“Why are you a vegetarian?”
After three years of committed vegetarianism, I still panic every time I am asked this question.
It wouldn’t be such a big deal but occasionally, admitting to not eating meat and fish turns normally courteous human beings into heat-seeking missiles. Not one for confrontation, initially comments such as:
Humans are designed to eat meat; and
I’m sure you know vegetarians are unhealthy – they have low iron; low calcium; don’t get enough protein; don’t know how to tie their shoelaces;
bothered me a lot. Whenever I attempted to explain myself I’d end up tongue tied, not because I couldn’t find a valid reason but because, from my perspective anyway, a simple explanation doesn’t exist.
As a young adult, my first yoga teacher suggested that those who ate meat try to not eat meat for a while to see how that affected your body, and for those who didn’t eat meat to try the opposite. So I became an experimental vegetarian.
I wasn’t very good at it. I removed meat from my diet and embraced substitutes. But I still ate lots of crap. It was a meat-free diet, not a healthy one.
When I met my partner his European mother was determined to get me to “eat half a cow”. Raised on humble meat and three veg, I could barely resist her incredible continental cuisine. Since my vegetarianism was based solely on experimentation, I soon capitulated.
After a while of happy meat eating I started thinking about the incredibly easy access to meat enjoyed by the western world. Although unnecessary in terms of nutrition, we can afford to have meat at every meal. We have moved a long way from the tradition of eating meat as a rare festive privilege. So, out of respect for tradition, I began to limit most of my meat eating to “feastings” like birthdays or Christmas.
Then I started thinking about the environmental impacts of large-scale farming. To limit the degradation of the environment, my meat eating needed to be contained. I limited my intake to one serve of meat per day, preferably less.
Oddly, the final straw was peace and conflict studies. After learning about the psychological impacts of genocide, armed conflict, sexual abuse, racism and other earthly horrors I became vegetarian overnight. I couldn’t fathom harming other human beings so it only seemed right and just not to harm other sentient beings in the animal kingdom.
My vegetarianism was strengthened by concerns for animal welfare. Pet owners will agree that you do everything you can to ensure your animal friends are healthy and happy. But for some reason, we coddle cats and dogs yet slaughter pigs and chickens. I soon found myself unable to ignore this bizarre convention.
I’m not an advocate for vegetarianism, but if I could change anything about the world it would be this – factory farming. Right now, billions of pigs and chickens around the world are covered in weeping sores, living in their own faeces, being pumped up with antibiotics and spending their short, painful lives confined to cages and stalls where they never see daylight and can barely stand up. We don’t need to farm this way.
Meat-eater, vegetarian or vegan, we can’t turn our backs on our feathered and hoofed friends. They deserve a calm and healthy life followed by a calm and quick death. Humans have built empires, sent people to the moon and travelled to the bottom of the ocean. I’m sure if we put our heads together we can design factory farms that treat animals with respect.
- World Vegetarian Day – 1 October
http://www.worldvegetarianday.org/
- International Vegetarian Week Challenge 1-7 October
http://www.animalsaustralia.org/features/veg-week/
For more information on factory farming:
- Jonathan Safran Foer’s book Eating Animals looks at the consequences of factory farming on animal welfare and small producers
- Factory farming in Australia
http://www.voiceless.org.au/The_Issues/Fact_Sheets/Factory_Farming.html
- Factory farming in the US
- Factory farming in the UK
I’ve been going a little crazy this year with goal-setting, most recently whilst reading the book The 4-Hour Work Week by Timothy Ferriss. To my dismay, I’ve come across more than a few hurdles along the way. Whenever I get to the point of brainstorming what it is that I want to do with my life I find myself getting stuck. How come I don’t know what I want?
I had a small epiphany when Timothy put it this way:
After years of repetitive work, you will often have to dig hard to find your passions, redefine your dreams, and revive hobbies that you let atrophy to near extinction.
