Shiny Green Button

A Tiny Green SPROut

When I think of sprouts my stomach cringes and I picture the grass that goes on a Garden burger and in a 1980's version of green salad. Sprouts live in the fridge until they form a gelatinous gunk that gets returned to the earth in the compost bin. Sprouts are good for you. Yuck.

SPROut on the other hand IS a "good for the earth" small nonprofit I just learned of in a recent supplement to the mag Sustainable Industries. SPROut is Sustainable Plant Research and Outreach and they're taking phytotechnology to new levels. The organization's mission is to become a driving force behind promoting and developing plants to help solve environmental problems.

Located on site at the Oregon Garden one of SPROut's projects is to maintain the wetlands constructed there that provide water for irrigation and at the same time treat the nearby City of Silverton's wastewater. What a perfect blend of form and function. I've been to the Gardens and can attest to how beautiful the wetlands area is, but I had no idea they were designed to serve a waste management function as well.

SPROut has facilitated numerous other projects from creating a storm water swale system to capture runoff from roof drains at a local Portland, Oregon apartment complex to a "Botanical Burrito" project where plant materials form a "tortilla" wrapped around soil and other plant material that floats atop polluted waters and aids in improving water quality. Hmmm...sounds like the Willamette River would be a good candidate for some Botanical Burritos.

Look for SPROut's soon to be published "Phytotechnology Resource Book: An Oregon User's guide to Plant-Based Solutions."

Although I'm committed to never eating another sprout, I'm definitely excited to learn about SPROut and the ways they are making a measurable difference in providing creative solutions to some of our most pressing environmental concerns. Check em out!

Iowa goes local

On Grist today, chef and blogger, Kurt Friese is shouting the praises of Iowa’s local farmers markets. No big surprise, right? Iowa. Farmers Markets. Makes sense. Actually, for those of us who have ever baled hay or detassled corn, the fact that Iowa has more farmers markets than any other state should raise some eyebrows. Sure raised mine.

Growing up in the eighties in northeast Iowa, I remember plenty of county fairs, malls and Wal-Marts, but I can’t remember attending one single farmers market. Almost everyone I knew in Iowa had a garden, but no one ever made money from their veggie patch. Farmers focused on the cash crops—soybeans and corn—to sustain their families. Maybe times have changed in the heartland. Is this a sign of a larger shift across the country? Are farmers abandoning the old standbys for a more diverse harvest? Have local markets transcended the world of slow foodies and inserted themselves into the daily lives of Americans?

Let’s hope so. The proliferation of local farmers markets holds all kinds of benefits for local economies and our collective carbon footprint, not to mention our bellies. But the reason I’ve become such a fan of local markets doesn’t have much to do with peak oil, GNPs or even french breakfast radishes. I come for what Friese calls "vital public space." In every market I’ve attended, from Union Square to Takoma Park to Studio City to Portland, an overwhelming feeling of community is the constant. In an increasingly disconnected world it serves an important purpose. It feels good.

 

The Post-Industrial Age

One of the pilgrims in Canterbury Tales encounters an ancient guy shuffling about, tapping the ground with his cane to say, "Dear Mother (Earth, that is), let me in." That's me when I hear statistics about impending planetary destruction. I get dispirited. They make me glad to be old.

And, yes, we're all headed that way, but no, it isn't a solution to the earth's mounting climatological problems. So when someone comes up with another way to talk about what we can do, I'm all ears.

Or, in this case, eyes. Management expert Peter Senge describes some powerful success stories in his new book, The Necessary Revolution: How Individuals and Organizations Are Working Together to Create a Sustainable World. Many of his examples come from the industrial era, such as commercial construction, soft-drink bottling and aluminum processing.

As the book's subtitle suggests, partnerships are helping industrial-age companies find common ground around more sustainable ways to do business, with positive effects for the bottom line. The U.S. Green Building Council engaged companies with expertise in site preparation (like bulldozing), heating and air conditioning, building materials, water and energy. For some magical reason, participants got beyond their own needs and thought about the future. That's how they were able to work through differences to develop the LEED rating system, which today, as everyone knows, can add major value to a construction project.

Coca-Cola, a heavy user of the world's water supplies, collaborated with the World Wildlife Fund to improve water management in vulnerable watersheds. Turns out that Coke and people living in those areas all had a stake in having clean water available. Recognizing that, they were able to reach consensus and make progress.

The happy thing about this book is that it seeks out examples beyond the usual sustainability suspects, such as Ben & Jerry's and Timberland. It's fun to learn, for example, that Alcoa now thinks not five years ahead but 25 years, and that once-evil DuPont has staked out a position as a world leader in plant-based chemicals.

Senge's relentless optimism could have a Pied Piper effect among other industrial-age companies. Let's hope more join the parade.

