Okabashi Shoes: Recyclable, Affordable, and Made in the U.S.A

Every summer I look forward to the Okabashi shoe display at Whole Foods. I LOVE their shoes! Here's why:

Affordable

Most of their shoes are under $20 and have a two year guarantee.

100% Recyclable

According to their website, last year Okabashi was able to "reuse over 100,000 pounds of scrap material last year alone, diverting 10 tractor trailers full of waste from our landfills".

Comfort

Normally I can't wear flip flops because their poor support aggravates my back. But these shoes are so comfortable and supportive that Okabashi is the only shoe company endorsed by the American Chiropractic Association.

Made in the U.S.A

I despise shopping because it haunts me not knowing if what I buy was made in some over-seas sweatshop by exploited or slave labor. We vote for the kind of world we want every day by how we spend our money. Since Okabashi shoes are made in the United States, our labor and safety laws assure that my consumer dollars do not fund human misery. Plus, buying American feeds our economy.





Okabashi Shoes on Amazon

Disclosure: This is NOT a sponsored post. This website is an Amazon.com affiliate. Any affiliate profits earned via Amazon links on this website will be donated to Kiva, an organization that issues no interest business loans to low income entrepreneurs in the developing world and the U.S.

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Tags: Green shoes, eco-friendly shoes, Okabashi shoes, recyclable shoes, environmentally friendly shoes, eco friendly shoes Louisville, eco friendly brands

Angels in the Moment

At fourteen I hiked Mount Humbug alone. At one point the path narrowed and I lost my footing. As I slid off the edge four arms lifted me to safety. It was a couple in their sixties. I wanted to ask them if they were angels but they were gone. 

If I had gotten to ask they would likely have said that, no, they were definitely not angels, but a mere retired couple hiking the Pacific Northwest. 

I wouldn't have believed them.

Fast forward sixteen years. It's a crisp morning around the turn of the century. I drive my beat up Ford Escort out of our apartment complex into our otherwise affluent neighborhood.

On the street I see a parked van with a man walking behind it and a woman running towards my car. My Jersey brain kicks in high gear. They want to run a scam on me. Better beat it outta here, fast. But her eyes stop my car cold. No, she isn't with this guy. That's primal fear in those eyes.  She's fleeing him.

I lunge onto the passenger side lock, push the door open and yell, "Get in!".

We round the van and I burn his license plate number into my eye sockets.

This would be abductee in the pink hat (I'll never forget that pink hat) hysterically tells me she is visiting her father from out of state. She went out for a morning run when this van pulled over and that guy tried to throw her in it. She grew up here. How could this happen here?

"Then I saw you", she says.

She leans sideways, viewing me in full and asks, "Are you an angel?".

"No", I chuckle, "I'm just a girl on her way to work".

I don't think she believes me.

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I See Mary in a Garden

Sometimes people walk into our house and assume we are Catholic. Of course they would.  What non-Catholic living room contains so much Mary?


There is a large portrait of Mary praying in a garden
and small statue of a veiled Mary atop a bookcase.


Nearby a framed Madonna and child sits on a Moroccan style wine rack.


For over a year I found myself collecting all things Mary with no understanding why. After all, I'm not Catholic like those typically this passionate about their Mary collections. Then it hit me - I was under the spell of an archetype.

Any religious text, mythology, historical tale, or novel contains variations on themes that have played out across human history. Whether a story is literally true matters not because the message endures. Names, places, faces, and times may vary but the basic themes are timeless.

I like to recognize those broad motifs in my own life because this infuses my experiences, even the tragic, with meaning and mystery. It reminds me that I'm never the first or only person to go through anything, which is easy to forget in the thick of hardship. This has gotten me through some intimidating ventures, like the terrifying reality of childbirth. I thought of the tens of billions of women across the ages who proceeded me in giving birth, identified with their collective bravery, and became brave myself.

