I can't stand Bratz dolls and the "hurry-up-and-grow-up" message they send to young girls, so I was overjoyed to read this story: Bratz dolls get their makeup scrubbed off. (Thanks for posting it, Lois!)
Fantastically creative ideas for homemade bird-feeders--I love the Lego bird-feeder!
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I just got back from a lovely ski weekend in Great Barrington, MA with my family. (Well, to be technical, my husband and daughter went skiing, my son went snowboarding, and I went photographing!) While I'd love to show you some pictures from the ski trip, I thought you might like a little break from all of the snow and ice lately...to take a little vicarious vacation to Hawaii!
Aside from a couple of posts featuring the work of my photography students, I've featured other photographers here only twicebefore. But I'm making an exception again, for one of my nearest and dearest friends, Michael Graziano, whom I've known since we were 16 years old, when we met at a summer arts program for high school students at Wesleyan University.
Michael and I are birds of a feather. We both grew up in Connecticut; we both lived in New York City for many years, where we were both in creative fields; and we're both crazy about the music of Neil Finn and Liam Finn (but oddly, not Tim Finn). He's one of those friends that no matter how much time passes between get-togethers, we start right up where we left off. (I love that kind of friendship, don't you?)
For the past twenty years, Michael worked at Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS, and as its Producing Director, he helped raise millions of dollars for its charitable efforts. Last August, he decided to step down from his high-profile job and step out into the Great Unknown. I've been thoroughly enjoying his Facebook updates (let's be honest: how many friends can you say that about?), and I'm betting you'll enjoy this armchair trip, too.
The following quotes are Michael's updates from Facebook, and all of the photographs in this post are his, taken with his iPhone (all used with his permission, of course!).
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September 23, 2014: "An adventure begins this week. I am off to live in Hawaii for 4 months, volunteering at Kalani retreat on the Big Island. I'll be living in a tent, which I bought from an Italian gal who is leaving for Costa Rica. I am bringing few possessions--clothes, some good books, a journal, my good-luck necklace that I bought in Amsterdam when I was 20 years old. I will be living in the shadow of the Kilauea volcano, nature's reminder of its own awesome power. How will I be touched, humbled and changed by dangerous Pele, the ancient Hawaiian goddess of fire and volcanoes?"
October 15, 2014: "I am making friends with some new members of the animal kingdom here in Hawaii such as this gecko. There are also the feral cats that live on the property and are very sweet. Less friendly are the wild pigs that roam around my tent at night but they scare easily. I am trying to avoid the dreaded fire ants which pack quite a sting. Sea turtles can be seen in the ocean nearby but so far they have only poked their heads and shells out of the water and not ventured onto the land. So many living things to encounter!"
October 26, 2014: "The lava approaches. We shall see what Madame Pele has in store for us this week. The closest town may have to evacuate but we are not currently in the lava path. It will likely cross the highway, though, so we will be cut off from civilization as new roads are made. The lava changes its path and rate of flow all the time so nothing is certain."
November 15, 2014: "This guy has been living in the shower stall for a few days now. Seems to be friendly so far."
December 10, 2014: "When I arrived in Puna in October, it was hot, humid and rained every day. Now that we are in the 'rainy season' of December, it is glorious with the sun shining, lower humidity, cooler nights and no rain for days. Perfect holiday weather."
December 24, 2014: "These palm trees looked to me like snowflakes against the sky. Happy Christmas Eve from Hawaii!"
January 12, 2015: "Night falls over my tent."
January 13, 2015: "Cats. There must be close to 100 feral cats on property, fed by animal-loving volunteers and whatever they can find in the jungle. These cats act like dogs, begging for food or attention. This is Wilbur."
January 17, 2015: "Sunset at Mauna Kea into the clouds at almost 14,000 feet."