Oh. I’ve been so busy creating the life I thought I wanted (a financially secure job and a mortgage) that I’ve lost my way when it comes to my dreams.
Timothy suggests that instead of focusing on what we want, we should be focusing on what excites us. Even that can be difficult to rediscover when you’ve gone too far down the path of boredom.
So in an effort to stave off said boredom I found myself visiting a new blog – GirlHabits. As I was reading about its author Carolina Baker I discovered the reason why she had started her blog. After an intense search for the perfect job Carolina realised that she would only find happiness in what she loved as a child (which for her was reading, writing and exercising).
This seems like a great place to start. Instead of trying to define a new fix-it-all career from a position of emptiness, what I really need to be doing is giving myself permission to re-explore those childhood passions that have been simmering under the surface all along. Time to sing, dance, paint and cook!
Upping the excitement levels will naturally create inspiration for bigger and better dreams and goals. And who knows, maybe having a bit of fun might just lead to a new vocation. Would anybody like to hire a roller skater that is not afraid to colour outside the lines?
What childhood passions are waiting to be reignited in your own life?
Happy World Peace Day!
When I think about peace I don’t just think about the absence of direct violence (events or actions that harm or kill), I think about the restoration of relationships, the creation of social systems that serve the needs of the whole population and the constructive resolution of conflict (also known as positive peace).
It was my intention to provide some tasty tid bits on World Peace Day for y’all; however my plans have been foiled. Like internet gambling and pornography sites, YouTube and Facebook, my workplace browser prevents me from accessing United Nations websites dedicated to the International Day of Peace – how bizarre.
But this little hurdle does not prevent me from thanking everybody out there who performs peaceful acts every day that help to make this world a safer and life-enhancing place to live.
Here are some peaceful things you could do to help celebrate World Peace Day:
- Bake some delicious treats to share with your family, friends or workmates (just like one of my wonderful work colleagues did!)
- Take a walk and talk to the trees
- Give somebody a compliment
- Write a ‘hello, I’m thinking about you’ letter or email to somebody you appreciate that lives far away
- Be kind to an animal
- Smile at a random stranger on the street
- Meditate
- Learn about a new culture
- Hold your tongue if you feel the urge to say something negative
- Listen to another person’s point of view and try to understand why they hold that perspective
- Be grateful for all the wonderful things in your life.
Protracted world conflicts may not be resolved overnight, but anything we can do to make the world a better place is worth the effort.
I love, love, love books! I’ve always loved books. I still have most of the treasured books I was given as a child. When I started earning my own money in high school I spent most of my pay checks on books (the rest was spent on chocolate).
As an exchange student in Scandinavia I discovered that many of the English language novels in my small town library had never been read. Needless to say, I dedicated a good six months to reading everything on the shelves in order to claim the (silent) honour of being the first person to borrow each book (and discovering a plethora of incredible authors and tales along the way).
Today I have a wallet full of loyalty memberships for an ever-growing list of wonderful bookshops, not to mention several bookshelves heaving with tomes. I covet books like bower birds covet shiny objects.
I love the whole experience of reading a book – holding it in my hands, scrutinising the cover, reading the blurb on the jacket, turning the pages. I’ve been known to stretch out the final chapters of a novel over several days or weeks because I don’t want to say goodbye to the parallel universe that has grown inside my mind – be it New Orleans in the 1960s, the grimy streets of Paris during the French Revolution or the depths of Congo at the turn of the 20th century.
Once, in a desperate attempt to rid myself of excess, I purged my bookshelves of titles I never intended to read or would never read again. It seemed straightforward, but I ended up lying in the hallway sobbing like a baby. Yes, I love books that much.
