Va-kay Summer 2007

We left on a Saturday morning, not too long after I had gotten home from a long night at the pub. Josh had fully prepped the car for packing. All I really had to do was throw the food in a box that I thought we would need for the ride. We already had all our directions printed out, all our calls made, our schedule set and ready to go.

Our first stop brought us to the gray skied, lapping shorelines of Lake Michigan where the groom announced his bride, and the bride her groom. Colorful fabrics and foods, all locally grown and tastefully prepared, helped cheer through the chilly temperatures and foreboding drops of rain. The groom, of Iranian heritage, helped to slaughter the lamb that was feasted on before the ceremony, and friends of the bride aided in the growing and preparation of the savory dishes- ratatouille, salads, pastas. As guests we scooped up kernels of corn that have been passed down through the generations of family farmers, and we blessed the corn that they might continue to bless this newly married couple.

That evening we drove onto Chicago to spend the night with Joel and Brenda, a fun and relaxing time, and left early the next morning for Richfield, Minnesota. We drove through sheets of rain, but eventually made it to a best friend of mine, Sarah Werner, who I hadn't seen in four years. Her and her spouse, John, just this summer bought their first house. It was a beautiful home and perfectly comfortable. We always did love walking together, so it was time well spent walking around a neighborhood lake, the sky dark and the lake bouncing light off its water. The moments were amazing and generous, allowing us to catch up on journey's taken and life lived after far too long.

The next day came quickly and we packed up and settled into the car for a long day of crossing Minnesota and North Dakota. We stopped for lunch in Fargo. Don't ever do that. It was weird. Fargo, ND is as strange as we could have imagined.

Once through most of ND, we were looking for Watford City, not too far away from the Canada or Montana border. We were sidetracked briefly by “The Enchanted Highway”, a meandering section of road with folkart metal sculpture. We started the drive, not sure how long the enchantment would last. We saw two sculptures, both enormous, both interesting, and then saw a man in a field off of a parking lot. We decided to stop and ask this man, most likely local, if he could just tell us how far the highway would take us. We turned around after passing him, pulled off the road, and creaked our bones out of the car. Interestingly enough, this wiry man had a welder in the back of his truck. Could it possibly be the creator of the Enchanted Highway? It was. He was working on a 50 foot sculpture that had been toppled by the western winds. He described the drive to us, and explained that it was a 32 mile roundtrip venture. Being that we had already been on the road 10 hours and were anxious to see Grandpa, we decided we would have to see it on our next trip out that way.

But we finally made it, and the final 100 miles of the drive was incredible. Cowboy culture started to creep in, mountains stretched their arms and yawned in the distance, and the sky crawled into itself, revealing spatterings of stars.
After a good nights rest, we got in the car again and Grandpa showed us around the Badlands in Theodore Roosevelt National Park. I couldn’t believe that we were willing to get in the car again, but the landscapes that we saw were just amazing. You can see in some of these pictures the layers upon layers of rock, color, material, years. It was amazing.













Grandpa also took us that day to the farm where he grew up. There is no longer anyone living there, but there are a few old buildings, the foundation for the house, the old outhouse, and a bunch of old farm equipment. There is still wheat growing in the fields but it increasingly is being replaced by corn. Corn that is probably subsidized by the government to be sneaked into our food and feeds the lies we are told about ethanol. But that's for another blog. The wheat we saw swaying seemed to be reminiscent of all that used to be.









It was really hard to leave North Dakota. The time was too short with Grandpa. It was the first time I had ever been on his territory, and such an experience to see the place where Josh's mom and aunt cindy were raised. The relics, from antique guns to antique tractors, remind me of a time that is gone. But it's not gone. The stories we heard from Grandpa are proof that I should try harder to learn from those who have come before and created the life that I now live. I guess it's a perspective thing.



Our drive out of Watford City and towards Wyoming took us through both the Northern and Southern North Dakota badlands. We did a little hiking and then turned up the volume on the ipod. I mostly blasted Brandi Carlile and Josh some crazy Mocean Worker music. When we crossed over the Wyoming border there was almost an immediate change. The clouds hung in the sky differently, the range rose and fell with more drama, the air was crisp and dry.



