It’s Autumn. It’s a time of change for trees. The growing season is coming to a close, though in walking around one can see some species are just now coming to fruit or seed. Leaves are beginning to turn and fall. It’s the end of wildfire season. Forests that have burned stand scorched and too dry. It’s Autumn. This is also a time for human reflection as the year slows down and moves to a close.

Just two days ago, I read an Op-Ed piece in the Wall Street Journal, its author someone once again debating, disputing, and attempting to debunk the science of proof of global warming. I’ve moved on; I’m not going to waste my time debating the reality. Instead, I’m going to look at what works to solve the problem.

As I look out my window, I see foliage that I know will be gone in a month, leaving my view barren and cold. At this glance, I’m reminded of what trees do; I mean, how they function as part of the system of nature. In the simple version, the sixth-grade science version, humans breathe out, and trees breath in. It is the most basic symbiotic relationship. To add a layer, trees breathe in the carbon dioxide cars breathe out. The mechanism of trees breathing in carbon and storing it is called carbon sequestration. As I reflect on this changing season, I see a solution to climate change—reforestation, you know, tree planting.

The city in which I live, Portland, Oregon, has a tree-planting—or urban forestry—program. It is a partnership between The Bureau of Environmental Services and a local non-profit, Friends of Trees, for the simple purpose of increasing the city’s canopy cover—the portion of the city covered in trees. This program grew out of a study conducted through Portland State University—a thirty-year inventory (1972-2002) of the city’s urban forest. The recommendation from the study is a 47% cover in residential areas and 12% in commercial/industrial areas. This means Friends of Trees has to get planted 16,000 trees in three years. Each of these trees can absorb as much carbon in a year as a car produces while driving 26, 000 miles. One benefit of urban trees is that the grow more quickly than rural trees, so can start storing carbon more rapidly. Friends of Trees operates as a Citizen Forestry organization—volunteer, outreach-oriented. Residents purchase trees for a small fee, participate on a planting crew for a day, and weekend after weekend, the city becomes more lush and leafy.

Portland also has a Climate Action Plan, with a component for Urban Forestry and Natural Systems. This plan suggests canopy coverage (by 2030) of 30% of the city, with special attention given to streamside coverage. The city’s approach is much broader than that of Friends of Trees. It includes safe-guarding against tree loss during development; treating trees as part of the infrastructure of the city; putting in place codes and policies to maximize preservation; expansion of private and public urban forestry programs; removal of regulatory obstacles. As well, the city’s plan sets the goal to reduce what is called the urban heat island effect.

The relationship between trees and global warming is much like shade and open areas on a hot day. When the sun is blazing, people and animals become too hot, and will seek shade under a tree, to cool off. Same thing for cities, and for the planet. The sun is beating down, and trees can help with cool-down—all the while taking in that extra carbon dioxide. Not only do trees sequester carbon, helping to keep global temperature from rising, trees also provide other services to humans and nature. Trees trap storm- and rain water, helping with flood control and keeping rivers clean. Trees help to regulate heating costs and protect from wind. Trees are beautiful. They provide habitat for birds and small animals. They produce oxygen as they breathe out, which in turn humans breathe in.

I’m an Oregonian, so I can speak to the notion that, in a colloquial sense, it’s loggers, ranchers, and city folk who comprise the population here. We pride ourselves on clean rivers, big trees, clear skies, and good salmon runs. All of these things come from healthy forests. Even so, Oregon forests are suffering the effects of over-logging, wildfires, and other forms of human impact and degradation, just like anywhere else. Even though our state is pretty green and lush, recent reports speak to the need for a denser tree buffer along streams where logging occurs so that salmon can spawn, and to bigger and more frequent forest fires on the dry side of the Cascades. Researchers at Oregon State University continuously look at the long-term effects of tree harvesting for wood products.