Fishy argument

Stanley Fish has stirred the pot with a column in the New York Times today. In it, he confesses to resenting and rebelling against the supposed need to change his behavior to reduce his environmental impact. "I don't want to save the planet," he writes. "I just want to inhabit it as comfortably as possible for as long as I have."

He rails against what he calls irritating gestures--using rags instead of paper towels, switching to compact flourescents and recycling, for example--because they're too much personal bother without personal benefit.

While Fish's column is provocative, what's most interesting to me are the comments it has sparked. Predictably, there are a lot of them. About 75% are running against Fish, calling him selfish and short-sighted (or urging him to reconsider his position), with the other 25% expressing solidarity with his courage to speak out. Reading through them, you can quickly run through a cross-section of the familiar positions, both pro and con, associated with the gathering environmental movement. They offer a saturated snapshot of where we stand today, as a nation and a culture--not just about environmental issues, but on politics and the economy and work/life balance and values and even religion.

Of all the meta-issues we face, the environment seems to be the one that spans the greatest and most diverse range. It is a major, if not a dominant, thread in our national conversation, which is remarkable given where we were just three years ago. And that begs the question--if we were to return to this column and these comments three years from now, what will we discover with 20/20 hindsight? What positions will have evolved and which will have become more entrenched? How will the tone and vocabularly have changed? Will we still largely be fighting each other over our positions? Or will we have reached some consensus and be arguing over the particulars of policy or measures or progress?

Here's one to flip your lid over ...

Like many, many households across the U.S, each week at my house we buy several of those convenient little plastic tubs full of cottage cheese, yogurt, butter, salsa, what have you. When a stack of those tubs and lids spilled out of the kitchen cabinet the other day, it hit me. Man, what a load of plastic we go through ... every week, every month, every year. Ugh. Plastic is evil.

Of course, we reuse many of those tubs for leftovers and such and the others get tossed into recycling each week to become some other form of plastic--a soda bottle, a milk jug? That should offer me some sort of comfort, right? Hmmm. But there's one other pesky thought that gnawed its way into my consciousness as I gathered up the six or so lids that had scattered across the floor: Why can't these guys be thrown in with our regular recycling? After a bit of Internet research, the simple explanation is that the lids and containers are not made of the same type of plastic and never the twain shall be mixed together for recycling. Something about contamination. And so, our curbside recycler doesn't take the lids because it doesn't have the operations to recycle them. Now I fear that everyone in my neighborhood, city, state, country is just throwing them into the garbage*.

But wait before you (and by you I mean me, I) go down the deep dark abyss of "recycling is too difficult ... doesn't make a difference ... schmer, schmer, grumble, grumble" - a brand hero emerges. Enter friend of the earth Aveda. The maker of really good smelling hair care and beauty products has recently launched a nationwide program to collect any and all hard plastic bottle caps in their stores, salons and schools, which it will ship to its recycler to be turned into new caps and other stuff. This is a great next step for a brand that's had a long history of environmental mindfulness, leadership and responsibility. So, to all those other brands out there that are making plastic packaging, I say, step up and start taking it back. It's the least you can do.

As for all of those plastics that we (meaning me, er ... I) buy every week, I'll try to keep a lid on it, so to speak.

*Hey, here's an alternative to just throwing non-recyclable caps and lids in the trash: At my house, we keep a special bag on the recycling porch for all of those little plastic bottle caps, lids and other non-recyclable plastics. Every couple of months, we haul them to a local grocery store chain (a shout out to New Season's Market) that sends them off to an operation that can recycle them. It's an extra step, but it feels better than sending them to the landfill.

For readers using compact fluorescent lightbulbs only (just kidding)

The other day, in the parking structure at the hospital, I pulled into the first open spot and reached to turn off my car. That's when I noticed the inconspicuous sign hanging on the wall, barely visible in the dim light:

FOR FLEX-FUEL VEHICLES ONLY

Begrudgingly, I shifted my non-flex-fuel vehicle into reverse, backed up and re-parked two spots down and across the aisle. But then I started to get slightly irritated: flex-fuel vehicles ONLY? Why?

It may seem like an insignificant gripe—it's just one parking spot reserved for the lucky owner of a Prius, after all—but to me the sign represents a common problem in the way we, as a society, are trying to encourage change.

If 20 people a day do exactly what I did—pull into the spot only to have to repark a second later—how much extra gas gets wasted over the course of a year? And, really—is someone really going to go out and buy a hybrid just to be able to park 10 feet closer to the hospital entrance?