January 18, 2015: "Goodbye Kalani! I depart today after 3 and a half months filled with laughter, challenge and creativity. I shaved off my beard and hair yesterday in prep for the next leg of the trip. Time for new growth. I'll be exploring the islands for the rest of the month and head to New Zealand in February. Aloha Kalani friends!"
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Safe travels, Michael, and thanks for letting me share a little part of your Hawaiian adventure here! I hope New Zealand is EVEN BETTER! xox Joy
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I now return you to your regularly scheduled weather. (How GORGEOUS were those pics?!)
My blogging friend Bethany from Our Journey to Ithaca interviewed me today about minimalism, but if you could see my house (not small) and the things in it (much more than a few), you would hardly call me a minimalist. As I told Bethany, I'm more of a non-consumerist: I've grown to really dislike shopping, mainly because...
My sister and I had to clean out our parents' home to prepare it for sale after they died. Decades of accumulated STUFF to sort, clean, sell, recycle, or (sadly) throw out. It was as if the saying "you can't take it with you" had appeared in neon flashing lights before our very eyes.
I want to lessen my environmental footprint. Buying more stuff isn't green (all of the manufacturing, packaging, and shipping!), and as you might have guessed from this blog, green is a thing I aspire to be.
I have enough. More than enough. And I want to have less of it.
I've found a sense of peace and happiness with my life, just as it is. So, I'm not looking for happiness on a sale rack at the mall.
Which led me to wondering: What are all the reasons we go shopping, anyway? Do any of these sound familiar to you?
1) Do you go shopping for "fun"? Can you switch it out for bicycling, beach-combing, tennis lessons, piano-playing, reading, painting, gardening, swimming, cooking, writing a novel, or my personal favorite--photography? Remember, there are only so many afternoons in your life. Why spend them shopping for capri pants at The Gap?
2) Do you shop when you're feeling blue? Call a really good friend who loves you just as you are. (I suggest Colin Firth.)
3) Do you shop to replace stuff that's broken? Can you fix it yourself? Can it be repaired by someone else? It's kinder to the planet than tossing something broken-but-fixable into the trash.
7) Did you just break up with somebody? Instead of retail therapy, immerse yourself in learning a new language, and pick up a skill you'll use for life. (I used to do this back in my dating years. When I told my friend Chris that I learned a new language every time I broke up with a guy, he said, "Why aren't you up to Sanskrit by now?" What a jokester...)
8) Did you just see an ad for something sexy and beautiful? Don't get sucked in by the empty promises of ads featuring models and actors.
9) Did you just win the lottery? Congrats! Take a trip around the world instead of a trip to the mall. (Experiences over things!)
10)Need an outfit for a big event? When was the last time you cleaned out your closet? Are you sure there's nothing in there that will do?
11) Do you really need that new necklace? Wait a month and see if you still remember it.
12) Is it impossible to control yourself financially with a wallet full of credit cards? Pay with cash. It's amazing how things don't seem like such bargains when you're paying with paper money instead of plastic.
13) Are you shopping for "hobby stuff", such as scrapbooking or sewing materials? Do you honestly have the money, space, dedication, patience, skills, and free time for that hobby?
15) Do you shop to show people that you love them and are thinking about them? Instead of trinkets, would they rather have some dedicated, one-on-one time with you instead? (And if not, why not?)
So, before you head out for some recreational shopping, just ask yourself one question: "Why?"
Your turn: Why do you shop? Let's hear it in the comments section below--I'm all ears!
This week's photos, just by happy coincidence, are all animal-related--even if they're not all photographs of actual animals. For example, the plant above is called "Hens and Chicks." I love Hens and Chicks! I would've bought two or three of these plants today, but the snooty florist had a bee in her bonnet. Bad service = no sale!
The little guy below was very attentive, though. We met him at a local farm. I think he was hoping that I was packing a few carrots in my purse. Goats have such interesting eyes, don't they?