We pulled into Sheridan, WY and were greeted by Rebekah Smith and her fiance David. They took us for an amazing dinner at an old historic hotel that is recognized as being the playhouse for Buffalo Bill Cody and friends. The food was such a treat after diner food and zucchini bread we had brought along for the ride. Josh had a Buffalo ribeye, and I chose the entree that was comprised of entirely local and free range lamb. I know, it's hard to believe, but one ambition for me this trip was to avoid any chain or non-local food/entities. I think it worked primarily.... wait. I did get a cappucino at Starbucks. And Josh broke down in the middle of nothing Nebraska and had Sonic tater tots. We were starving and just not feeling the local Chinese establishment. Anyway, Sheridan was really beautiful. We saw an amazing photography show of Wyoming birds at a contemporary gallery and residency program called UCross. And then we started noticing all the amazing birds. Sheridan was really interesting and beautiful. The main street had flashing cowboy bar signs and a really quaint and cozy coffee shop.



After a day or two Josh and I drove out to the Big Horn Mountains to set up camp and a cook out that Rebekah and David were going to join us in. These mountains are amazing and I can't believe we didn't get hardly any pictures of them. There are signs on towering rocks as you drive by that date them back to different millenia. So powerful... But after a chase down the mountain to catch Bekah and David as they passed our spot, we finally set up camp along a stream and cooked a delicious dinner.









After Sheridan, our destination was Cowfish Brewery in Lander. Ma & Pa Smith met us there because they are just that crazy to drive two hours to have dinner with us. More steak was involved, I had a wasabi tuna salad- not local, of course- and microbrewed beer. It was so much fun to finally see Sue and DonRay after a week of traveling, and then to sit down and have steaks in Lander, a town that holds really great memories from our trip last summer. We made it to Rawlins that night and collapsed into a real bed. The five days we were there we were able to have delicious meals, eat Rawlins Mexican, travel to Laramie with Sue to explore and think about future possibilities, hike the highest point- Medicine Bow Peak- in the Snowy Range where we were married five years ago, and spend some much needed quality time with Josh's grandma, recording memories and stories using Cindy's computer. It's difficult to even begin to document the pictures and stories Gramma shared with us. She's always been someone who could just talk and talk as long as I've known her. I remember the first summer I came to Wyoming to meet the family in 2000 and she sunk me into the ancient brown couch to ask me questions. I think I said about 15 words that day as she entranced me with stories of this ranch, coloring each story with the history that reminded me of old western movies I've only barely seen. It's a little overwhelming to realize the life lived by this 78 year old woman. If only I were a filmmaker and could immerse myself in documenting the old west stories she and others around there tell.



Josh's dad took us to a part of the ranch he recently discovered that he thinks is work done by people who probably pre-dated the tribes we know as Native Americans. DonRay's father had told him about rocks that had been purposely arranged in a circle, but the reason they are there and when they were placed there is all a complete mystery. The ranch has always been a zone to discover arrowheads and indian artifacts, but to find see something for the first time on the very land you have always known, and to know it holds history not yet studies is very reverential. We had a tea party on this rim, overlooking the ranch. Watching the sun slowly settle within the humps of landscape, we saw a herd of elk and antelope moving silently far below, and at this distance they appeared to be moving slowly, almost as though they dragged the hills behind them. We watched the moon subtly rise in front of usand toasted to the world around us that had no idea we watched on.











After our time in Rawlins we were on the road again, headed towards Fort Collins, CO. We took a scenic route, although really, is there any unscenic route in Wyoming? Some would argue that the entire interstate 80 is a barren desert. I wouldn't argue against that, either. Anyway, we went over through Saratoga, home of some smelly hot springs, and then over the Snowy Range. We chugged over these high mountains, lightning an encore to our journey. Worries slightly shrouded our hopes of hiking to the highest point in this range, but once we reached the trailhead we knew there were no options. We were going to risk it, and take pictures on our camera phone on the way up. We pulled on those rusty old hiking boots, and layered ourselves in whatever clean clothing we could find. Unfortunately our memory card on the camera phone is malfunctioning, so we can't do more than describe the sky, land, rocks, and animals. I don't think I've ever had the opportunity to truly experience Alpine Lakes. Here we were, trucking our way a couple of miles to the top, walking alongside crystal clear and calm bodies of water. The entire atmosphere was like an under water scene, with greens and blues, lightning and clouds rolling over and ahead as though we are fish peering out below the fresh water. It wasn't the easiest hike, but definitely manageable. We were the only ones out that day on that specific trail, so between our staggered somewhat labored breathes at the higher elevation, we could just be, remembering aloud all the friends and family that joined us five years ago in these very mountains to seal our marriage. But this time we were completely alone, and once we reached the final part of the climb, jutting rocks and birds flitting in and out of the rocks crevasses, we just sat silently on top of this spectrum of colors, once again realizing the finality of time and space. We hunched down, trying not to trip on the rocks, and turned 360 degrees, looking down upon a dozen or so alpine lakes, and looking out towards the clouds rolling in. We knew we didn't have much time to get down to lower ground (a.k.a. safer ground) once the sky started spitting drips of rain on our chilled skin. The way down we saw rocks changing into brilliant colors as they got progressively wetter.

