Two years ago, I embarked on the project I called "Ten of Tens" -- ten days on each of ten different habits to make changes in the direction of environmental sustainability. My projects included packing lunches to avoid take-out (and all the plastic involved) at work; eating more local food; using less water for dishwashing and in the shower; learning about the environmental impact of the foods I eat; switching to fair-trade coffee, tea, and chocolate; not buying things packaged in plastic; and buying less stuff.
It was a partial success. I didn't eliminate take-out, which is terrible for the planet and the body, but I cut back. I continued doing most of my shopping at the supermarket, but I made an effort to get out to the farmers' markets more. I've been almost take-out free this year, but then again I'm on sabbatical, and my desk is five feet from my kitchen. Buying local is easier here in the UK, where everything in the supermarket is marked with point of origin, but I STILL don't get to the farmer's market enough. And I don't know, but I think it's gotten even harder to avoid bringing home plastic packaging. At Sainsbury's, even the recycled toiled paper is wrapped in plastic.
But I keep trying. When I'm finished with the sabbatical I'm planning on buying some stainless-steel food containers for packing lunches -- I've been using mason jars, and they're heavy, and they break.
As of right now, today, I'm going to try to stop first at the farmer's market every time I go shopping.
Another of the issues I wrestle with is how much clothing I own. The 333 Project has been on my radar for a while, and it's a great idea: limit yourself to 33 items of clothing, including accessories, shoes, outerwear) for three months.
But exercise clothes are excluded from the accounting, as are pajamas, undergarments, and "in-home lounge wear." I do a lot of different kinds of physical activities, and I own almost as many items of clothing for exercise as I do for the rest of life. I've been trying to avoid having a separate wardrobe for all the different activities. And you get 33 items of clothing for each season -- so in a three-season climate, that's 99 articles of clothing.
I've been trying to overlap as much as possible, for instance buying hiking clothes that look neat enough to wear in town. I dress a lot more casually when I'm writing at home than when I'm teaching, but it doesn't seem fair to allow an entire additional wardrobe of casual clothing, so I'm trying to bring my casual and work clothes closer together. There's a decluttering recommendation that you only buy an item if you're getting rid of another item; I've been trying to go two-for-one, though not always successfully.
Moving toward sustainability isn't a one-shot deal. It requires continuous adjustments and renegotiations. I'm trying to do better each year; it's hard, and I fail a lot, but I know I'm doing better than if I didn't try in the first place.
Showing posts with label clutter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label clutter. Show all posts
19 March 2015
25 October 2013
Folding Scarves
It's been a long few weeks, and I spent some time this evening folding scarves and shawls. I remembered where and who they came from over the past thirty years, and felt the different weights and textures. It was meditative and soothing.
Sitting at my desk or in a meeting gets chilly, and covering my neck is a quick fix. In the classroom I move a lot more: shedding a scarf as I warm up is much less of a production than taking off a sweater or a blazer.
Amidst the smoothing and folding, I had to admit that I have a whole collection of scarves. This was a bit of a shock, as I generally prefer one or two functional, versatile, well-made items to a drawer or closet full of options.
A corollary: I have a hard time getting rid of things. I try not to buy things if they're not going to get used often and last a long time, and so when I've gotten something into my home, I feel kind of committed to it.
(Possibly an aside: The alarm clock I bought when I started college just went to the recycling pile. It finally got dropped one time too many.)
A couple of years ago I bought a sweater that felt fine in the fitting room, but when I wore it for the first time it turned out to be itchy. I've felt compelled to wear it anyway, in a penitential kind of way, and then told myself I should keep it, since after all I sometimes use it.
But I'm trying to give myself permission to get rid of stuff like that. And so I've finally put it in the donation bag in company with the shrunk and the ripped and the stained.
But not scarves. Lovely lightweight wool that a friend brought back from Italy, fringed purple from an aunt in France, blue velvet I splurged on at the British Museum shop. A circle of black, knit by my mother-in-law; greens and purples on cotton, left over from wardrobe after a film shoot. Wispy teal from India by way of a shop on Second Avenue.
Deep blues and purples on silk, bought during a year teaching in Shanghai, so long ago it sometimes seems like a dream. Yet deeper in the past: burgundy wool woven with gold threads from the family I lived with as an exchange student in Switzerland.
I enjoy the textures, the colors, the warmth. I'm going to depart from principle without apology and let these things give me pleasure.
Sitting at my desk or in a meeting gets chilly, and covering my neck is a quick fix. In the classroom I move a lot more: shedding a scarf as I warm up is much less of a production than taking off a sweater or a blazer.