For the last couple of years, my children have been collecting donations for the animal rescue organization that saved our wonderful dog, in lieu of birthday presents from their friends. (Yes, I am a proud mom!) My daughter is pictured below, delivering some of the bags of dog food that were almost as big as she is!
While we were at Eleventh Hour Rescue, some thoroughly adorable kittens were brought in for adoption. If I weren't allergic to cats (something I sadly developed in adulthood), we would have arrived home with two or three more whiskered friends, I'm sure. Just look at this precious little face...
We ended the week with monkeys! Dropping off kids' outgrown clothes and shopping for "new" camp clothes at Little Monkeys consignment shop. I love consignment shops! They're one of the greenest things around. If you haven't ever visited a consignment shop, look them up in your area and give 'em a try!
Hens, chicks, goats, dogs, cats, and monkeys...yep, I guess you could say it was one wild week!
This little sweetheart was wandering around the streets of Jerusalem. When I think of all the places I've visited over the years, I think fondly of the feline friends I made along the way.
Learn how to take your own Monday Snapshots--or better pictures any day of the week! Registration is now OPEN for my July e-course, "How to Take Better Photos of Nature and the World Around You."Click here for details!
Want to learn to take better pictures of your pets? Register for my upcoming photography e-course, "How to Take Better Photos of Nature and the World Around You." The following link has all the details: Learn more and register here.
With Thanksgiving just two days away as I write this, I think it's appropriate for me to give thanks to you for reading Joyfully Green and to let you know how much I appreciate your kind support, encouraging comments, and in many cases, your friendship. I've gotten to "know" many of you through this blog, which is a lovely fringe benefit of blogging that I never expected. (Whoever said the internet is a cold and unfriendly place obviously never traveled to this warm and cozy corner of it!)
I also want to thank you for guiding this blog in a new direction: nature and wildlife photography. The overwhelming majority of the feedback I receive (so sweet--you're such a friendly bunch!) is about my photographs, so you've literally guided me to the next steps. Specifically, this week, I'm launching my own shop of photographic art prints (framed and unframed) on Society6, a company that produces and mails out the prints for me (which is quite a bonus for me, as I have an almost allergic reaction to waiting in line at the post office!).
To kick off this launch, I'm giving away one unframed photographic print, and I'd love for it to go to YOU! (Yes, YOU!) To enter, take a look at the 30 choices of prints in my Society6 shop (make sure you check out both pages for the choices), linked below, and let me know in the Comments section below the title of your favorite one. If you're the winner (picked via Random.org, a random number generator), that's the print I'll have Society6 send to you. Sound like a good deal? Okay, then, have a peek at your choices and make your pick before this Monday, December 2, when I'll pick a random winner at 12:00 noon EST. One entry per person, please.
In the spirit of sharing, I hope you'll pass on this link to your own friends and family--in case they want to enter the giveaway, or are panicking for holiday gift ideas, or are just looking for a pretty picture (or two, or three!) to adorn their walls. (Please note that stretched canvases are not available for my work, despite Society6 telling you that they are--it's a glitch in their system. I'm selling framed and unframed art prints only.)
Good luck--and have a delicious and joyful Thanksgiving!
(If the link isn't clickable here, please copy and enter it in your browser.)
P.S. Early in the new year, I'll be offering an online photography course, so you can learn how to take lovely photos of your own (even if you can't shoot straight!)--but more on that another time!
Your turn: Enter the title of your favorite photo from the Society6 link above for your chance to win it!CONTEST NOW CLOSED: The winner is Katie--congratulations! Thanks, all, for your sweet comments on the photographs.
(c) 2013 by Joy Sussman/JoyfullyGreen.com. All rights reserved. Photos and text digitally fingerprinted and watermarked. Site licensed by Creative Commons.