More importantly, there are much better ways to encourage us to change. Parking is obviously a necessity at a hospital, as many patients are immobile without a vehicle, but there could be fewer available parking spots to begin with. Or how about offer me a discount on my copay if I present a bus ticket receipt? Or if I bike or walk? Sure, there are problems inherent in a policy like that (how would a walker prove that they actually walked? etc.), but my point remains the same:

A half-baked attempt at encouraging more sustainable lifestyle choices means nothing if it has no meat to it. This particular example struck me as nothing more than a corporate nod (no, not even a nod—just a wink) to somehow prove how "green" the organization is trying to be. Who knows—maybe that hard-to-find flex-fuel sign even got them an extra point towards a LEED certification. But does that parking policy do anything substantive? My hunch is no.

And sure enough, as I walked away from my car towards the hospital entrance, another visitor pulled into the flex-fuel spot—and promptly pulled right back out.

I supposed I can't really talk. I never would've seen the sign if I'd been a responsible person and biked to the hospital in the first place.

Viva la Regulaciòn

Last Saturday I found myself at Trader Joe's without a reusable bag. Until then, I did a fairly good job remembering to use them. I stocked our cars with canvas bags. I turned back to retrieve them when I saw the reminder outside of TJ's doors. "Don’t forget reusable bags," the sign nudged. I appreciated Joe's help. And, man, did I love how it felt. I kept score with my aisle mates and pitied the poor, unconscious souls without the foresight to simply bring a bag. "What's wrong with these people?" I'd think to myself. At the check out counter, I'd make eye contact with the bag packer, gently clear my throat and announce, "Oh, no need to use those, I brought my own."

But Saturday I forgot. And I hated it. All the judgment I leveled on my fellow shoppers returned to me. I could feel myself climbing off my perch and lighting onto another. This perch was not as lofty, but just as self-righteous. "What does one bag matter?" (Actually, it was four bags.) "It's just too hard to remember. Screw it."

The truth was, I felt bad. Driving out of the parking lot, I realized something. In order to make lasting change in my behavior, I need help. Laws, rules, boundaries. I need regulations.

By the looks of it, I might get my way. We may be at the forefront of a more strict society—a glorious Age of Regulation, if you will. Here are just a few signs:

• After years of dodging meaningful restrictions in the US, the chemical industry will be held more accountable than ever by the European Union’s REACH program. Why does this matter to us? The EU’s incredible purchasing power can force global changes throughout the industry.
• Houston has the worst recycling rate among major US cities. Thanks to poor planning, cheap landfill fees and a proud anti-regulation history, Houston's landfills are filling faster than they can dig 'em. In an effort to move from worst to first, some Houstonians are advocating for mandatory recycling—complete with a fee-enforced waste limit—for each and every citizen.
• Los Angeles has joined San Francisco to ban plastic bags. Seattle is imposing a 20-cent fee for plastic and paper bags.

I think these are great. Bring 'em on. While we're at it, I've got another suggestion: How about banning all non-reusable bags? Then, if I forgot the bags, I'd have no choice but to step out of the check-out line, walk back to my car and get them.

Sure there's consumer-imposed pressure for businesses to clean up their act. But when the bottom line takes on the common good, we all know who usually wins. What's wrong with a little nudging now and then?

Runaway train

Just outside my office window, I have a spectacular view of the Columbia river. I'm on the Vancouver side, near the I-5 bridge that connects Washington and Oregon. A dizzying volume of stuff passes by all day long--cars and trucks, boats and barges, propelled by the engines of commerce. And then there are the trains. Shipping containers from China, stacked two high on flatbed train cars, rumble by, and I can feel the building tremble.

But the train that's been catching my eye lately is the one filled with coal. Once a week, a row of open cars lumbers past, each filled with a huge pile of shiny black coal. It stretches on for more than a mile. So someone around here in the land of hydropower is burning a lot of coal.

It's probably the coal-fired power plant in Boardman, the only one in Oregon, according to this map. This one plant, a tiny contributor to the Pacific Northwest's power supply, pumped almost 4 million pounds of carbon (as well as 141 pounds of mercury) into the air in 2000. So when I see all the other coal plants on the map (and this map only covers the relatively coal-light American West), I can only imagine how long the trains hauling coal to their burners must be.

This past weekend, I fixed up my 20-year-old bike so I can begin commuting under my own power--to save gas and to try to reduce the amount of carbon I put into the atmosphere. But seeing the nonstop land and water traffic outside my window--and all that coal--makes my contribution seem puny indeed. Our whole economy (not just the Pacific Northwest's, or the United States', but the world's) is like a runaway train, and it will take more than throwing an occasional bike across the tracks to slow it down, much less stop it.

So what to do? I think Mr. Gore has a good idea: "to commit to producing 100 percent of our [the United States'] electricity from renewable energy and truly clean, carbon-free sources within 10 years." As Gore pointed out on Meet the Press recently, many people in 1942 thought there was no way America could build the planes and tanks needed to fight WWII so quickly. But, united by a common cause, the American people did it.

