Pay more. Buy less.

Do you ever wonder if the world would be a better place, if we paid higher prices for the things we buy?

No, I never did either. Not the way I grew up. A mother who raised two kids by herself. Grandparents who lived through the Great Depression. In my family, it's always been a matter of moral obligation to get the best price for everything we buy.

But now I'm starting to wonder whether, in the context of a global marketplace, my quest for the lowest price hasn't turned shamefully immoral when I wasn't looking.

Are you way ahead of me on this, or do you wonder what I'm talking about? It took a long time for my head to turn this direction, so just in case, I'll back up a bit and fill you in on where this started for me.

Last month, ChristianAudio.com offered the audio download of Not For Sale, David Batstone's book on human trafficking, for free. I'd thought of buying the book before, and now - best price, remember? - I had to take ChristianAudio up on their offer.

It's a dangerous book. It presented me with moral choices in places where I'd never seen them before. It made me want to know more, to understand better how I contributed to the problem of - lets not call it trafficking. Human beings - often children - are being stolen from their homes or lured by deception, forced to work for no pay, intimidated by apalling abuse, unable to go home, unable to escape. It's slavery, and I wanted to know where I stood in the chain of cause and effect.

I read articles and watched videos. I learned the term "fair trade" which translates, "slave-free." I found out how the problem presents itself, for instance, in the chocolate trade.

I know. Chocolate hits way too close to home. But the fact is that around 70 percent of the world’s cacao is harvested using slave labor. Even farmers who don't use slaves are forced to take their children out of school and put them to work. It's hard, dangerous work, for which they are paid very little. Most farm families live on less than $100 a year. In one video I saw,Tim Costello of World Vision held up a candy bar, and said most chocolate companies would pay less for a large bag of cocoa than we would pay for that bar of milk chocolate.

So there's where I stand in the chain of events: I get the best price for chocolate, while the farmer suffers in ways I can't even imagine. Or else he uses slaves.

In a world where price is all that matters, the slave-holder wins every time.

So I look for the words "fair trade" on the package when I buy chocolate. I pay more money. As a consequence, I buy less. But why shouldn't chocolate be an occasional luxury? Doesn't it taste like one?

I wonder what the world would look like, if all were set right. If slavery did not exist (and it does; there are more slaves in the world today than there were back before we "abolished" slavery), if all farmers and workers were paid enough to support their families in dignity, wouldn't we pay more for the things we buy? Wouldn't we then buy less?

Would that be okay?



PS: Here's an excellent post by Leo Babauta at Zen Habits, that I think is related, titled Steps Towards a More Sustainable Life of Less.

PSS: Welcome to my new follower, Tanja! I hope you will drop in often, and speak up in the comments!

(Thanks to H. Koppdelaney for the image.)

Keep Calm and Carry On

When I started this blog, I saw it, loosely, as a way of recording my thoughts about anything and everything except reading and writing, since that was the topic of my group blog, Novel Matters. I titled this one Ever Mindful, because, while it makes me sound more serene than I actually am, it does represent a way of thinking and seeing things that I try for in my approach to living. I want to pay attention. I want to see beyond and beneath the obvious. I never, ever want to get to the end of my life and realize that I let the whole thing pass by without notice.

I started Ever Mindful before the economic troubles began in earnest. Just before.

Now I think I have found the focus for what I am doing here. My family and I have been affected by the recent turn of events. Not as badly as some, but affected, nonetheless, and I am going to have to work through, over the coming years, what we will do about it. I'll look for practical steps to make things better, and if I find any that aren't obvious, and that might help others, I'll share them here. More than that, though, I will use this space to think through how to live the life I have today with faith, with wisdom and grace.

A few things I have seen and read and thought about lately that all tie together. I think. I'm sure they tie together.

1. Last night I read this in Andy Crouch's book, Culture Making:Recovering the Creative Calling: "'Out of the ground the Lord God made to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food.' (Gen. 2:9) - notice the emphasis, as in a well-tended garden, on the combination of the beautiful and the useful."

I've always found it inspiring that when Franklin D. Roosevelt set about lifting our country out of The Great Depression, he put people to work creating not only roads and bridges but also wall murals and music (ever hear of Woodie Guthrie?). Take a tour of Hoover Dam sometime, and you'll see how even a utilitarian project became a magnificent work of architectural art. My point is, we can find ways to be creative in the way we live through this time of our history.

2. This morning I watched a TedTalk by ceramics designer Eva Zeisel, a woman who has lived a long, creative life through the worst of times. I looked from this woman to the things her hands have made, and marveled at the beauty. Listen especially to what she says at the end: "I actually did survive."