"When a man loves cats, I am his friend and comrade without further introduction."--Mark Twain
This is a true story about a network of strangers across the United States, all pulling together to save the lives of two nameless, homeless cats. Is it "green" to save animals? Well, it doesn't fall within the realm of the classic three R's of environmentalism: Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. It's not about global warming or energy conservation. But for me, any time you care about the planet and the fate of any of its inhabitants--when you are positively impacting the life of a wild animal--conserving a life, a precious resource--then you are exercising your "green gene." Greg Yarrow, Professor of Wildlife Ecology at Clemson University, writes in his May 2009 Fact Sheet entitled Wildlife and Wildlife Management: "A definition of wildlife should include all living organisms out of the direct control of man, including undomesticated animals." This story fits that bill.
It was winter 2005 and we lived in the suburbs of Philadelphia. As the days and nights grew crisper and darker, my husband and I noticed two stray cats--one little, one big (a mother and her baby?)--huddling in the half-open garage of the elderly woman who lived in the house behind ours. They were shivering and looked terrified of people, dodging deeper into the garage whenever we neared it. Meanwhile, we already had our own cat (pictured above) who lived comfortably in our warm, cozy house--a very territorial cat who didn't even like the sight of another animal walking down our street. But we wanted to help the strays, so we started leaving out bowls of water and dry cat food for them in our yard, and sure enough, when they thought we weren't looking, they would sneak over and feast ravenously.
Then one day, our other next-door neighbor told us that she had just called the town's animal control unit to complain about two stray cats that were making her new dog bark. (This dog also barked at squirrels, birds, chipmunks, bikers, the mailman, passing cars, falling leaves, and anything else that moved.) After making a few calls, I found out that the township planned to trap the cats and euthanize them, as they were feral and nobody would want to adopt them. They were considered nuisances, simply because fate hadn't been kind to them (yet). Hearing this news, I realized how deeply attached I'd become to these two little cats, whom I'd never even touched.
There are a few things I don't like about the Internet (mean-spirited people who use their anonymity to spread hatred and ignorance ranks way up there), but I have to admit that the Internet literally helped save the lives of those two cats. Through a Google search, I came across national and local assistance for homeless animals: Alley Cat Allies and the Animal Coalition of Delaware County. Kind cat-lovers from the latter organization showed up at our house, humanely trapped the cats, took them to a vet and had them checked, vaccinated, spayed, and neutered. (It turned out that the large cat was a male and the small cat was a female--it was unclear if they were related or just buddies.) The volunteers placed them in our shed, where we had thick blankets for them and could contain them until we could relocate them to a more amenable situation.
Thanks to being alerted about our plight by Alley Cat Allies, Best Friends Animal Society (www.bestfriends.org), a national organization based in Utah, contacted us (not the other way around!) and they sent out a nationwide email bulletin to all of their members, for free. Incredibly, within one week, we had six or seven offers from total strangers in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York to take the feral cats to their barns or farms.
We ended up choosing a large farm in Pennsylvania. The owners had several hundred acres of farmland, and a large, enclosed outdoor area with heated sheds for the animals. They accepted the cats with proof of their vaccinations, spaying, and neutering. As the cats hopped up onto the shelves in the heated shed and settled in, they actually looked relaxed and at peace for the first time. There was no longer any need to run or to hide.
Rescuing these cats and placing them in their new home all happened within the space of just one week. I wish that all environmental and wildlife dilemmas could be solved this quickly and efficiently, but I will be forever grateful for the lessons I learned from those two stray cats: People who care about animals will go many, many extra miles for them. They will work amazingly well with like-minded strangers. They will open their hearts as well as their wallets. They will step up to take responsibility even though they have no obligation to do so. They will make a difference that can literally save the lives of wild animals that belong to nobody. I saw it all firsthand, and I still remember it with gratitude and amazement. Those two nameless, once homeless cats left a permanent mark on my life, and I am grateful to them.