Now I am on the verge of blasphemy. After reading about digital minimalism, I’m toying with the idea of converting to a Kindle (an ebook reader for those not in the know). In a recent article on the so called cult of less, Kelly Sutton talked about downsizing and digitising his life (something which, as a typical college student, probably isn’t that taxing to do, yet I was still impressed.) As Kelly told the interviewer:
All of my music is 100 per cent digital, I don’t have any CDs (I just have an iTunes library), I don’t have any DVDs (I just rent movies on occasion from iTunes or stream them using Netflix) and I own a Kindle so now I can just read whatever book I want on the device.
Hey, with an ebook reader I could carry around an entire library! I could free up the shelving in my home for a bottle top collection! I could be modern! As a friend advised, I could get a reader for convenience and trim my existing paper book collection to something smaller but really high quality – now that is sexy!
I was almost seduced until I realised that the best of both worlds was staring me in the face – I can clear off my shelves and enjoy an unlimited and freely available supply of tactile books at my local library. Yay for old school!
Looking out of the bus window this morning, I saw a university student sheepishly approach a swing in the middle of a park. His bag slumped down beside him as he sat down and tentatively began to rock back and forth. The bus shunted forward in the traffic and stopped. I looked back to see the student in full swing, flying high into the sky as the spring sunshine lit up the green of the grass and trees. I enviously admired him like a five-year old longing to play.
I’ve often looked out the bus window at those swings on my way to and from work. One day I saw a young couple having the time of their life, laughing hysterically each time they passed one another in mid air.
Occasionally I am overtaken by the temptation to leap off the bus, but my adult self quickly scolds my inner child – ‘you have to get to work’ or ‘you have to get home and make dinner’.
Not so long ago, on a mild winter’s night, I was meeting friends for dinner not far from the park. I finished work early and decided to walk to the restaurant. At first I entered the park to say hello to the ducks skimming across the pond. It began to sprinkle with rain. I huddled under my umbrella and walked the perimeter of the pond admiring the carefree ducks wallowing in the water.
Eventually I set off in the direction of the restaurant. Sheltering under the umbrella I made the sensible adult decision to walk along the path rather then take a short cut across the wet grass. I soon came upon a fork in the road: on my right – wine, food and great conversation; on my left – stepping stones weaving their way under dripping trees. I took the path less travelled and virtually ran towards the swings.
Dressed head to toe in sensible work wear, including my best jacket, I tossed my umbrella aside and subjected my clothes to a wet seat and a steady drizzle. Up, up, up I went into the night sky. The city laid out at my feet twinkled back at me. A giant palm tree rustled above my head. My hair was getting frizzier by the second but I didn’t care – I was flying!
After some time of pure elation a group of university students passed me by. One of them stopped to smile and call something out to me. I didn’t catch what he said but I smiled back. I knew that one day – when his university days were long behind him – he’d leave the office in his best suit and take some time out for a swing on his way home.
I am sporting new “pleather” shoes. Pleather as in plastic leather (or artificial leather as it is commonly known).
In the name of animal welfare I am slowing reducing my dependence on leather goods. I have a “no new leather” rule: all current leather products in my possession will be treated with the upmost care to ensure a long and productive life (I don’t want to be wasteful and wantonly replace everything), and for any new leather products I may need I will look for a synthetic substitute.
When you care about fashion (or looking reasonably well put together) the idea of “pleather” ain’t a pretty one. When I first instigated my “no new leather” rule I rapidly acquired a succession of gorgeous, second-hand (sorry, vintage) shoes. The fashion devil on my left shoulder was placated, yet the ethical angel on my right shoulder would quietly whisper – you’re still wearing leather.
So when it came time to purchase a new pair of shoes for work, I jumped at the only pair of reasonably fashionable synthetic shoes on offer amongst a sea of leather alternatives (including the trap of synthetic shoes with leather lining). My new shoes weren’t created for vegetarians/vegans; they were created for youngsters with a limited disposable income (read cheap fashion. Read disposable society. Read yet another ethical dilemma). I don’t care if I’m being a fashion victim; they were the only pair the angel and devil could agree on.