We eventually made it to Fort Collins and met some of Josh's old camp friends from Boy Scout Camp who were all gathering for a wedding reception. I had met them all at our wedding, but never got to spend time with them. So we had some drinks, talked about times past and times to come, and thoroughly enjoyed being with these guys. I even got to see the rustic camp where all they all got to know each other so well. They lived at camp and in soldier like tents for full summers, doing crazy things.

We left early on a Sunday morning for Omaha to see my folks. I got pulled over because I had created a lane that didn't actually exist while stopping at a stoplight. That was a first. It was five o'clock on a Sunday morning in a rural Colorado town of about 2000 people. I cannot figure out what he thought he would find out there at five o'clock in the morning. But he found me, and then proceeded to tell me what yellow and white lines on pavement mean in the state of Colorado, and then looked me over. He must have thought I looked like a sketchy character considering my rear bumper is falling off, we had granola in the backseat, and Josh hadn't shaved for a week. I mean, who wouldn't? He thought it necessary to ask me if I had any "knives, guns, grenades, weapons of mass destruction, or Al Qaeda pamphlets". How do you not laugh at that, especially when it's 5 o'clock in the morning? We made away with little more than a reprimand, but he had my wheels turning about where I would possibly have found a place to hide weapons of mass destruction in my car.

Omaha was cozy, pleasant, and so enjoyable. We had yet more delicious meals and were able to hike around an art exhibit at Fontanelle Forest. Josh and I spent an afternoon downtown, walking around the Old Market and checking out Bemis Art Center. We bbq'ed, played cards, went for walks and bike rides, and saw my mom's new classroom. At some point closing in on the time I was able to settle into my parents deck, thinking back on the trip, the family, the conversations. Sitting there, the smells were all reminiscent of BBQ- spittles of bone, marrow, charred veggies. Hollering air crept through the catterwauling of locusts as I sipped coffee of recycled, second use grounds. This was the tail end of our 2 week plus five day roadtrip. Looking at my feet, they showed stripes of brown, shrugging their way through my bulky blue sandals like crevasses in a canyon. These feet carried me into the hugs of college best friends, uncles and aunts, in-laws and grandfathers, cowboys and cow women, moms and dads. These generations that have made their way into my ancestry. The land I remembered as I thought on these things remain as shifting dust, grass, sage, brush, rocks, stones, sticks- all living memories.

Going Up North

We finally did it- we wandered far enough north to catch the sparkle of life in Michigan's Upper Peninsula.

Sprinkles of showers hit our greasy windshield as we pulled east out of our driveway in Ann Arbor. Our first destination was to be Bob's Yurt, the infamous grounds for many a sledder during Michigan's wet, northern winters. We've spent many a morning with the legendary Bob, sipping dark coffee and chowing dense, moist hotcakes made by Josh in preparation for a day of drywalling. After a week of drywalling with Bob, we jotted down a few obtuse directions and targeted ourselves onto the interstate towards this structure that we had spent hours discussing. Four hours into our drive, intermittently napping, singing, and chatting, we find ourselves crawling on the blacktop at 30 miles per hour, rain being our culprit. We are only miles from our beckoning exit, but realize that while it's pouring a couple mile hike into an unknown, slightly sketchy structure with our homes on our backs might not be an ideal beginning to our vacation.

So on to plan B. Further north is a completely different land mass, one that we've never tread upon. And it summoned us. We had heard of fudge shops and masses of water existing only 60 miles north of where we presently were, so our thoughts were to travel there, look for a weather radar, gorge on a bit of chocolate, and forge ahead. Reaching Mackinaw City we were greeted by the Mackinac Bridge, a structure that manipulates your being, immediately narrowing your physical self into a miniatured version of form. It creeps along the width of water between Michigan's two land masses, crystals of water lapping against its weighted outline. Stepping out of our moving machine, we brought ourselves to the waters edge, sandy toes chilled and degrees of awe bumping up on our skin. Not being from water, the two of us were a sight, snapping pictures, laughing, and wondering what in the world we were to do with all this wetness around. Rain slipped behind our ears, our rainjackets drooped on our icy shoulders, and our eyes were slits against the water that fell. And at our feet was a body of water dividing this state we'd been occupying for over four years yet had never known.