Amidst the smoothing and folding, I had to admit that I have a whole collection of scarves. This was a bit of a shock, as I generally prefer one or two functional, versatile, well-made items to a drawer or closet full of options.
A corollary: I have a hard time getting rid of things. I try not to buy things if they're not going to get used often and last a long time, and so when I've gotten something into my home, I feel kind of committed to it.
(Possibly an aside: The alarm clock I bought when I started college just went to the recycling pile. It finally got dropped one time too many.)
A couple of years ago I bought a sweater that felt fine in the fitting room, but when I wore it for the first time it turned out to be itchy. I've felt compelled to wear it anyway, in a penitential kind of way, and then told myself I should keep it, since after all I sometimes use it.
But I'm trying to give myself permission to get rid of stuff like that. And so I've finally put it in the donation bag in company with the shrunk and the ripped and the stained.
But not scarves. Lovely lightweight wool that a friend brought back from Italy, fringed purple from an aunt in France, blue velvet I splurged on at the British Museum shop. A circle of black, knit by my mother-in-law; greens and purples on cotton, left over from wardrobe after a film shoot. Wispy teal from India by way of a shop on Second Avenue.
Deep blues and purples on silk, bought during a year teaching in Shanghai, so long ago it sometimes seems like a dream. Yet deeper in the past: burgundy wool woven with gold threads from the family I lived with as an exchange student in Switzerland.
I enjoy the textures, the colors, the warmth. I'm going to depart from principle without apology and let these things give me pleasure.
31 March 2013
Ten of Tens: Retrenching
This month, I'm going to try to take on reducing clutter. It's part of the "reduce" leg of the green triad. Usually I interpret "reduce" to mean reducing purchases, thus making it arguably more important than "reuse" or "recycle" because it hits consumption at the knees rather than addressing its effects.
But "reduce" also means getting rid of stuff that's lying around unused, so as to simplify life and limit the need for storage space. I generally resist getting rid of stuff that's perfectly useful because I fear I might need it some time. My mother is a war refugee, my father a depression baby -- hanging on to anything that might come in handy some day is deeply ingrained.
But recently I've been taking another look. On sabbatical in Cambridge a few years back I was invited to a May Ball, for which I bought a gown at a thrift shop and (oh my) schlepped it back to New York. Really, I'm never going to wear it again. T-shirts and turtlenecks with holes in them, that I keep around for pajamas and weekend wear have to go. Why do have a package of weatherstripping, anyway? Do I really need all those old towels, baby blankets, kid toys, books I'll never read again? The goal: to take every single thing off shelves and out of drawers and boxes and crates and see how much I can send to thrift shops or recycle bins.
De-cluttering wasn't on my list back in January, when I hatched grand plans for adopting new habits that would lead to greater environmental awareness and sustainability in my personal life. I vowed to take on a new habit, task, or challenge -- albeit a small one -- for each of the next ten months. So far, I've done better at things that weren't on the list.
In January, I attempted, and failed, to eat more local food. On the other hand, though it wasn't the plan, I did a lot better at packing my lunch, and avoiding the vast amounts of waste (and the not-so-healthy meals) that go with take-out. In February, I tried, and failed, again with the local food, but also went off-piste by returning to yoga as a daily habit, and that one is sticking, though it's not really an environmental commitment. In March, I aimed low at reducing water waste, with reasonable success.
So April's task will be to try to get beyond the fear that I might want [item x] some day, and spend some time each weekend unpacking the cabinets and closets to make them more useful by virtue of being less overstuffed. I'm starting with the pantry, trying to eat my way through the food already stored there before buying more.
But "reduce" also means getting rid of stuff that's lying around unused, so as to simplify life and limit the need for storage space. I generally resist getting rid of stuff that's perfectly useful because I fear I might need it some time. My mother is a war refugee, my father a depression baby -- hanging on to anything that might come in handy some day is deeply ingrained.
But recently I've been taking another look. On sabbatical in Cambridge a few years back I was invited to a May Ball, for which I bought a gown at a thrift shop and (oh my) schlepped it back to New York. Really, I'm never going to wear it again. T-shirts and turtlenecks with holes in them, that I keep around for pajamas and weekend wear have to go. Why do have a package of weatherstripping, anyway? Do I really need all those old towels, baby blankets, kid toys, books I'll never read again? The goal: to take every single thing off shelves and out of drawers and boxes and crates and see how much I can send to thrift shops or recycle bins.
