stool beside her and turned his gaze to the counter, perhaps hoping to burn a hole in the wood with his sheer focus.  Their fight earlier had not quite passed yet and the two were loath to converse lest the emotions flare up once more.  Somehow, though, alcohol magically appeared before him without him ever seeing the bartender.  El glanced down the way in time to catch a wink from Sheila.  The bitch.

She hesitated a moment, lifting her head slightly to brush her hair back with the pinky and ring finger of the hand holding the cigarette.  Somehow it felt like it should have been some cold winter night, with snow billowing at the window and people in scarves irritating the rest of the patrons by opening the door and letting in a chill wind.  But it was a typical mild night like any other.  People chattered and the television blared stories of predictions about the new president, someone shouted an order, another group burst into laughter over some inside joke. 

Seyona would have known what to do right now; she would have known what to say.

"...how's your sister?"

"No change."

"I see."  They lapsed into a weird silence again.

Someone had managed to snag the remote when Sheila wasn't looking and turned the channel for content other than politics.  Various channels flitted on and off as the patron had trouble deciding, though he did pause on a news story about local unexplained murders.

"They ever find out who did that yet?"  A woman at his table asked, eyes fixed on the story.

The news reporter described the autopsy reports, instances where it seemed the victims had just shut down like they'd run out of power.  Even though they were found in suspicious locations, there were no signs of a struggle, no wounds, and no symptoms of other diseases found yet.  It was starting to be called into question whether these were really murders or cases of an unidentified disease outbreak.  The health department had been contacted for more information but nothing had been disclosed yet.

The guy with the remote shrugged and changed the channel, finally settling on a football game.  A few of his buddies around the bar gave a raucous cheer.

Eventually, Eliana turned to look at Jadyn's face.  She'd never been honest with him about herself, partially due to inexperience in doing so, but she supposed it was about time she quit with the high and mighty has all the answers facade.  "Jadyn, I'm sorry for what I said back there.  You didn't deserve that."

He did turn to look at that, narrowing his eyes.  "What?"

"I said I'm sorry."  Her voice was thick with regret.

Jay continued to search her face as if the explanation were written there to be found if he looked hard enough.  She didn't hide anything from him; her mixed bag of feelings were displayed in her features.  Confusion, loss, stress, doubt... and the need to light up again.  She sat up straight and dropped her used up cigarette into her ashtray cocktail and then pulled out the pack, offering one to Jadyn.  He took one for himself, pulled out a lighter as she grabbed one for herself, and lit them both up.

Jay raised an eyebrow like his father usually did, "No need to waste a good drink like that, you know."

She smiled and tapped the ashes into the glass again, "I was trying to make a point to a friend is all."  They both enjoyed their vices momentarily, letting the stress melt away. 

Then, "I don't know if I can do this."

"...do what?"  He asked, not having a clue what she meant.

"...this." She replied, as if that would resolve all his queries.  After a moment, she continued.  "Before, I really did have all the answers.  Everything was His work, and now, it's all on my shoulders."

Jay kept very quiet.

"I liked having all the answers for you, being this fountain of wisdom that would solve all your problems.  I did that to your mom and dad, too.  Sophia never let me in, but I was okay with that because I... I had you, I guess.  As strange as that sounds.  After falling again, it was so difficult to adjust to human life.  You all teased me about being a robot... but that's all I really knew how to be."

"El..."

"That's why I said the things I did.  I thought I was doing good, rationally... logically solving the problem by putting it in front of you.  But now I see I just made things worse.  I didn't even realize... I don't know if I can cope with not knowing how to fix this.  I don't see the end in sight, I have no answers..."  Eliana would cry no tears as she grappled with these difficult emotions and it was then that he noticed she wasn't wearing her sunglasses or her contacts.  The milky, pupil-less eyes were far from empty though.  Her head drooped into her hands, her hair falling like a curtain, the cigarette clattering against the counter and rolling absently toward her glass.

"How do you face a future you can't see?"