Then there's Mary. What is more tragic and joyous than watching your beloved son be tortured to death before your very eyes only to witness him ultimately risen to a glorious new life?

I came to identify metaphorically with Mary as a mother because my seven year old autistic son was slipping away from me. In constant pain from an undiagnosed 24/7 Petite Mal seizure disorder, his aggression was constant. He'd drag me across the floor by my hair one minute and hug me the next, until another seizure had him reaching again for hair to pull or arms to bite. Nobody had any answers and there was little reason to believe that would change.

During these bouts, my eyes would often focus on Mary and this gave me strength. I found these images centering because Mary and her beloved son, too, had been to the depths of despair. Not to imply that witnessing my child's deterioration, devastating as it was, is the same as Mary at the foot of that Cross, helplessly watching her son slowly die an excruciatingly painful death. But is there a more helpless feeling than watching your own child suffer, unable to stop it? Every mother decends into that personal hell sooner or later; it's just a matter of degree.


Since childhood I've had this way of imaginatively entering into objects, ideas, or images and experiencing them from the inside out. Though this happens non-verbally I emerge from these episodes somehow changed. And so it was with those Mary images. Over time they transmuted my desperation into an understanding that beyond a shadow of a doubt my son too would triumph over his suffering. This had no rational basis, especially since the doctors told us it was just the Autism and we'd have to learn to live with it. But I knew there was more to it and answers would come.


And those answers did come.

We learned that our son suffered from an undiagnosed seizure condition, possibly since infancy. Now that optimal medication levels have been achieved his development, which stalled for years, has taken off. He amazes us each day.


I've long suspected that my son sometimes reads my mind. Now I'm convinced. I wrote this post in my head as it coalesced around the line "I see Mary in a Garden" from Springsteen's song The Rising, but mentioned this to nobody. Imagine my surprise, then, when my boy walked up to me, leaned his elbows on my knees and asked with a big smile, "See Mary in a Garden?" With tear-filled gleaming eyes, I returned his grin and said, "Yes I do."


My son, too, is resurrected.

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Update: 3/30/18

My son's early and middle childhood were continual bouts of his doing well and then regressing. He has always been verbal, but until the last few years speech was limited to short sentences. He was subsequently diagnosed with migraines, which was what caused much of his pain in the early years.  Migraine conditions in the functionally nonverbal are commonly missed since these individuals cannot explain what is causing them pain. Sadly, pain outbursts and self-injury from their migraines is often labeled "just behavioral" or "just the autism".

Now that his migraines and epilepsy are controlled with Cannabidiol Oil my son is happy 90% of the time. I no longer believe Autism itself has anything to do with his physical pain.

I share this for the same reason I have always shared the end results of his medical mysteries: what if information in our story holds a key for someone else? After her autistic son's aggression was labeled just behavioral, a local mom heard our story and insisted upon an EEG. Her son had undiagnosed epilepsy and behavioral problems reduced dramatically with treatment. 

We were only able to diagnose his migraines because my child was somewhat verbal and could offer clues. "Alex's head is humpty dumpty.", "My head exploded.", and "There is cake frosting in my head." The neurologist took it from there.        

White Stone, Burning Bowl

Unity is a bit unconventional and not especially ritualistic. We don't do communion and rarely conduct baptisms. And while the rest of Christendom prepares the Eucharist, we can be found meditating amid our Sunday services.

But there are two rituals we do each year that I eagerly anticipate: The Burning Bowl and White Stone Ceremonies. 

Burning Bowl

Burning Bowl is the first Sunday after New Year's Day. During a guided meditation we write on flash paper things from the previous year that we'd like to release. It could be anything from old hurts and regrets to finished relationships or job transitions. Letting go creates a vacuum that is filled with whatever we  invoke for the New Year during White Stone.   

I'm told the first year our church had this burning garbage can that got so out of control it had to be hosed down out back. These days we just incinerate our sorrows in a single, flickering flame. Poof! Gone. Just like that.