De-cluttering wasn't on my list back in January, when I hatched grand plans for adopting new habits that would lead to greater environmental awareness and sustainability in my personal life. I vowed to take on a new habit, task, or challenge -- albeit a small one -- for each of the next ten months. So far, I've done better at things that weren't on the list.
In January, I attempted, and failed, to eat more local food. On the other hand, though it wasn't the plan, I did a lot better at packing my lunch, and avoiding the vast amounts of waste (and the not-so-healthy meals) that go with take-out. In February, I tried, and failed, again with the local food, but also went off-piste by returning to yoga as a daily habit, and that one is sticking, though it's not really an environmental commitment. In March, I aimed low at reducing water waste, with reasonable success.
So April's task will be to try to get beyond the fear that I might want [item x] some day, and spend some time each weekend unpacking the cabinets and closets to make them more useful by virtue of being less overstuffed. I'm starting with the pantry, trying to eat my way through the food already stored there before buying more.
10 March 2013
Uninheritable Books
"Margaret and Helen Abbott." So reads the inscription on the flyleaves of a handful of books on my shelves, books shared by my Great-Aunt Helen and her twin sister Margaret, who died before I was born, when they were first-year college students.
My family is rich in books, and in people who cherish books. A copy of Shakespeare's Venus and Adonis is inscribed "J. W. Robinson. 1900." My father has added a post-it note: "I assume that this J. W. Robinson is Dr. John Robinson, who was my first dentist. He was married to Aunt Margaret Robinson, a sister of my Grandfather Abbott." A leatherbound and undated copy of Pope's collected works, including his translations of Iliad and Odyssey is unfortunately uninscribed, as is a disintegrating 1904 edition of Edward Lear's Nonsense Books.
A copy of Dickens' A Child's History of England has "Dec. 4th, 1878. Lena Farrington. Winter Term." A copy of Webster's Ancient History might have been a school copy, as it has several names inside the front cover, including that of Ethel M. Woodbury, who might be the great-great-great-aunt Ethel who lives in family lore as the painter of numerous Maine landscapes, but I'll have to check with my father.
But these books aren't really books, if books exist to be used: they're too fragile. I could probably read the copy of Venus and Adonis without destroying it, but Nonsense Books is printed on paper that is falling to pieces, and even opening it to look for an inscription risks further damage.
My own book purchases, these days, are drifting more and more toward the electronic, on account of portability as well as a desire to be divested of stuff: a desire in conflict with the desire to hold on to those whispers of long-gone family members, some of whom I never knew but who live on in the memories of those I love and have loved.
But really, I'm not buying the books: I'm acquiring a license presumably valid until I die, but subject to termination before then by various market forces. And books, of whatever physical or spectral form, are simply a record of some sort of cultural moment. Some few survive for generations and even centuries, but most rightfully fall into oblivion.
A significant percentage of my books are intellectual productions whose value is already fading slowly as their scholarship or editorial practices are superseded. Then there's a bunch of of contemporary fiction, poetry, prose. I own no first editions, no rare books, just a profusion of volumes I use as I attempt my own analyses of old texts already much commented upon. If I don't get rid of them before I die, someone will be stuck disposing of them.
The Offspring may one day sigh or chuckle over a jumble in which Ecofeminist Philosophy, Living Letters of the Law, and Klaeber's Beowulf rub up against tattered covers of The Official Scrabble Players' Dictionary, guides to hiking in the White Mountains and in the Alps, and The Joy of Cooking.
If anyone wants one of my books, it will be as keepsake, memento, not as usable text. The electronic files will not be available as memorial objects carrying emotional freight forward into another generation; those who remember me will have to recall mind and body: a moving target.
And for today, that's okay with me.
My family is rich in books, and in people who cherish books. A copy of Shakespeare's Venus and Adonis is inscribed "J. W. Robinson. 1900." My father has added a post-it note: "I assume that this J. W. Robinson is Dr. John Robinson, who was my first dentist. He was married to Aunt Margaret Robinson, a sister of my Grandfather Abbott." A leatherbound and undated copy of Pope's collected works, including his translations of Iliad and Odyssey is unfortunately uninscribed, as is a disintegrating 1904 edition of Edward Lear's Nonsense Books.
A copy of Dickens' A Child's History of England has "Dec. 4th, 1878. Lena Farrington. Winter Term." A copy of Webster's Ancient History might have been a school copy, as it has several names inside the front cover, including that of Ethel M. Woodbury, who might be the great-great-great-aunt Ethel who lives in family lore as the painter of numerous Maine landscapes, but I'll have to check with my father.
But these books aren't really books, if books exist to be used: they're too fragile. I could probably read the copy of Venus and Adonis without destroying it, but Nonsense Books is printed on paper that is falling to pieces, and even opening it to look for an inscription risks further damage.