Before the idea of sustainable forestry came into practice, about 88% of our forests were considered degraded. Because of these past acts of over-use, the Northwest Forest Plan was enacted in 1993, largely to protect old-growth forests, mainly as non-human species habitat. Since then, harvests have decreased 82%. A newly released study by David Turner of OSU takes a look at carbon dioxide sequestration in Oregon’s forests since the NWFP was put into action. Turner and his team found that private forest lands are now close to carbon-neutral, and that the forests in the study area absorb almost half of the state level of carbon emissions from fossil fuel. In contrast, the national average of forest carbon sequestration is about 15%. Again, the give-and-take mechanism seems simple; plant trees where they ought to be, and let them breathe.

Even though the idea of carbon exchange is simple, the situation of trees living on earth isn’t. While many places have vibrant urban and wild forests or thriving tree plantations, many have been cleared, over-logged, deforested to the point of harm, as happened here in Oregon.

Scientists, climate change experts, and policy-makers around the globe are studying how to use trees to stave off further global warming. A part of the Kyoto Protocol, developed in 1997, the Clean Development Mechanism (CDM) works to pay developing countries for afforestation and reforestation efforts. Recently, a similar program called REDD—Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Forest Degradation, was established. The difference between the two programs is that CDM pays for stopping logging and for replanting of logged areas; REDD pays for forestry that allows for harvest of logs, but within a rate that still maintains carbon sequestration. In simple terms, industrial nations are buying carbon sequestration from the countries that are planting trees, creating and managing forests as CDM and REDD projects. This is called carbon mitigation. These projects, in general, are called Community Forestry. A study conducted by Daniel Kloosterat, at Florida State University, and Omar Masera, Department of Ecology of University of Mexico, concluded that community-based forest management programs address social and economic sustainability as well as provide carbon mitigation.

The Green Belt Movement in Kenya was one of the earliest such programs, started by Dr. Wangari Maathai. She began planting trees in response to government corruption and over-cutting of trees, and as a way to create income, clean water, and fuel for people in her village. She created a work force of women, many of whom were arrested for planting trees. For this work, Dr. Wangari was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 2004. Friends of Trees had this to say about her, upon her recent passing, “she left a legacy of peace and women’s empowerment through her tree-planting movement in Kenya.” One woman with a simple idea created change across her country and for the world.
Community-based forest projects are happening successfully in Nepal, Tanzia, Mexico, and Cambodia, as well as other Asian, African, and Latin American countries. Common features of such programs are that they work with traditional practice, local and territorial knowledge to create social arrangements from which the forests are managed. As Klooster and Masera explain, “community forest management must remain a central component of strategies to create synergies between carbon mitigation, biodiversity conservation, and rural development.” Supporting agencies such as the East-West Center also cite these common factors; for community-based forestry projects to work, they must operate from localized control—the systems of which will look different from place to place, provide economic return to the forest dwellers and communities themselves, and must foster carbon sequestration. These forestry management practices are distinction different than the Business As Usual (BAU) concession model, in which an outside company leases the land from the forest dwelling community, plants and manages a stand of trees, makes the harvest. Maybe replanting for another round, maybe not. In this model, the forest community serves as a low-paid, expendable workforce, and the profits go to the concession-holder. This is none other than a form of colonialism.

Klooster and Masera’s paper, “Community Forest Management in Mexico: Carbon Mitigation and Biodiversity Conservation through Rural Development, gives encouraging statistics on the socio-economic and environmental benefits of the community forestry model in San Juan Nuevo, Michoacan, Mexico. From 1988 to 1997:

• Local employment tripled, with permanent jobs increasing from 571 to 950;
• Infrastructure improved from a saw mill, carpentry and workshop to those attributes improved, addition of a chip mill, furniture production, and chemical processing plant for resin;
• Social infrastructure of a community store and tortilleria to include a library, four buses, farm supplies store, technical advise station, and a recreational facility;
• On the 814 acres of forest, production of seedlings increased from 140,000 to 3,200,000, while protected areas increased from 155 to 459 acres.

These figures, along with all of the research, affirms the effectiveness of community-based forestry projects. As well, it confirms the need for policy that supports this model. Largely, projects that fail do so because of government systems that favor the BAU model and sabotage community efforts—just as the Kenyan government saw fit to imprison women for planting trees without a permit…because it infringed on the big-business, un-localized profiteers who were over-cutting and degrading forests there. Projects in Laos have also fallen prey to systems of government corruption that would rather keep the people poor and dependent on outside economic powers than self-sufficient and ecologically effective.

