The Central Question of Responsibility

A recent article on NPR.org tells the story of Alice Waters’ argument with a former White House chef about sustainability and the use of local food. The article is essentially an opinion piece arguing that the “food fad” emphasizing local ingredients has gone too far and that Waters herself has turned into the some sort of food fascist. “…do we really need to know the provenance of an egg?” the author asks.

I was stunned by the question and absolutely astonished at how ill-informed this piece seemed. To my mind, there seemed no reasonable question here; we absolutely need to know about the origin of our food. We are absolutely responsible for how that food is obtained and for the practices we support when we pay for our food. Certainly, we are all quite ignorant of where some, perhaps most, of our food comes from; such is the reality of the culture we live in. But given a choice between knowing and not knowing, deciding for ourselves what enterprises our food dollars will support, who would willingly give up the privilege of knowing?

Lots of people, it turns out, including the author of this article. He and I are on opposite sides of what seems to me the central ethical questions of the time we live in: For how much are we responsible? Do we see ourselves as self-sufficient individuals or as interconnected facets of living, dynamic systems? And what does it truly mean, these days, to live by the ubiquitous golden rule: Do under others as you would have them do unto you? 

It all seems so clear to me. In order to “do unto others,” we must know what our actions actually do unto others. We can’t turn a blind eye to the effects of buying coffee that is not fair trade because it’s cheaper. We need to know how our actions, such as eating food that’s been flown in from another continent, impacts our environment, and what that means for the global ecosystem. It doesn’t mean we expect ourselves to be perfect. It does mean we can’t ethically embrace ignorance.

In Appreciation of Hestia

In Ancient Greece, the center of the home was a round hearth from which everything that nourished the home and the people in it, namely heat, food and light, emanated. Hestia was the goddess of this hearth, and its fire was considered sacred. When a couple married, the bride’s mother lit a torch from the family’s hearth and carried it to the couple’s new home, lighting the new fire before the couple entered. “Hestia” became the word not just for the goddess, but for the center of something.

As godesses go, Hestia is rather boring, which is probably why we don’t collectively remember her. There were no love affairs for Hestia, no dramatic stories of turning mortals into animals out of rage or spite, as Artemis and Athena were apt to do. Hestia was introverted; she stayed home and disliked drama.

This last year or so, I haven’t spent too much time at home. And as always, returning home after holiday travel, I came home to a pretty big mess. In the days before leaving for Christmas, things always get a bit frantic. So I manage to get the big chores done – the dishes, taking the trash out. But clutter and chaos abounds. Last weekend, I did some spring cleaning, which for me has always been New Year’s cleaning. (In spring, I tend to want to be outside, not at home doing chores). I reorganized closets, took old clothes to Goodwill, and scrubbed floors.  I had to keep myself from getting too caught up in this effort, from powering through it because I wanted to be done, to go on to other things. Hestia, I reminded myself, made housework meditation. I tried to follow the example.

Sitting in the cleaner space when I was done, I felt clarity return. I remembered that I sleep better when my space is in order, that I feel more relaxed at home and am happier to be there. I realized I had fallen into a familiar pattern of being extremely busy in the outside world, then coming home to crash when I’d exhausted myself. Although I don’t have a hearth, I lit a candle at the center of my home, to make the lesson of Hestia stick, to remember to come home every now and then, to be nourished by a return to my center.

New Year, New Mind

Photo by Lauren Luton Stinson

I got to ring in 2009 with family, including my fabulous new niece, Elisa, who is just a few weeks old.

I watched her experience everything in the incredibly complete way only a new mind/body can experience things. She can get lost in an interesting pattern on someone’s shirt, or the contrast of black and white in a picture. Watching her process the sensation of being lowered into a warm bath was amazing (she still isn’t quite sure how she feels about the whole bath thing).

I was reminded of the practice of beginner’s mind, which entails putting away preconceptions, beliefs and expectations in favor of experiencing the moment fully and directly. At this point, Elisa has little choice but to experience a great deal fully and directly. She brings her new mind, her new body, to everything. We lose this new mind of ours quickly; we have to if we are going to thrive in the world. We can’t be endlessly fascinated with things all the time. But I also believe that developing into an adult doesn’t mean we lose our younger selves. We still carry the ability to be fascinated by simple experience on that level. We can chose to go through the world that way for short periods of time.

Watching Elisa’s beginner’s mind at work at the start of the New Year provided a timely image for me. Usually the new year is my time to return to basics. I clean up my living space, throw out what I don’t need, incorporate some new ideas, and remind myself of how I want to live my life.  This year, I returned home with a powerful reminder of what beinnger’s mind is, and what it means to experience life fully. I take that into the new year with me.