My own book purchases, these days, are drifting more and more toward the electronic, on account of portability as well as a desire to be divested of stuff: a desire in conflict with the desire to hold on to those whispers of long-gone family members, some of whom I never knew but who live on in the memories of those I love and have loved.
But really, I'm not buying the books: I'm acquiring a license presumably valid until I die, but subject to termination before then by various market forces. And books, of whatever physical or spectral form, are simply a record of some sort of cultural moment. Some few survive for generations and even centuries, but most rightfully fall into oblivion.
A significant percentage of my books are intellectual productions whose value is already fading slowly as their scholarship or editorial practices are superseded. Then there's a bunch of of contemporary fiction, poetry, prose. I own no first editions, no rare books, just a profusion of volumes I use as I attempt my own analyses of old texts already much commented upon. If I don't get rid of them before I die, someone will be stuck disposing of them.
The Offspring may one day sigh or chuckle over a jumble in which Ecofeminist Philosophy, Living Letters of the Law, and Klaeber's Beowulf rub up against tattered covers of The Official Scrabble Players' Dictionary, guides to hiking in the White Mountains and in the Alps, and The Joy of Cooking.
If anyone wants one of my books, it will be as keepsake, memento, not as usable text. The electronic files will not be available as memorial objects carrying emotional freight forward into another generation; those who remember me will have to recall mind and body: a moving target.
And for today, that's okay with me.
05 February 2013
Green Garbage
Throwing away huge quantities of paper may not seem like much of a green moment, even if they're going into a recycling bin. But read on...
I changed offices last summer. In the process, I got rid of a fair number of books. Duplicates and old editions of teaching texts went off to Better World Books, where they'll be resold or donated.
But then I moved all the files from my desk drawers and file cabinets to the furniture in the new office, leaving them pretty close to full.
I have notes from courses I took in graduate school, from studying for doctoral exams, from courses I've taught going all the way back to when I first came to this university ... in 1998. I've typed up a lot of those notes, and revised a lot of the materials, but I still have folders full of hand-written notes and photocopies of handouts. Semester, after semester, after semester. Plus hand-written notes and photocopies of articles related to papers I've given at conferences and subsequently (eventually) published.
And so I'm facing a choice made across the nation in all kinds of contexts: downsize or upsize.
The average size of a home in the US ballooned from 1400 to 2700 square feet between 1970 and 2009. Meanwhile, the average household size decreased by half a person.* So what accounts for the near doubling in the size of all those houses?
Stuff.
We own more clothing, more electronics, more furniture, more kitchen appliances... more of pretty much everything than people in our parents' generation. And we build ever bigger houses to store all of that stuff. We probably store more files, too.
Quick calculation: what percentage of the items in your home have you actually used in the past 12 months? (Challenge: take a walk through your house, including basement, attic, garage, and really pay attention.)
So I have a choice: I can buy a bunch of file boxes and file those excess papers and store them someplace, or I can go through the files and get rid of the papers that I don't need any more. Duplicates of exercises that I've since revised; hand-written class notes I'll never refer to again; rosters, attendance records, printouts of articles; photocopies handed down from my predecessor.
So I've been going through a folder or two a week and getting rid of almost everything. One file drawer is almost empty. By the end of the term, I may no longer need a filing cabinet.
Meanwhile, I'm also going through computer files and deleting old versions of assignments, syllabi, handouts, and materials for use on line. It turns out that data storage, though it feels free because it's paperless, in fact uses a huge amount of energy.
If we keep stuff under control, we'll never be tempted to move to a bigger space just to store more stuff. As often happens with these kinds of choices, the environmental impact is mirrored in a positive impact on the wallet.
-----
* Isn't statistics fun?
I changed offices last summer. In the process, I got rid of a fair number of books. Duplicates and old editions of teaching texts went off to Better World Books, where they'll be resold or donated.
But then I moved all the files from my desk drawers and file cabinets to the furniture in the new office, leaving them pretty close to full.
I have notes from courses I took in graduate school, from studying for doctoral exams, from courses I've taught going all the way back to when I first came to this university ... in 1998. I've typed up a lot of those notes, and revised a lot of the materials, but I still have folders full of hand-written notes and photocopies of handouts. Semester, after semester, after semester. Plus hand-written notes and photocopies of articles related to papers I've given at conferences and subsequently (eventually) published.
And so I'm facing a choice made across the nation in all kinds of contexts: downsize or upsize.