3. The poster at the top of my sidebar was put out in 1939 by the United Kingdom Ministry of Information. Picture the Londoners during the blitzkrieg, dodging bombs, brushing rubble from their shoulders, turning to the poster for a little boost while they straightened their tweed coats and neatened their hair. I once found it oh, so charmingly British. Now I just find it ennobling. (This one comes compliments of A.J. Cann.)

Happy Friday, dear readers. Keep Calm. Carry On.

March Forth

March Fourth. Get it?

Sorry, I couldn't help myself. I was tired, you see, walking home after a day that turned out very different from the one I had planned. Trudging through the snow, I remembered that one of the items on my to-do list was to write a blog post for Every Mindful.

The little excuse-maker gremlin in my head set right to work. Too late, it said. You should post in the morning or at the latest in the early afternoon. (Don't ask me where it got that rule; the gremlin speaks with such a tone of authority, you seldom think to argue.)

My day veered off course when I called my mother this morning, to ask if she felt like taking our daily walk, since it had begun to snow and was very cold.

"I've started a little project," she said.

Oh? What's that?

Turned out she was lifting the area rug from the living room, because she hates the way it looks there, and moving it into her office. It's a large rug, and in her office, it becomes no longer an area rug, but wall-to-wall carpeting.

My mother has not one, but two large desks in the little room, one of them oak and massive, the other one mahogany and merely large. She also has several bookcases, a bullet-proof filing cabinet, and lots and lots of books, baskets, boxes, stuff and stuff.

Let me go back to the oak desk. It's larger than the doorway. It's larger than the window. I don't know how she got it in there in the first place. My son says it was always there. It was an oak tree, and they carved it into a desk and built the house around it.

This was most certainly not a little project. All the small things had to come out (they filled the whole house!), and all of the big things had to be lifted while someone scroonched the carpet under.

I should mention, she was not alone. My great nephew was there, fourteen years old, and strong. But I love him, and my mother, and a little mercy seemed in order.

Before the day was out, two other men, my son and my nephew (great nephew's dad) were crowded into the office, figuring out logistics, lifting, grunting, making jokes about the "little project." There was also another nephew, three years old, who behaved very well. For a three-year-old.

We had fun. Really.

I felt pretty pleased about it, walking home in the snow, listening to the excuse-gremlin in my head.

Then it came to me that today was March Fourth, surely the bravest, the chirpiest sounding date on the calendar. It seemed to call for an acknowledgment, one which would fall flat if posted on March fifth.

So here I am, looking back on my day, on the way my family marched forth to get the job done, the way we enjoyed each other's company, and the challenge of a new, unexpected, and slightly ridiculous project.

Tomorrow perhaps I will march forth on that walk, snow or no snow.

Tonight I will figuratively march forth and post this entry. While it is still, just barely, March fourth.

Live in the Moment

Introduction: I'm proud to introduce my dear friend and fellow Novel Matters author, Sharon K. Souza as my first guest blogger here on Ever Mindful. Sharon has faced shattering tragedy with courage and faith, and today she will share some of that with you.

I was blessed to be witness to the gestation and birth of her two novels. She is a luminous author, who writes stories full of humor, wisdom and grace. I know you'll want to read them, so I've provided links at the end of this post.

Enjoy.
KP

I recently spoke at a MOPS (Mothers of Pre-schoolers) gathering. After introducing myself and sharing a bit about my novels, I got to the heart of the matter, Finding Contentment.

My daughter and son-in-law found contentment on Valentine’s Day, when they left their 2-year-old son and 3-month-old daughter with Grandpa and Grandma – namely my husband and me – while they went to Sacramento for shopping and dinner. Rick and I found contentment when they finally picked up the kids 7 hours later! The baby was a breeze, but I’d forgotten what it was like to keep up with a two-year-old. I fell into bed exhausted that night.

But to get serious . . . I’m sure most of us are familiar with the passage from Philippians 4:12, where Paul writes, "I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation." Wow. I confess, there are some verses in the Bible I wish weren’t there, and that’s one of them. Because I haven’t accomplished that one yet. Not even close. I try. I want to be able to say along with Paul, "content . . . in any situation." But there have been plenty of times in my life when I was far from content.

In my writing, for example. It took 20 years for my first novel to be published. Believe me, there were plenty of times in those TWO DECADES I wasn’t content; when I wondered what on earth God was doing with me; wondered why he’d given me a passion to do something for him, only to be hemmed in by a brick wall I couldn’t get over or around, with no door in sight.

And I have to admit, I was that way in my parenting too. Impatient. Not content. I found myself always thinking, I can’t wait until . . . my babies, are walking, or talking, or going to school. Always eager for that next stage, rather than enjoying every single minute of every single day. Of just living in the moment. Because we’re not guaranteed that there will be a next moment.

On March 11, we will arrive at the second anniversary of the death of our son Brian, who died at 34. I could fill the universe with all the things I’d give up for one more moment with him, to see that dimpled smile one more time. I’m thankful for the promise that I’ll see him again, but that doesn’t dry my tears today.