Now when I look down at my pleather encased feet I get a flood of warm and fuzzy feelings and have a little bit of a giggle – my significant other wanted animal-friendly attire too so he’s also wearing the same pair of ladies shoes!
- Apparently, not all pleathers are the same…
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Artificial_leather
- Your only one stop shop for animal-free footwear in Australia
My parents are in the process of selling their house – the fourth home I lived in. The cosy family feel has been replaced with a virtual showroom of plumped cushions and dust-free surfaces; enough to send into shock those familiar with casual meals with mismatched crockery, teetering towers of unopened mail and boisterous Christmas gatherings that cover the house with tinsel.
I was a toddler when we moved from my first home. All that remains are vague memories of falling off the slippery dip and hiding under the kitchen bench.
I spent my entire childhood in the second home. My memories take me back to the yellow brick walls, the yard with the vacant land over the back fence (excellent for bike riding!), cooking drop scones on the electric pan and making cubby houses with my sister under blankets held together with clothes pegs.
I was fourteen when we moved from the country to the big smoke so home number three is full of teenage memories – posters on the walls and ceiling of my bedroom, listening to music on the radio through the fuzz of bad reception, obsessing over teenage heartthrobs and real-life boys and fighting with my sister about everything.
By the time we moved to home number four I had graduated from high school and was making my way in the world. My bedroom was no longer a haven but a depository for childhood and teenage memories, most often stored away at the back of the cupboard.
When I eventually moved out of home I left those memories in the custody of my parents to be dealt with ‘some other time’. Now the house is on the verge of being sold (and my parents’ new home has no room for storing dusty old boxes) the time has come.
I recently spent an evening with my mother and sister sifting through old school books, toys and various other bits and pieces and was surprised to discover that the significance of why I’d kept certain items had long been lost.
I’m a sentimental person by nature, but I no longer cared about that weird little owl covered in real fur (eek!) nor remembered the circumstances of how it came into my possession. I had long moved on from the matching basketball shirt and cap that took me weeks to save for and was central to my wardrobe during my sixteenth year, and was completely disinterested in the slabs of yellowing newspapers announcing world changing events that I had so carefully stored away.
After several hours of sorting I had managed to set aside a few bags of toys and books for donation. But in the end, I mostly put everything back from whence it had come. Although I had made progress, it was the memories that overwhelmed me. I discovered this trip down memory lane would have to be taken slowly – one box at a time.
It must have started with that royal wedding and that gown. Lady Diana Spencer arrives at the steps of St Paul’s Cathedral in a horse-drawn carriage stuffed to the brim with fluffy white meringue. As she steps out onto a red carpet, half a dozen mini meringues unravel volumes of silk taffeta, lace, sequins and pearls to reveal a train that is almost as long as the walk up the aisle. For weeks afterwards I spend countless hours pouring over my commemorative royal wedding sticker book secretly wishing that I was one of the flower girls.
Fast-forward two decades when I discover that an Aussie commoner like me had become engaged to a Danish prince. Oh the pain and disappointment! I had lived in Denmark, I was in Sydney during the Olympics (well, technically, I was in Melbourne for most of the month – but I was working on Olympic football so that should count), I had eaten more than my fair share of salted liquorice and partied at the Slip Inn but alas, I never met the Crown Prince!
The Danish royal wedding reactivated my prior childhood obsession with the British monarchy and I found myself collecting magazine cuttings of Princess Mary “as a joke”. Everyone in the workplace was in on it and we soon covered my cubicle with “Mary at the Opera House”, “Mary in traditional garb in Greenland”, “Mary in New York”, “Mary at a royal wedding in some fabulous European location”, “Mary, Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow”.
Sadly, the obsession did not end there. Although I eventually moved on from the cubicle collage, my royal watching had expanded to include the entire Scandinavian portfolio – Denmark, Sweden and Norway – whilst occasionally catching up on the Brits, Monaco and several other unremarkable European dynasties over a lunchtime search on Google.