We crossed this bridge, found a Visitor's Center to guide our wayward journey, and saw that all around us was rain. But there was hope in the northwest. Not far out of St. Ignace, the town the bridge led us to, we were greeted by clearer skies and Lake Michigan to our south. We traveled along highway 2 with the intention of finding Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore and setting up camp. A couple of hours later, night threatening to come, we found ourselves in Grand Marais, the northern tip of the National Lakeshore, buckets of rain cascading down the sides of our Little Honda. A hopeless situation with no hostels in site.

Time for Plan C (or was it D?). Onto the Buckhorn Resort, an hours trek south. This meant backtracking. We wondered why we saw few signs of human life until our route took us to washboard roads, our bums hopping up in down in our foam seats, an encore of rain slapping the exterior. A day of driving in the rain and we both knew we were lucky to still like each other. But we pulled through, found the Buckhorn Resort, and realized it was little more than a storage barn.

Plan D (possibly E): On the way to our storage unit ("resort"), we had passed a sign leading to Otter Lake Campground. Driving in the depths of the forest we found a bin of firewood for sale and stuck a damp $5 bill in the cash register coffecan. Loaded with splintering wood and fingers crossed we drove along the dirt road to the campground. Now the air hung with water, but little actually fell from the sky. Otter Lake had a cloud of steam rising from it's belly. We were thrilled. This was adequate housing. Knowing that the wetness breathing down on us could at any point spill over it's sides, we worked quickly to make a fire and set up our tent. Darkness set in all around us, thoroughly covering our faces, our belongings, and all that was familiar. Leaning into the fire, we kept ourselves awake with the delicious smell of homemade, roasting potatoes Josh had prepared. Complete gratification.

I woke to the sound of small pelts of rain on our shelter and the sounds of wood chopping. Josh made a fire in the light rain that fell and we slurped our coffee true to good form. An hour later we were drenched, dripping in 40 degree rain and huddling next to our struggling fire. We realized the desperate situation we were in. Being the only people in the entire campsite, we out loud allowed ourselves to vent our extremes- laughing and wanting to cry all at the same time. The campsite, tho, had a bathroom. Little did we know that the bathroom actually had a shower until in desperation I ran across through the grounds to the edge of the water to where the bathroom structure sat. A hot shower wearing my flipflops never felt so good. It was a lottery win of such great proportions.

The weather didn't seem to want to let up, so we folded our wet tent into the back of the car, threw in our belongings, and cranked on the heat. We drove into the town of Munisey and decided to continue our drive on Highway 2, going into Marquette, MI. The town is built on water culture, fresh fish and boats all around. We spent time in the quaint town shooting photos, walking through their food co-op, and stopping into a brewery.

The rain hid itself in the afternoon hours so with great ambition we headed back towards Munisey, curious as to where the night would take us. It led to Lake Superior. We found 12 Mile Campground, an unimaginable scape of land in forest and sand and water. The wind wailed, a sure fire way to dry a soggy tent. After setting up camp, the Lake sprawling and lapping loud waves just beyond us, we decided to take an evening hike. We were headed towards a lighthouse- the lake on our left, the woods on our right. It was phenomenal.

We slept to the sound of the water and the wind. We woke up to chilly air and our coffee pot begging to be set on a fire. And the pictures that follow here are from an amazing 10 mile hike up and down land and water. Few people braving the weather led to almost completely desolate hikes, campsites, and roads. The trip can never be repeated. It was truly gorgeous, unexpected, and amazing.

Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore

Mackinac Bridge- This bridge celebrates it's 50th anniversary this year, and is the access between Michigan's upper penninsula and lower state.







These five pictures were from our campsite the second night of our rustic stay in Pictured Rocks. We were right on Lake Superior. The wind was raging and the waves emphatically spilled onto the shore just feet below us. We had to make wind blocks for our campfire so as to slow the burning of our precious wood.