Here in Oregon, we have a pioneering spirit; it’s the philosophy the state was built upon. By no accident, the state motto is, “Under the power of her own wings.” So it was no surprise that I found two community-based forest management projects:

In 1966, the Warm Springs Indian tribe bought back the forestry concession on their reservation land to create Warm Springs Forest Products. With the moniker of, “Striking a balance between quality lumber products and environmental pride,” WSFP bases all marketing decisions on the principles of the Chain of Custody Certification of the Forest Stewardship Council. As well, they are Rainforest Alliance certified.

The Siskiyou Project focuses on the non-commercial restoration, enhancement, and climate-change resiliency of area forests. It operates with an ecological focus, developed from local input, with the aim of creating jobs as it builds forests.

While these policy negotiations can be detailed, and BAU can get in the way, the route to action doesn’t have to be. As is stated on the OSU Forestry Department homepage, “Humans are a forest-dependent species.” This unites us—all of us—around the globe.

This morning, on local community radio, I heard commentary from Anodea Judith, author of, Waking the Global Heart: Humanity’s Rite of Passage from the Love of Power to the Power of Love. Judith spoke of the need for people to find these reconciliatory and democratic—as in the participatory power of the people—kinds of models for business and living. Citizen- and Community- Forestry offer a new kind of civic duty. One in which the power structure serves the people doing the work, serves the place in which the work is done, and telescopes out to positive global effects, such as carbon sequestration as part of the solution to global warming. While listening to Judith, I was reminded of an author I read as an undergrad, Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Kenyan author and scholar. One of Ngugi’s over-arching themes was that Africans, and I’ll change that up to mean people, need to decolonize the mind; to let go of those systems of power and corruption that serve some and disadvantage many. Today, that message has strong environmental implications, as Dr. Wangari Maathai understood. As global citizens, we can no longer let our trees be chopped down simply for big-company profit, and with no plan for the future.

People and forests are symbiotic in nature. Even though I can’t single-handedly stop climate change, I can plant trees.

> Links:
> http://vimeo.com/29396555
> http://hollywoodtheatre.org/one-night-only/private-river-gus-van-sant-special-guest/

This year, my route home from residency in Vermont took me to the skies on the 10th anniversary of the attacks on the World Trade Center.

Last year, my route home was on 9/12, metaphorically the day after. Last year, I sat in the Burlington airport and watched two families await the arrival home of servicemen fathers. I had to choke back tears, watching the emotions of the reunions and thinking about the symbolism and all the meaning behind those uniforms and where these men had been.

This year, there were a few people in the airport dressed in flag ensembles, and a snippet of news coverage was overheard in passing. On one flight, the attendant asked for a moment of silence in remembrance; most complied—except for a few people who were laughing. Really? Yes.

Given my long lay-over, I had time to think about my own feelings on this war. I am adamantly opposed to war, so the fact that this one (or two, but who’s counting?) has lasted so long when we the people were promised it would be six months, tops, is inexcusable. I can’t really say much more than that. Well, I can, because I can debate the socio-political what-not of the situation, but I won’t. I did remember some writing I did just after the attacks, and want to share it.

This piece incorporates a motif from Gabriel Garcia-Marquez’s novel, One Hundred Years of Solitude. In the novel, the patriarch, Jose Buendia, goes crazy at the time his son goes to war, for an indefinable cause. In Buendia’s words, the time machine has stopped. Here are my words, originally written in November of 2001. It is a patchwork sort of piece. The lack of capitalization, minimal punctuation, and random paragraphing are intentional:

I.

My mind has been quite disjointed in it’s flow since the outbreak of war. I see a dangerous cycle that has been with man since time, and in parallel contrast I see a movement toward other ways of living side by side, of resolving conflict, of getting along. Is terrorism, in any way, right or excusable? No. Yet, I believe in Peace. Those are the two voices in my head—the fear and the longing. So, in writing this piece I wanted to organize my words around this cacophony. I wanted to convey what my heart feels on this day—the day on which the time machine broke.