Here's a thought: let's start making the point that it's worth our time and spirit to stop the carbon-burning train we're all on before it ends in a spectacular crash. That means it will take more than do-goodniks like me riding their bikes to work. It will take a reshaping of the incentives that drive new businesses--perhaps through tax incentives for innovation and penalties for dragging of the heels. It will take our demanding change not just as green-minded consumers who buy organic breakfast cereal, but as citizens of the world as well. We all have a stake in this, so let's stop finding reasons why we can't do it and start getting things done. 

Socially minded

The results of a new poll of professional communicators (that would be my tribe) featured today on Ragan.com reveals that, surprise!, we want to amp up CSR communications and do a better job of measuring results.

As is often the case, the story's lede was buried. Near the bottom of the article is this gem:

Only 22 percent of poll respondents said they plan to communicate CSR programs using social media like blogs, podcasts and Facebook groups; this response was unexpected given the popularity of these media.

What year is this? 2003? Who in their right communicator's mind would not include social media in their planning? Setting aside it's particular relevance to CSR, by now social media is no longer a curiosity or nice-to-have experiment. It's practically required for any effective communications program, in some fashion.

To its credit, the Ragan story concludes with an extended quote from one of the poll's anonymous respondents that gets right to the nut of the matter: "CSR is a growing trend among progressive organizations. If your organization is progressive, your communications efforts should be innovative.” (article's emphasis)

This is the biggest area for improvement in CSR communications. Too much of it is based on an outdated model--the polished and predictable annual report--that doesn't match the type of diverse and dynamic information that organizations need to share. Or people's increasing expectations for greater access and transparency.

Some companies have realized this (Timberland, Dell and Starbucks come to mind) and are investing in social media to better connect with people. They're encouraging and empowering conversations--not just between them and their constituencies, but among their constituents--rather than trying to precisely time and control how, when, where, why and to whom information is released. Sure, the risks are higher. But the benefits are, too.

Here's why: So much of CSR is fundamentally about people and issues, both big and small, that impact lives and livelihoods. Data and milestones, while necessary to the story, aren't the story. Relationships are. Ultimately, CSR communications are about fostering relationships between companies and their employees, customers and investors, governments, organizations and nonprofits, and local communities. Reports and case studies and brochures can only itemize and document and describe those relationships.

Social media, in contrast, is an ongoing manifestation of those relationships, not only representing them but also actively building and shaping them. In other words, you can't separate how you communicate about your CSR activities from your CSR activities themselves. The medium is the message, as the adage goes. Communicators who don't quickly wake up to this shift are about to become as relevant as the teletype.

Space invaders

Last night, my wife came in from the garden muttering to herself. She had spent the better part of the evening cutting back blackberry and morning glory growing through the fence from our neighbor's property, pulling up a riotous patch of flowers (a pretty purple, but alarmingly pushy) and yanking down tendrils of ivy that were beginning to snake up a creaky box elder tree. It's a constant battle to stay ahead of nonnative species. And it's not limited to the backyard. A couple of weeks ago, I was fishing the Deschutes River in Central Oregon and was surprised to see nearly every rock studded with tiny black snails. I hadn't noticed them in such numbers before. A sign near one of the trails explained the situation--the river has been infested with New Zealand mud snails, and anglers were urged to thoroughly clean their gear with bleach before moving on to another watershed.

All of which got me thinking about a point Michael Pollan makes about corn in his book Omnivore's Dilemma. He says that corn has effectively cultivated and molded us to its advantage--not the other way around. We've invested untold resources giving corn every advantage over other species, dramatically expanding its range and virtually eliminating its direct competition (and natural enemies).

It seems to me the challenge of nonnative species extends to marketing, too. With growing interest in sustainability, mainstream brands are trying to break into the green marketplace. The danger to smaller, more modest brands--those that have been focused on the sustainability market all along--is analogous to what native plants and animals face in the onslaught of aggressive, fast-propagating invasive species. They're at risk of being crowded out and overrun, which could greatly reduce the diversity of choices and overall health of the green marketplace.

As with corn, we've essentially evolved as consumers to serve and protect these megabrands. In general, we're predisposed to choose them for their superior convenience or better price or powerful brand image, characteristics we traditionally have placed a higher value on than, say, their carbon footprint.

There are encouraging signs, however. The movement towards choosing locally-grown foods, for example, promises to encourage greater market diversity and expand the foothold of "native" brands. While it's unlikely we'll be able to break completely free of our economic monoculture any time soon, we can at least defend the diversity we have and seed new ground whenever we get the opportunity.