After establishing our campsite and setting up our tent to dry from the previous night's downpour, we set off on a three mile round-trip hike. We were chaperoned by unfamiliar plants and hiding moose (I really want to believe a moose was in those woods, completely enthralled by our every footstep), and serenaded by thunder. We found historical remains of shipwrecks (pics below), and this lighthouse, insinuating an aura of lake times past. This lighthouse was placed at this point as a means to slow the wreaking of ships- a tragedy that occurred far too often at that point in time- as they traveled from Whitefish Point to Munisey. The only way in is by foot now, and we were the only ones harebrained enough to brave the cold, threatening weather. That's the beauty of adventure.






And finally, a pictured rock....

Chapel Rock to Mosquito Falls

On the third day of our adventure there was a reprieve from the rain. The clouds made way for a beautiful, pastel sunrise, and the wind spurred our morning along by encouraging our fire to brew a quicker cup of coffee. We set out around noon on a 10 mile hike (which happens to be part of the North Country Trail that leads from New York to North Dakota) that would wind us around beach and forest, sand and loamy soil, waterfalls and plateaus. We caught sight of a kingfisher, an army of chipmunks, a mink, and yet again the quiet, hiding moose that we never could catch site. One of the first stops on the hike, only accessible by trail, was Chapel Rock. The site of this tree, perched on a massive form of rock, gazing out among the water with it's roots stretched across open sky is breathtaking and exhilarating. The ability of plants and trees to reach for life in adverse situations should remind us all to be extra thankful for their endurance. Without such survival techniques on the part of plant and animal life, our outlook on human existence might be even graver yet. Respect that of which we are the caretaker.




The Great Lake Superior....



These are the Pictured Rocks. We saw a sailboat glide by in the distance and it was from these rocks that many a seagull and the kingfisher floated overhead. Sitting there I wished that I, too, could fly, catching the wind on my wings and diving into the cold water for food....

Marquette

Marquette is the home of Northern Michigan University and was not at all on our roadmap for the trip. We ended up there after our multiple attempts to enter Pictured Rocks were thwarted by literal downpours. And yes, we did find a local brewery that sympathized with our chilled bones and hungry bellies.




Josh was awed by this enormous concrete structure, stained rust from iron.

House of Grime

Layer upon layer- plywood, plaster, dirt, dust, curtain rods, maps, asbestos, insulation, lathe, and more insulation. This was the demolition of 85+ years worth of a ceiling's life. My dad came to help install the drywall two weeks back. Well, we bought the drywall and took the ceiling down. The job was larger than expected, and dirtier than even the most creative can imagine. Armed with dustmasks, eyewear, and layers of junk clothes we exasperated that ceiling, leaving it exposed and confused. But soon enough, it will be covered and safe again. Josh is responsible for leveling the ceiling- there are inches of discrepancy in this old home's first floor ceiling. Then together we'll hang the drywall, and I will do the taping, compounding, and sanding. All in good time to become yet another unsold home in Ann Arbor's struggling market. At least we can hear the birds that have nested in our roof much clearer now. It's only slightly creepy to hear the outside world so indubitably and pieces of the ceiling intermittently falling throughout the day and night.

Hummingbirds and Hobos

I can't even count the number of times I cried his week. But last night was the kicker. The tears started and stopped with this story:

There was a fire in the forest. The flames raged and the animals scattered. They flew and fled to the far edge of the forest. Except for the hummingbird. The other animals taunted the hummingbird, critical of her foolishness. But the hummingbird couldn't bring herself to leave the forest. She looked around her, she felt the heat on her wings. But with all the weavings of an irrational mind, she flew to the nearest source of water, and returned with a single drop of water. She flew back and forth, back and forth, her wings looking still in their constant motion. The animals stared in disbelief, saying "Hummingbird, why do you tire yourself with no purpose?" On and on, she tirelessly dropped the smallest bits of water onto the fire. Finally she breathed, her song breaking, and told the others, "I am moving because I can't bring myself to stand still. I am trying, I am one single bird, tiny and small, dropping these tears of water because it is all I know to do. I can't not do this."

I think that I have been in the fire all week, fluttering my wings in disbelief, feeling the edge of burn on my dry wintery skin. Wangari Matthai spoke at the Fountain Street Church in Grand Rapids, MI last night, finishing her talk with that story. Wangari is the 2004 Noble Peace Prize winner, leads the Green Belt Movement in Kenya, and has been the first woman to receive her Phd in Central and Western Kenya. She has been a member of Parliament, the first woman to teach at the university level, and so many other things. As she told that story, I waited on edge for some radical and clever ending of the story. I expected an ending that was triumphant, an ending that brought the fire to a beautiful and fruitful close. But it was so simple, and so applicable.