II.

It’s a beautiful morning it’s a beautiful morning a beautiful morning it’s a beautiful morning. I’m on my bike to school. birds sky clouds cracks in the street leaves begin to turn leaves fall…leaves it’s fall. whisssh whisssh my tires on the road.

I can’t believe this is happening…did you hear? A bomb the towers are down we’re at war. leaves fall in my heart. two months later I would remember the war planes fly by the window as I teach. two months later friends and I walk to the park I would see flames in the leaves of the trees—the colors of the WTC explosion must have been like those of the beautiful maple trees. flame orange and red that I saw with Sean & Sophie on the way to Wilshire park.

Leaves fall buildings crash life ends and my life goes on. those trees the reds so translucent so vibrant a melon-rich red orange flame orange and the next day and the next as I bike by the leaves fall and fallen are on the ground. I would remember that day when dad told me, Neva even the oldest trees must die.

Wednesday morning I awoke, I stepped onto the back porch into the singing of backyard birds, I watched the squirrels and it was calm just like any morning I choose to check. it was calm and peaceful.

I’m trying to hold onto the Dalai Lama’s notion that peace begins within the person. imagine all the people living in the world…war is over if you want it…give peace a chance…it’s been a month and I watch the tribute to John Lennon and NYC and cry.

It was a beautiful morning. the time machine broke. it will always be Tuesday in America.

I’m on my bike again and with the whissh whisssh of tires this echoes in my mind thou shalt not kill thou shalt not kill and we chant at Christmas…let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.

It’s a blue, blue sky (the same sky covers Afghanistan).

Back on my bike and I remember watching MASH last night the episode ended with Colonel Potter blowing out a candle on a cake and wishing peace on his staff.

Peace I see the message everywhere peace whsssh leaves fall it’s a beautiful morning birds cracks in the street whssssh peace peace peace whssssh it will always be Tuesday peace can begin with me as leaves fall the spring brings new growth and even as the oldest trees die war will end peace whssssh whssssh peace.

III.

..the list line of the last song on the last Beattles album: the love you take is equal to the love you make…

“…So I got me a pen and a paper and I made up my own little sign…”. That’s what we did when we created Plazm. I stood in the 20 Year Anniversary party, and looked around–it was a room of sign makers, and it made me proud.

Aldo Leopold is a widely known ecologist. One of the things he’s famous for is speaking out about the necessity for humans to realize, and try to accommodate, the needs of other species. The following passage marks the turning point in Leopold’s thinking, toward that ideal:

“In those days [1920s] we had never heard of passing up a chance to kill a wolf. In a second we were pumping lead into the pack, but with more excitement than accuracy…When our rifles were empty, the old wolf was down, and a pup was dragging a leg into impassable slide-rocks. We reached the old wolf in time to watch a fierce green fire dying in her eyes. I realized then, and have known ever since, that there was something new to me in those eyes—something known only to her and the mountain. I was young then, and full of trigger itch; I though that because fewer wolves meant more deer, that no wolves would mean a hunters’ paradise. But after seeing the green fire die, I sensed that neither the wolf nor the mountain agreed with such a view.”
from The Sand Country Almanac, 1966.

Recently, I found myself engaged in a discussion based on the passage—the questions raised were, Is nature ethically and politically silent? Does it have value apart from human meaning? Two huge, philosophical questions, right? Two of the big, essential questions that drive much of the debate about environmental issues. Here’s my answer, or at least my pondering…

I don’t think that nature is silent; however, to hear the messages, humans must listen. Nature speaks in cycles and processes. Clear messages are thus sent about what it takes to maintain vitality, and what it means to live and die within the systems of nature. Leopold’s description of the wolf’s death is a perfect example of nature sending a message that was heard by a human. This passage is also a perfect example of the ethical and political aspects of such messages. The choice to kill for sport and thereby end two generations of wolves is an ethical choice; Leopold’s act then became political when he was motivated to change his ideology as a naturalist and a hunter after watching the light leave the mother wolf’s eyes.

