Code is Easy. Money is Hard.

Another autumn, another new blog. This time it was a requirement for a school program.

So far, it has been focused on the problems of learning a new programming environment, language, blogging platform, and how all the pieces fit together from a technical perspective. But that is not the point of the program, and I would be sadly mistaken to think that because things are going well on that front, I’ve got it licked.

This is a startup immersion intensive. The goal is not for us to be competent developers, it is for us to become tech startup founders. This is an entirely different problem, and it hits my terror points pretty hard.

A long time ago, I alluded to a post I wasn’t writing. Then I didn’t write it. Then I didn’t write anything for a long, long time. And what I wasn’t writing about was…

can I whisper this? (… money)

We haven’t gotten to the business part yet, except in an “Intro to Canadian Business” course at the university, but I can see it on the horizon. I’ve already identified it as my most likely point of failure, on account of… it’s been a consistent point of failure in my previous attempts to start any kind of business, no matter how small. Money, to put it bluntly, freaks me out.

I’ve done end runs around this. I’ve set up my financial systems so that the bills get paid automatically, so that I only have to touch them occasionally. But every time that something needs to be adjusted, or something as simple as a cheque needs to be be cashed, I delay and avoid. This applies as much (or maybe more) to money I have as to money I owe. I’m pretty good at making sure that everything is paid. But I suck at things like monitoring investments, or even reading the reports. I’m sort of… um… embarrassed to need it. Certainly embarrassed to want any more than the bare necessities. It’s a stand-in for resources and access to resources, and in a world in which the distribution of resources is so blatantly unequal, I’m embarrassed about taking more than my fair share.

This is my starting point… and it’s more than mere embarrassment. I have deep shame around this issue. It’s not personal shame; it’s the shame of a class. When I have so much, how can I ask for more? And this is where I have found myself for years. Isn’t this (whatever it is) good enough?

So let us assume that I’ve considered that perspective. Given it a good thrashing about, shall we say? Gone at it from a million directions, found that with the perspective of myself as an individual, it’s got a good point. Certainly what I have now is good enough. My roof has been replaced, and the windows don’t leak. Barring unforeseen disaster, we shall be able to keep the cars on the road, everybody fed, and the house heated through the winter. The income is higher than the outgo. And I can even go visit my friends from time to time.

Life is good.

But my perspective may be wrong.

Warning: Rocks Ahead

Now, bear with me, because for this next section we must tread perilously close to trickle-down economics and the divine right of rulers, and I don’t want us to trip and fall upon those particular rocks. But let me propose (and I’ve been thinking about this a while) that it’s not about me.

This summer, one of my friends said to me, “We need people like you to have money and power.” It was part of a larger conversation, but the gist of it was that when those of us who are educated, skilled and dedicated to The Good Work (in whatever guise) don’t learn how to gather sufficient resources, The Work goes undone. Or it is done in snatched “spare” minutes. Or it is done with construction and tissue paper and then stacked up against billion dollar marketing budgets. It may be done joyfully, exuberantly and with a sense of beauty and community. But it is also done on the backs of unpaid interns, overworked staff members, and overextended volunteers. And in the face of the enormity of the resources arrayed in support of the status quo, our work for change frequently looks and feels absurd.

I’ve been hearing this, and ideas like it, for years. But this time it was said in sacred space, in an open truth-speaking community, and I heard it: This is not about you. It is not about your ego. It is not about you claiming resources. It is about using what you know to gather the resources to get this work done. It is about joining a community of people who want permaculture and social justice and environmental responsibility to be the foundation upon which their society is built, not fringe extras.

And right now, with so much of the planet in private hands, that means money. It means getting past your (my) squeamishness. It means taking responsibility for a larger piece of the world, possibly for a piece of the world larger than you can currently envision. This is my current challenge, much larger than deploying a chat server.

So, I’ve also been taking courses on getting good with money, on a deeper level than “being able to move it around and keep your household afloat”. A couple of years ago, I took Heart of Money from Mark Silver. This got me a fair distance along, but I needed to take several passes at it. Prior to that I took Tara Sophia Mohr’s Playing Big program, which was where I first realized that I could not become successful at anything else as long at the money thing was holding me back. I’m currently taking an (even more challenging) program that links money, sexuality, and power, but we’ll leave those thorny questions for another day.

The most concrete exercise I’ve done recently was part of the first session of Alexis Neely’s Money Map to Freedom course. (Accelerated version!) What I’m liking here is that she points out that what you think you need and what you actually need might be far apart – and that you should be aiming for the life you (really, really, really REALLY) want, not the one you think you’re supposed to want. In my case, I’m pretty happy with the size and style of my house. I don’t want a fancier car or a big sailboat. I want more time for gardening in the summer, more time for work in the winter, regular trips to visit friends and family and one cool vacation per year. I don’t really need to be a millionaire for any of that. In fact, I’ve pretty much got that. This was validating.