When I heard that she would be speaking for free in Grand Rapids, Josh and I freed our schedules so we could go, and with a severe winter storm warning and our first trip after a $1700 repair to our Honda, we left with plenty of time to be there early and obtain good seats for the 7pm talk. Twenty-eight miles from Grand Rapids I felt the car lose control. Stopping on the edge of the interstate, Josh walked around the car, braving the side sweeping snows from passing semis. Without knowing what was going on, we dragged the car on the interstate, clutching our seatbelts, to the nearest exit. We traded spots, Josh drove up and down the streets not feeling anything unusual, and then veered back onto the interstate. With the snow, the wind, and the open road Josh finally felt what I had felt and we surmised that we needed new tires. We located a tire place that was still open, all of a sudden with just 10 minutes to go until Wangari began speaking. The tire place had us in and out in 20 minutes, assured us that the new tires would solve our fishtailing and feeling of floating, and told us the easiest way to get back on the interstate. Fabulous.

Approaching Exit 77C, I start to finally feel relief. Then suddenly we are swept past the exit by multiple orange barrels. We end up on another highway, irritated and lost. We stop at a gas station, I walk in and broadly ask to whoever might be listening, "Where is Fountain Street Church?". A man paying for his smokes careens his neck to look at me, smiles with his four tooth grin and says, "Fountain Street Church? I can take you there, if you trust me." I say, "Sure, I'll follow you." To which he says, "Well, it might take awhile to follow seein' as I'm walking." I it's an awfully cold night to be walking, and crawl into the back seat, clutching my cell phone. He tucks on into the front seat, adjusting his belongings into his roomy coat. I immediately start thinking about the weapon he must be trying to comfortably reach. He introduces himself as Martin, and after directing us where to head, starts telling stories of the buildings that we pass, mentioning that he got pneumonia from drywalling in the cold at an ominous looking building just east of us. I tell him that I've spent my week drywalling our upstairs and I am just not patient enough to make that compound smooth. After giving me really great tips on how to improve my skills we finally arrive at the church- it's 7:45. He jumps out of the car saying "Have a good life!" and I look at Josh, making sure we are both still alive and not in a dream. Martin was a very kind homeless man that asked nothing of us, just got us where we needed to go as quickly as he could and gave me tips on drywalling.

We walk into the massive stone church and after a few wrong turns hear the strong, deep voice of a Kenyan woman. We tiptoe to the balcony and catch the last half of her talk. She talked about her initiative to plant a billion trees in 2007 as part of her organization, the Green Belt Movement. She talked of the overthrow of the dictatorship in Kenya and the transition the country has finally made with democracy. She spoke about the time that she and many other women spent in jail for fighting the deforestation of Kenya. And she talked about the relationship between not maintaining the environment and conflict. The poor are reaping the devastation of countries not caring for the environment. Eventually the poor will rise up and fight. But no one wins in these conflicts.

Her overall message seemed simple- Kenya used to survive on their backyard forests and trees, but then Kenya became desert with only 2% of their land remaining forest. So she started planting trees and raising her voice in opposition of the Kenyan dictatorship. I felt such awe for her, but at the same time I was feeling a deep personal discouragment. We live in a democratic nation, and supposedly the strongest democracy in the world. We have trees and clean water. But our leaders choose to lie and deny that they daily make choices which take advantage of our limited resources. We have the information, the science, the knowledge, the money, and our leaders knowingly choose to void these things. What can I possibly do, a drywalling girl with a psychology degree that works at a brewery.

This hummingbird recycles, reads, reuses grocery bags at the store, denies plastic bags when offered, shops at the Salvation Army and trades clothes with friends, buys local, grows some of her own food, talks to friends, questions her governement, votes on her values, listens to people that have been challenged and in turn challenged these issues, keeps her heat down, doesn't buy food wrapped in plastic or food processed with chemicals, avoids meat from feedlots and cramped coops, bikes, carpools, walks, and is learning the Ann Arbor bus system, works locally, cleans with baking soda and vinegar....

I don't know what else, and really this isn't exactly the point. The point is that Wangari spoke to a thousand people last night, and I heard her say that by my living a life where I choose to think and listen and then live, I am doing enough. I will bring the drops of water, and just by doing something rather then nothing, I am making a difference. This week was so discouraging, each day a new set of tears appearing unexpected. But all of a sudden the overwhelming notion that I fail and don't make a difference in this life that I live has completely dissipated in the very same fire I humbly drop water on.