My son also seared away the hardships of 2011. Our minister, who could seriously do stand up in her spare time, wondered what in the world these little ones could possibly be letting go? Then she told us a priest once said listening to children confess is like being stoned to death with popcorn.

White Stone

Within a few weeks of Burning Bowl is The White Stone Ceremony. That morning we are each given a white stone quarried from Israel.

This ritual is inspired by Revelations 2:17, "To him who overcomes, I will give some of the hidden manna. I will also give him a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to him who receives it."

When prisoners back in the day were released they were issued a white stone with a new name on it, symbolizing a fresh start. Our White Stone Ceremony reaches across time, anchoring this ancient metaphor in modern hearts when our new names, so to speak, are revealed in meditation. It could be a quality one wants to cultivate in the new year such as compassion, Christ-like, focus, forgiving. Or, maybe it reflects a dream held dear - motherhood, author, graduate. It could even be the same word from last year, no one would know anyhow since it is between ourselves and The Source. This rectangular white rock quarried from The Holy Land, then, becomes  a talisman, a physical reminder of what matters most to us.

This year I wrote five, count em', FIVE words on my white stone, because I could, but I'm not going to say what they are, because I'm just superstitious enough to think that I shouldn't.

Further Information:

White Stone and Burning Bowl by Rev. Carla Golden

Unity

Unity on Wikipedia



Tags: White Stone and Burning Bowl

Introducing Louisville's First Med Mob

Yesterday I did something waaaaay outside my comfort zone. Now get your minds out of the gutter, I'm talking about my participation in Louisville's first Med Mob. 

On January 21st, 2012 at 11:00 a.m. eastern standard time people in 250 cities around the globe joined in public flash mob meditations.

Our Med Mob gathered around a fountain at The Mall of St. Matthews. I'd say it was more gathering than mob. Okay, so maybe it was just myself and five other people! Well, seven of us actually, because you can't meditate in public anywhere in Louisville without practically getting stampeded by the likeness of a horse.

I was so nervous. Would we be mistaken for protesters and get arrested? Would teenagers use our eyes for dart practice? And why was I doing this anyhow? 

But when we closed our eyes Tom Petty's song Learning to Fly came on the overhead stereo and I felt the whole group relax. We meditated peacefully for twenty minutes and then we heard it - the fuzzy garble of security guard walkie-talkies. I sat there, eyes closed, telling myself - don't go into fear, don't go into fear, which is just like telling yourself - don't think of an elephant, don't think of an elephant. 

Apparently some Vegas style cooler kabashed our vibe. This woman came over, snapped pictures of us, and started passing out fliers we had available for people to take (though we had no intention of passing them out unsolicited like that). When this attracted mall security the woman took off. We knew none of  this, what with our eyes closed and all, but the security guards thought she was with us. They were super nice but concerned that if she posted those pictures on the Internet with store-front logos in the background that would violate copyright. They kindly said we could continue but our momentum was gone.

This drove home to me how few truly public square type places remain in America today, and, that when you really think about it, so much of what we do these days, however innocent, risks some copyright.

So we are on the lookout for an indoor public space for the next several Med Mobs. Once the weather warms up though look out Louisville Metro parks system. We're here! We're quiet! Get used to it! :)  Stay tuned.

For more information:

Med Mob: Inquire Within (international site)

Med Mob Louisville on Facebook

Med Mob Louisville Blog

Sister Serpent on a Sunday Afternoon

My son is obsessed with me. Take this the wrong way if you must, but sometimes he reminds me of a puppy. When I take a shower he waits outside the door. If I leave the house he watches from the window. And when I return he jumps up and down ecstatically and follows me from room to room. I wonder if he even has that sixth sense and knows when my car turns the corner of our street?

Now, I know what some of you are thinking - big deal, my kid did that. Right, when he was two. Mine is eight. Isn't he supposed to be ashamed of my very existence by now?