Wolves are not intrinsically cruel. They, in fact, are quite loving and social animals; in fact, some wolf experts suggest that humans can learn much about family bonds, loyalty, and social structure from this species. (Now there’s a message from nature). Leopold meant that he saw a message coming through the wolf’s eyes, some deep, deep meaning in her experience of the event. This message, Leopold realized, was bigger than human experience. He then was left to consider the implications wrapped within. No, in this case nature was not silent. Leopold’s account illustrates that nature has value apart from human meaning.

It’s no accident that this Leopold passage is at the core of Green Fire Production’s film, Lords of Nature. This documentary richly portrays the role of wolves as top predators in nature. And, Green Fire is an Oregon company.

A few weeks ago, I was listening to former Governor Barbara Roberts speak to the Portland City Club. She spoke of coming into adulthood with few women role models in positions of power. She remembered completing a Girl Scout badge on women of significance, such persons as Florence Nightengale. Roberts remembered feeling inspired by the women she researched, but also feeling that they were far away. In her comments to the City Club, she recounted the deep feeling she’d carried with her as she made her way to Governor that it was a time of change, and that she and other women had the opportunity to break ground—if they chose to seize the moment.

Oregonians have a similar opportunity right now to break ground in terms of human progress in relation to the natural world. The days of the wolf bounty are long gone. Will we seize the opportunity to live alongside wolves, who bring health and balance to natural landscapes, or will we continue simply to pump lead into the pack?

In March 2010, I quit teaching. Two reasons: 1) burn-out; 2) to attend graduate school in Environmental Studies, hopefully to work in Environmental journalism. About that time, Josh and Tiffany graciously asked me to blog for the magazine. Here goes…

I posted this piece last spring on my personal blog. I’m using it as my first post here because it ties to a topic we covered in Plazm 5, in 1993. Some of you will remember where you were when JFK was shot; some of you will remember where you were when Elvis died, and many of you will remember where you were when Kurt Cobain committed suicide. I will never forget calling Josh when I heard on the news that NAFTA had passed. This piece is a reflection on how creativity, in this case fabric art, can counteract political wrong-doing.

Alabama Chanin, Textile Arts, Oral Tradition, and celebrating the everyday…

I.
I am a denizen of Powell’s books. Last night, I attended the lecture about the vintage quilts hanging on the gallery wall there, given by Natalie Chanin of Alabama Chanin, a sustainable design firm.

In the hour that Chanin spoke, she warmed my heart with the reminder of the rich traditions we have in America, and that we can hold on to them when we practice sustainability, which is what my grandparents would have called “simple living.” Chanin’s presentation was so rich and deep and wandered nowhere near –isms(as in environmentalism), nor did she focus on the buzz words of social justice. But really, her work is just that: creative, historical environmental social justice. The words she used over and over again were “farm,” “tradition,” “cultural preservation,” “oral histories,” “generations,” and “forever.” This is the stuff of sustainability.

After a brief introduction of herself and her training and experience, Chanin state that, during a time when her job in the fashion industry required three-month stints in India, she had seen “things people should never see being done to another human–the greatest atrocities to mankind– for a garment.” Later, she commented that the fashion industry is the largest polluter on the planet. The clothing she creates now is all done by hand. All of the cotton is 100% organic, grown in Texas, spun in Texas and Mississippi, and all of the garments are hand-sewn by quilters in Alabama and surrounding Southern states. Alabama Chanin is a zero waste business.

When I asked her about environmental issues, Chanin replied that she thinks of sustainability in terms of sustenance: food, shelter, clothing. If we can change how we get done these three things, we’ll meet [environmental obligations].

Chanin can tell you who made your garment, on what day, how long it took, where the raw material was grown, and a bit about the life and history of the woman who put needle to fiber.
In her work, Chanin has made a commitment to community and tradition, first showing up in a documentary film, Stitch, then as collected oral histories, in which she aims to “embrace all of it that is the history of the South, to sustain tradition, and to document beauty.” In her anecdote about the quilts on the wall at Powell’s she explained that, after making the film, quilts began showing up on her doorstep, like squash in the summer. These are “garbage quilts,” meaning they would have been used to cover stored furniture in the barn, or to lay upon while under a car changing the oil.