One of my favorite songs of all time is Joni Mitchell’s "Circle Game," a song about a boy who grows from childhood to adulthood. The chorus says, "And the seasons, they go round and round; and the painted ponies go up and down; we’re captive on a carousel of time. We can’t return, we can only look behind from where we came, and go round and round and round in the circle game."

The verse that means the most to me says, "Sixteen springs and 16 summers gone now; cartwheels turn to car wheels through the town; and they tell him, take your time, it won’t be long now, till you drag your feet to slow the circle down."

How true is that. I find myself dragging my foot more and more, wanting to make the most of my time here. I wish I’d been content with every day when my children were young. Wish I’d listened with both ears, instead of just one so much of the time. Wish I’d played more and worried less about a tidy house. Wish I’d lived in the moment, for every one is precious; not one can be gotten back. When it’s gone, it’s gone.

And yet, God redeems all things, our regrets and mistakes most of all. It's never too late to ride that pony, so ride it for all you're worth.

Fleeing the Muchness and Manyness

"... the courage to face the inner monsters takes a faith and trust in God that many of us do not possess (or don't want to possess), and so we busy ourselves with muchness and manyness and undertake our colossal enterprises to avoid looking inside." ~ Richard Foster, in the Introduction to The Sacrament of the Present Moment by Jean-Pierre de Caussade

I do so understand the muchness and manyness. I struggle all the time with clutter - you know, the cool stuff I find at thrift stores that they just don't make anymore. The useful, or might-be-useful-one-day stuff. The books. Oooh, the books.

And as a consequence of the books, the thoughts piled on other thoughts. The ideas and plans.

Wonderful, all of it, but also heavy, at times.

I've come to love the idea of the Sabbath, a time to stop the noise for one blessed day. Sometimes I think I could do away with all of it, and move into a tiny home. Something like this:




Or even something like this - I have a fondness for old trailers:



Bertie Denys, the main character in my second novel, moves into an old gardener's shed in the mountains, in order to pursue a devout life after the manner of Saint Francis of Assisi. About the time I wrote this novel, I read a book by Henri Nouwen, in which he told a brief early history of the monastic movement, which began when the Roman Emperor Constantine became, at least on the surface, a Christian. Before this happened, Christians were persecuted in horrible ways, but now it was actually cool to be a Christian. Before, if you were a believer, your motives were clear because you sure weren't following Christ for security or power or position. Now the best way to get any of these things was to convert - at least on the surface. It changed everything.

So some Christians literally fled to caves in the desert, to avoid falling into the "worldly" mindset that valued security, power, and position above all else. How could they not, while they were immersed in a culture that dressed the church in the purple robes of political authority?

Having once been deprived of these riches, they had found others too precious to lose.

I can't help thinking they have something to teach me now.

How about you? How much would you fear the loss of muchness and manyness? Could you live in a Tiny House? Or just a (lowercase) tiny house?

I'd love to hear from you.

Movies on Friday: The Snowman

Do you remember this one? While it's still winter, let's indulge in a bit of wonder. If you want, you can watch the entire film by following this link.

This Place Right Here, This Moment Right Now

Do you have books on your shelf that you pick up again and again? One of my perennial favorites is a small volume of 103 pages: The Sacrament of the Present Moment. The book was written by an eighteenth century French Jesuit priest named Jean-Pierre deCaussade to explore a very twenty-first century question: How do we narrow our focus to this place right here, this moment right now?

And by the way, should Christians even attempt such a pop-spirituality puruit as mindfulness, or... better question yet: are we even capable?

In the introduction, Richard Foster writes, "It is sad to say that much of modern Christianity is captivated by the religion of the 'big deal.' ... Big churches, big budgets, big names - certainly this is the sign of things important."

Now, I should note that Foster wrote this sometime around 1981, and it seems to me that we are less accepting of the corporate/celebrity church culture than we were then. At least we try to be. A couple of years ago, my son attended a Christian youth function where he heard a speaker rail against the cult of the big deal, the brand name. For a time after that, in our house labels disappeared from computers, from clothing, from mp3 players. But it seems to me that the event where he got this advice, Acquire the Fire, had built itself a pretty big brand of its own.

(Am I getting myself in trouble here? I'm not putting down AtF. I'm only pointing out, however awkwardly, that we can't seem to help building big brands even as we rebel against them.)

Foster continues: "To such idolatry deCaussade speaks with devastating precision. For him, the focus of God's activity is not center stage but backstage, in the insignificant moments we often cast aside."

Is it possible that we can find God best in this moment, with the water dripping from the eaves outside, with the bathtub that needs cleaning and the taxes that need filing?

Or put another way: Can we find him anyplace else?

More on this to come.