And God forbid he catches me baking without him. You see, baking is his thing. If I try to sneak in a batch without little hands taking over he barrels into the room like a boy betrayed, as if he caught me cheating. Yes folks, in our house attempts to bake without him are generally referred to as cheating on him. If you're going to cheat, we say, make sure it is after he goes to bed....and be certain he's asleep because if he smells those muffins in the oven its over.

Sure, I affect exasperation but deep down I love this. While some of you lament that your five year old now has her own life I get to keep my baby longer. A lot longer.

It's fun. Until it isn't.


By golly, that boy even wants mommy when his nervous system gets overloaded beyond what most of us could even bear. Taking my hand he says, "mommy's going down the stairs" (the apraxia dictionary defines downstairs as upstairs). Then he kicks his arms and legs into the bed and makes weeeeing sounds. I don't have to say much, just watch him kick and "weeeeeee" overwhelm from his hyper-sensitive nerve endings - and smile at him. There has to be the smile. He wants a witness; that is all. Perhaps reassuring smiles from momma mirror unconditional acceptance, and convey that all is ultimately well, despite the neurological chaos that rages inside him.


I like being his witness. I like that he wants me to be his witness. However, if I'm required to lie on a bed long enough during the day I will fall asleep. And the only thing I want to witness at that point is my dreams.


At first he does usual kid things to rouse my attention: sits on me, pokes my eye, laughs directly into my ear. Nothing. If I pretend to be asleep, like I really just was a second ago, maybe he'll give up. Perhaps he'll even fall asleep eventually. Now that would be nice!


And then I hear it, "hmmmnnnlll, hmmmnnll, hmmmmnll". Oh my God he's whimpering. Like a dog! That's why we don't have a dog. I can't stand the whinning!


OK, if I ignore this, surely he'll quit. It's a lot of work to whine like that.


"hmmmmnnlll, hmmmnnnllll, hmmmnnnll".


I guess he thinks I didn't hear him the fifth time.

Then mommy guilt, that serpent, slithers her way around my heart, wrapping it in knots. "Well, well, well", Sister Serpent says, "How short is thy memory. You don't know your blessings when they stare you in the face. Why not so long ago you lamented how autism stole your baby. You cried that he wouldn't let you into his world and now all he wants is to be in yours. Tsk, tsk. And so what if this is all consuming. What did you think you were signing up for when you became a mother, auntie duty? Your friend Kathryn has four children and she doesn't complain. And why your own mother raised six, then took in foster children....."


I won't win this. I concede and mommy guilt relaxes her grip on my heart. Turning to my son, with eyes still closed and heart wide-open, I say, "what is it my baby?".


Who ever said guilt serves no purpose?

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This was originally posted on my former blog two years ago. It is the only post I've ever written that wrote itself. At almost ten, he mostly weeeeeees! by himself now but occasionally still wants his witness, thank goodness.

My Homemade Compost Bins - Part Two

In October I wrote about the advantages and disadvantages of my composting system.



Though wonderful, alone it just didn't produce enough compost for my gardening needs.

I solved that problem by re-purposing a large stainless steel garbage can that was just being used to store junk anyway.

I drilled holes vertically around the four sides for circulation and drainage.




Then I did the same on the bottom



and on the lid.



The decomposition of food into compost requires hot temperatures. And no container does decomposition better than stainless steel baking in the hot sun, which is good since I need my compost fast.



So now I have the three cans going and that should be enough.

Cost of this one = $20.00 and 45 minutes to drill holes. 

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There are other ideas for homemade compost bins floating around cyberspace.



bctphotos @ Photobucket has a self-contained, raised open bin.




MagzDragon @ Photobucket uses a plastic garbage can. Seems like using a plastic garbage can with wheels might come in handy because you wouldn't require a wheel barrel to move the dirt.

What compost system do you use?

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Related Post: My Homemade Compost Bins: Part 1

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Tags: building a compost bin, making a compost bin