Chanin, in her return to Alabama from the fashion epicenter of NYC, found a community “decimated by NAFTA.” She found women who had worked their whole lives as proud, skilled factory workers. She contracted them. Today they produce hand-stitched, American-made garments that are, in the fashion world, considered couture. As she said, “It can be done in America; this is part of our national security.”

At the end of the hour, Chanin read a quotation about textiles and needles as the voice of women’s history in America, and sent us home with this thought, “making is human work…”.

II.
I came home, dug out my sewing machine, and hemmed the top I’ve been meaning to hem so that I can give it to Theresa because it will look better on her than on me. I thought long and hard about my own love of clothes, and the piles of them I’ve thrown away over the years. I mean piles. I thought of my grandmother, my aunt, and my mom learning how to sew on polyester, and how so many of my clothes were home-made when I was little. Of how grandma Hazel made all my Barbie’s clothes—to include a pearl colored satin dress and mink stole. Of my Grandma Neva’s magical button box that I played with on every visit to her home when I was a little girl. And I remembered the big quilting frame in my sister Gayel’s guest room, for years and years of my childhood.

III.
And then I remembered this writing workshop exercise, given by one of my Lewis and Clark professors, Gail Black, at a teaching in-service. We were to read the following poem, locate the source of meaning within the poem, and then write for awhile. What follows is what I did that day…

My Mother Pieced Quilts
by Teresa Paloma Acosta, 1978. Source unknown.

they were just meant as covers
in winters
as weapons
against pounding January winds

but it was just that every morning I awoke to these
October ripened canvases
passed my hand across their cloth faces
and began to wonder how you pieced
all these together
these strips of gentle communion cotton and flannel
nightgowns
wedding organdies
dime store velvets
how you shaped patterns square and oblong and round
positioned
balanced
then cemented them
with your thread
a steel needle
a thimble

how the thread darted in and out
galloping along the frayed edges, tucking them in
as you did us at night
oh how you stretched and turned and re-arranged
your michigan spring faded curtain pieces
my father’s santa fe work shirt
the summer denims, the tweeds of fall

in the evening you sat at your canvas
–our cracked linoleum floor the drawing board
me lounging on your arm
and you staking out the plan:
whether to put the lilac purple of easter against the red plaid of winter-going
into-spring
whether to mix a yellow with blue and white and paint the
corpus Christi noon when my father held your hand
whether to shape a five-point star from the
somber black silk you wore to grandmother’s funeral

you were the river current
carrying the roaring notes
forming them into pictures of a little boy reclining
a swallow flying
you were the caravan master at the reins
driving your threaded needle artillery across the mosaic cloth bridges
delivering yourself in separate testimonies
oh mother you plunged me sobbing and laughing
into our past
into the river crossing at five
into the spinach fields
into the plainview cotton rows
into tuberculosis wards
into braids and muslin dresses
sewn hard and taut to withstand the thrashings of twenty-five years

stretched out they lay
armed/ready/shouting/celebrating

knotted with love
the quilts sing on

My response, that day, which was probably about ten years ago, and was written while I was reading Henry Miller’s, The Air-Conditioned Nightmare, which may have informed my tone:
Where is the source of meaning? The essence of folk art. Glorification of the useful, the sturdy. Pre-consumerism, before the Nightmare, as Henry Miller would say, people had what was necessary. No disposability. Only sturdiness, durability, and purpose. These things, the things of life, took on lives of their own or became mirrors. What a drab world it would be without decoration. Eduardo Galeano speaks of memory as the truest form of history—and in parallel to his idea, quilts become the historical document of a family’s life–thoughtful, thorough, truthful. The thoroughness of the material as it was once new, worn in celebration, sorrow, toil. The piece that is left is the significance of those moments. The reality of the fabric mirrors the reality of living and when put together, these small things become life a family has lived. Folk art always tells of life.

Theresa Acosta’s poem is readily available online.