If you've had a relatively happy childhood, I think that in adulthood, you're always trying to recreate or recapture the happy moments, and revisit the special places of your youth--if you can. For my husband, who grew up sailing with his family just north of New York City, he's still at his happiest when he's out on the water, and if he can't be out on the water, he's reading sailing magazines to relax after a long day at work. My own childhood, although also happy, gave me a very different view of peacefulness and personal bliss. Instead of the water, it was the woods.
I grew up in a small town in Connecticut, on a quiet cul-de-sac called Willow Lane--even though there wasn't a single willow tree in sight. Our neighborhood had no shortage of other trees, though, as all of the houses on the north side of the street had the woods to border their back yards, a sprawling range of trees that ran for miles and miles.
My bedroom window faced the forest. Each night, before climbing into my canopy bed, I would stand on my ladybug stool and peer out into the woods. In summer, my nose pressed up against the screen, I could see the little flashes of fireflies, traveling in drunken, weaving patterns around and about the trees. I'd fall asleep to the sound of peepfrogs and wake up to the first bird songs of morning.
About a hundred feet into the woods, just off the well-worn path, was a boulder the size of a Volkswagen Beetle, with the words MAGIC ROCK painted in white capital letters on its side. No one knew who had painted the words, but everyone knew the wishing procedure: Stand atop the boulder, slowly turn around three times, and make a wish--only one wish per forest visit, and no wishing on the way back out!
My sister, eight years my senior, introduced me to the forest. Each December, she would drive me in a wheelbarrow deep into the snowy woods, where we would select the perfect miniature Christmas tree for her bedroom. Carefully, she would dig around its roots, and we would plop the whole package, soil and all, into the wheelbarrow. Later that night, the little tree would sit in a bucket on her desk, bedecked in our homemade garlands of popcorn and cranberries, with a simple strand of white lights. After the holidays, my sister would transplant the tree to our back yard, at the very border of the woods. By the time she went off to college, there were five fir trees on the border of our yard.
In spring, when my sister returned from college, she took me into the forest again. The ground was soft underfoot, and the trees were in full bloom. Kneeling on the bank of a stream, we scooped out frog eggs, pasty-white jelly masses with black dots for centers. We carried them home in beach pails to study, and in a short time, the eggs separated and sprouted long, wiggly tails. Then it was back to the stream again, to send the tadpoles on their way.
In my sister's absence, my father became my guide to the woods. Although he tended three gardens in our own yard (two for flowers, one for herbs), he took it upon himself to be a caretaker of the forest. I accompanied him on his missions: clearing piles of leaves from the dirt paths, weeding out fallen trees, and with our bare hands, scooping out cold mud and twigs from a blocked brook until the water ran freely again.
On weekends, bright and early, my father and I would head out into the forest, followed at a great distance by our cat, Snoopy, whom I suppose was trying to maintain an air of feline independence. Snoopy never got within fifty feet of us, but then again, he never ventured off on his own path, either. We'd stop every now and then to make sure he was following, and he'd stop and pretend that he wasn't.
On our journeys through the woods, my father would point out different plants and trees, insects and animals. Over the fallen tree--an impromptu bridge across the first pond on our journey--past birch ("white bark) and mountain laurel ("white blossoms"), we'd make our way past thickets and tangles. Skirting poison ivy ("leaves of three, let them be") and the hawthorn bush ("needles sharp enough for sewing"), we'd at last come to the meadow.
Crouching amidst the tall grass and wildflowers ("Shh...not a sound"), we would almost always be witnesses to something extraordinary: a jackrabbit bounding about, as if on springs; a garter snake basking on a rock ("he won't hurt you"); a pheasant strutting cockily, looking for its lunch; a stately stag--despite its size, so shy and soft; a Native American arrowhead to take home in my pocket; the Big Old Oak, with its trunk so fat, it would take five children to encircle it with their arms.
As I got older (about ten or so), I got bolder, braving the forest on my own. A latchkey kid, I'd make secret trips into the woods when no one was at home. Once, startled by the sound of people a short distance away, I broke into a run and caught my leg on a jagged branch. Blood pulsed from the deep gash, but there was no time to stop. At home, I put on thick bandages and told my mom it was a gym class injury. I still have the scar, a slight, dotted line up my left shin.