In June this year I finally realised my dreams of a royal engagement had all but slipped away when Crown Princess Victoria of Sweden wed her long time beau (and former personal trainer). Having given up on becoming a Danish Princess I was holding onto the hope of making a splash as the royal bride of the future Queen of Sweden – now that would make the cover of Woman’s Day!
For more random royalness check out:
So I’m sitting on the bus and significant other asks me as we pass a bakery, “Which pastry do you wish you were eating right now?” I peer past his shoulder into the shopfront eyeing off the croissants, the pain au chocolates, the danishes, the almond croissants. “Almond croissant,” I announce, surprised at my choice as I’m usually a plain croissant kind of gal.
Almond croissant. Almond croissant. The idea begins to permeate my mind. I’d already eaten breakfast – apple compote, banana, yoghurt and pecan nuts – but I couldn’t shake the developing desire to grab a bakery treat on my way into the office.
Almond croissant. Almond croissant. I disembark from the bus. Whilst waiting at the lights I do a mental stock take of how much cash I have in my wallet. I’m sure I don’t have enough coins. Should I break a note for a second-breakfast?
Almond croissant. Almond croissant. Then there it is. Right in front of me whilst I’m half distracted by a text message. A shower of coins rains down on the street – pennies from heaven! I see a young man bend to pick them up amongst the moving feet of people rushing to get somewhere. As I pass over the same spot I notice more coins. I scoop them up and begin my pursuit – slowed somewhat by my stiff leg muscles (I’m still recovering from the “fun run”) and the crowd peeling off in several directions. Eventually I catch up with him.
I tap him on the arm. “Excuse me, did you drop your money on the road?” say I, the proud Good Samaritan offering an outstretched hand full of glinting coins.
He takes a moment to look me up and down. “That’s not my money,” and walks off.
Now what? There is no one else around. The crowd has dispersed. Whose money have I taken possession of?
Then it suddenly dawns on me. Almond croissant!
With more delight then expected on a work day morning, I walk the extra five minutes to the best bakery in the area with just enough coin for my bakery treat.
On a recent daytime television appearance, President Obama spoke about his family’s dinner table tradition of playing a game called “roses and thorns”.
Each member of the family reports on the good events of their day – the roses – and the bad – the thorns. (Apparently one of President Obama’s daughters commented on her dad’s “really thorny job”!)
I was first introduced to this game when volunteering on a community development project in the tropical rainforests of Costa Rica. For several months, myself and thirteen other young volunteers lived in each others pockets – sharing meals and basic sleeping quarters, working side-by-side in the jungle all day and hanging out under the palm trees at night. It was a hotbed of social interaction – like Big Brother but without the cameras – which inevitably boiled over every now and then.
Thankfully, our ingenious “Camping Mom” (an intrepid adventurer with plenty of experience living in close quarters) used perfectly timed group activities to diffuse tension in the camp. One of her favourites was to suggest a round of her own version of “roses and thorns” – cockroaches and rainbows – whenever people needed to let off steam. We all got our chance to groan and complain as we sat around the campfire, but in the end we were subtly coaxed back into a positive frame of mind with our rainbow – the trick is to end on the rainbow!
I’m not surprised the Obama family are devotees. It is a fun way to debrief your day. Give it a go!
Here are my cockroaches and rainbows for my first “fun run” over the weekend:
cockroaches
- my running partner getting sick three days before the race and having to pull out
- the journey home taking two and a half hours!
- making the novice mistake of not drinking enough fluids and ending up with a dehydration headache that made me nauseous and lasted most of the day. Yuck!
rainbows
- finishing my first 14km run!!! (I actually ran 6km run, walked 4km walk and ran the final 4km run – but I got there in the end)
- running solo and loving it
- using my status as an ‘elite athlete’ as an excuse to eat pancakes for lunch the day after the race (yay!)
liquorice allsorts of things! 