The average size of a home in the US ballooned from 1400 to 2700 square feet between 1970 and 2009. Meanwhile, the average household size decreased by half a person.* So what accounts for the near doubling in the size of all those houses?
Stuff.
We own more clothing, more electronics, more furniture, more kitchen appliances... more of pretty much everything than people in our parents' generation. And we build ever bigger houses to store all of that stuff. We probably store more files, too.
Quick calculation: what percentage of the items in your home have you actually used in the past 12 months? (Challenge: take a walk through your house, including basement, attic, garage, and really pay attention.)
So I have a choice: I can buy a bunch of file boxes and file those excess papers and store them someplace, or I can go through the files and get rid of the papers that I don't need any more. Duplicates of exercises that I've since revised; hand-written class notes I'll never refer to again; rosters, attendance records, printouts of articles; photocopies handed down from my predecessor.
So I've been going through a folder or two a week and getting rid of almost everything. One file drawer is almost empty. By the end of the term, I may no longer need a filing cabinet.
Meanwhile, I'm also going through computer files and deleting old versions of assignments, syllabi, handouts, and materials for use on line. It turns out that data storage, though it feels free because it's paperless, in fact uses a huge amount of energy.
If we keep stuff under control, we'll never be tempted to move to a bigger space just to store more stuff. As often happens with these kinds of choices, the environmental impact is mirrored in a positive impact on the wallet.
-----
* Isn't statistics fun?
30 November 2012
Reader, I Shopped
Yes, I
went into an actual temple of commerce on Black Friday. Two, in fact.
I've
chronicled my relationship with stuff and shopping for stuff: I feel as though
I have too much of it, yet I'm reluctant to get rid of things because I might
need them some day.
Some
months ago, I decided to try not to shop any more. I didn't last long: I'm addicted to books,
and even I need a new garment now and then.
Or I want a new garment now and then.
But the
attempt to stop buying things did reshape how I shop. I had been shopping on-line sales to buy
stuff I might need some day, rather than things I actually needed at that moment, and often things I didn't necessarily want: colors that were on sale rather than colors I wanted to wear, for instance. This was a contributor to the excess.
I'm still
on the email lists for some stores, because if I'm going to buy
something, it might as well be at a discount.
But most of the time I delete the sale announcements unread, and don't
waste all that time scrolling through sales listings to see if there's anything
I might want some day.
Instead,
I buy what I actually want, or see an actual, immediate need for.
The closets and cabinets are far less stuffed than they were a year ago, and I've been saving time and money by not shopping.
Oh, and
my purchases this Black Friday? A pair of mid-weight lined hiking pants, and for The Offspring, a book and a book light for reading in the car in the winter. I went into the
stores with the specific intention of buying those items, and that's what I
came out with. No extras, no impulse
purchases, nothing I thought I might want on some future occasion.
16 November 2012
Greening Black Friday
Black Friday is often (but not always) the busiest shopping day of the year. How do you lessen the environmental impact of your Black Friday?
Best bet: stay home. Don't buy stuff, don't drive long distances to get to the mall, don't burn gas sitting in traffic jams.
Second best: do your best to shop responsibly. In the right-hand column of this blog, there's a list headed "Where to Shop," where I've listed places that sell Fair Trade or otherwise environmentally sustainable goods, including used books and clothing.
Get, or make, gifts that don't include excessive packaging and that you know the recipient will use, rather than stuff that will end up re-gifted, stuck in the back of a closet, or at the dump. Food, a fabulous scarf, a pair of really nice gloves or socks, a magazine subscription.
For Uncle Joe, who has everything? Some nice chocolate or cheese, along with a gift in his name to a charity he'd appreciate.
Mostly, before you shop, think. Don't make impulse purchases. Consider the impact of anything you buy on your budget, your credit rating, and the environment.
Best bet: stay home. Don't buy stuff, don't drive long distances to get to the mall, don't burn gas sitting in traffic jams.
Second best: do your best to shop responsibly. In the right-hand column of this blog, there's a list headed "Where to Shop," where I've listed places that sell Fair Trade or otherwise environmentally sustainable goods, including used books and clothing.
Get, or make, gifts that don't include excessive packaging and that you know the recipient will use, rather than stuff that will end up re-gifted, stuck in the back of a closet, or at the dump. Food, a fabulous scarf, a pair of really nice gloves or socks, a magazine subscription.
For Uncle Joe, who has everything? Some nice chocolate or cheese, along with a gift in his name to a charity he'd appreciate.
Mostly, before you shop, think. Don't make impulse purchases. Consider the impact of anything you buy on your budget, your credit rating, and the environment.
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