On another secret solo visit, undaunted by the leg injury, I brought along my father's binoculars and hiked out to the farthest pond. Panning the scene at the opposite bank, I spied nothing new with my enlarged vision. Then I saw it--my heart jumped. It was my own first name, carved large and deep on a thick tree trunk. Preoccupied with conjuring up neighborhood suspects, I lost my footing on a mossy rock, catching myself just before taking an unexpected dip in the pond. That's when I heard it--a single, horrible "plop." The binoculars had broken free from the shoulder strap and had sunk to the bottom of the pond.
That night after dinner, my mother went to her studio to paint, while my father went to the living room to immerse himself in a book. I tiptoed in, trying not to shiver.
"Dad?" I whispered. He looked up over his eyeglasses. "Remember how you always say that I can tell you anything?"
"Yes?" He shut his book and looked immediately serious. "What's the matter?"
"And remember how you said you'd always love me, no matter what I did?"
"Yes, yes! Joy, please, what is it?"
I confessed the whole sordid tale, then braced myself to hear my punishment. But my dad didn't yell--he sighed in relief! The binoculars weren't that important, he told me; it was my safety that concerned him. He told me firmly not to go into the woods alone again.
Together, the next day, we retraced my journey, and I brought him to the sound of The Plop. With a long tree branch, he poked and prodded around the bottom of the pond. Then he tapped at something. With one long, careful lift, he raised the branch. The renegade binoculars emerged from the water, dripping with mud and covered with leaves.
After the binoculars were professionally cleaned, my father gave them to me to keep, for future forest trips--together.
The winter I turned eleven, I still didn't know how to ice skate. All of my friends were twirling and leaping on the town lake, but I was too embarrassed to learn to skate in public. One early Saturday morning, with my sister's old skates tied together and slung over my shoulder, I followed my dad to the Binocular Pond. He threw a large rock at its center. It thumped and skidded to a stop. "Safe to skate." After we laced up our clunky, impossible skates, he held both of my hands and glided backwards, and I clumsily trudged forwards and sideways on the blades. Around and around we went. He'd free me and I'd falter. Finally, exhausted from all the legwork, I rested on a rock while my father etched smooth, grand figure eights on the ice, not one sound except for his skates, clicking and wooshing across its surface. Snow had carpeted the forest with white velvet and the trees wore a hundred million twinkling diamonds, glittering from every branch. When morning melted into afternoon, we headed home for lunch. I didn't master skating that January, but I will never forget that day's perfection.
Although in our hearts, the forest was "ours," it didn't really belong to us at all. By the time I was in college, the woods in its entirety was sold to developers. The summer after my senior year of college, when I went home to my parents' house, I looked out the window of my childhood bedroom, only to see the single line of trees, a mere screen between our yard and the new yard behind ours. On the very edge of our property, where the woods once began, I could see the little ring of rocks that marked the burial site of Snoopy the cat. The grave was shaded by my sister's five "miniature" Christmas trees, by then so tall, they dwarfed our house.
But the forest is gone now; all of it, gone. Magic Rock, the tadpole stream, the wildflower meadow, Binocular Pond. In their places are new landmarks. Swing-sets and swimming pools, circular driveways, three-car garages, front yards and back yards, houses and more houses. For miles and miles.
It was many years ago that we sold our house. My parents have long since passed away. My sister and I live on opposite ends of the United States. Much time has passed; many things have changed. But when I close my eyes at the end of a long day, it's the old woods at Willow Lane that I'm picturing. I'm at the very edge of it, and I'm starting down the dirt path, following my dad, just as I drift off to sleep.
Dedicated to my father, Charles Johnson (1924-2002), who lived a green life long before it was the popular thing to do, and perfected the art of kindness.