But her question isn’t “What do you need to live on?” It is “What resources do you need to be of service?”

That is more daunting. It demands a certain amount of… arrogance? Self-confidence, at the least. “My work (over here) is too valuable for me to be spending my time on administrative tasks. I need (eventually) to earn enough to be able to hire an assistant.” I can hire a housekeeper. (They will almost certainly do a better job than me.) I can’t hire somebody to be my startup founder. That’s my job.

I ran a very first pass at “what does a budget look like with employees”, and the number at the bottom was staggering. Outsourcing design, hiring some dev, a single full-time (not very well paid) employee, office space, phone, internet, real marketing, conference travel, appropriate current technology, taxes, health insurance, legal fees, accounting services, plus still being able to keep my house and family in the manner to which we have become accustomed (that is, with a not-leaking roof, heat in the winter, a car that runs, regular trips to the grocery store and occasional trips to visit friends and family). I went back up the list, double checked my assumptions. Some of them were high, but not insanely so. I suspect some of them were much too low.

$42,000 per month. $504,000 per year.

I hyperventilated. My shoulder spasmed. And then I said: Right. That’s my task then. I’ve got to be able to deal with that number before I try to talk to anybody about money. Because you can’t go into an investor meeting and say, “We’re… um… projecting, 6. Um. Million. Dollars (uptick in voice) in revenue?”

(This came about from the exercises in Alexis Neely’s accelerated Money Map to Freedom, which she is currently running over 2 weeks for free. The full program is 6 months long and costs $4000, but the nuts and bolts are here: http://www.moneymap.tv/accelerated/)

Squirrels, Time and Is-ness

“Has it really been that long?” I ask, looking at the date on my last post. The evidence is categorical. The date on my last post is July 7. And life has continued on apace.

“They” are clear. If you want to build your blog, you must post regularly. At least once a week. Daily is better. It must be about something. Something clear. Something that benefits others. Not just noodling around.

I know this because I am a human being with the ability to perceive, discuss, and document patterns in the universe. Particularly patterns around time. And this one is pretty obvious… jump up and down making lots of noise, or people will forget you exist. At least the ones who don’t care about you, which is (coarsely) the difference between friends and audience. It is, frankly, exhausting.

And what, I ask, is it all for? All this jumping up and down? “I see the world! It looks like this! I worked hard to figure this out! You should see it this way, too!”

On the one hand, there is the ego. “I am so smart. S.M.R.T. Look at how smart I am!” :D

And the other, insidious, also ego. “Nobody cares what you have to say.” Also categorically untrue… at least some people care what I have to say, and I only actually have to be able to point out one to render this argument false… but that one never listens to reason.

And the other other ego… “The end is nigh! The world is (somehow or other) and that’s just The Way Things Are. There is no point. Have another beer.”

Come to think of it, I could recount the voices of ego all day. What is apparent, though, is that they don’t agree… the only thing they have in common is that they are very, very certain. They are annoying, and strangling, and/or self-aggrandizing (followed by self-shaming, usually for self-aggrandizing), but whatever stance they take is non-negotiable. These voices are deeply inscribed in our bodies, stored at the cellular level: we become paralyzed by phobias, nauseated at the prospect of walking out onto a stage and saying words, drawn into rage by the fears and jealousies we create when our partner doesn’t call. Thought, story, hormones, physical response… never-ending cascades, buffeted and thrown into chaos by the voices.

When we guide ourselves to set them aside and live in the moment, (which I practice, not as much as I “should”, but some) there is always this to draw us back: Winter is coming. Doubt is dangerous. Because if winter is, indeed, coming (as it generally does) and food is, indeed, about to be scarce, we’d better damn well listen to the voices in our heads that tell us to prepare. Now!

This keeps us scurrying, trapped, flailing from one egoic stand to another, each trying to get our attention, call us away from the brink of… something. Something invisible, unnameable, unreachable, unarticulated. The low thrumming dread underlying it all… Something Bad Might Happen.

Which brings me inevitably, obviously, to squirrels. This summer, while pondering the Arising of Consciousness at three in the morning (like y’would on a night that the rain was pounding on the roof of your cabin), and I rolled over and (accidentally) whacked my partner in the head. “Hey! When do you think somebody figured out that plants came from seeds??? That’s a pretty awesome stage in awareness!” He mumbled, patiently, I think you will agree, “Acorns are pretty friggin’ obvious,” and I rolled back over to think about acorns. Acorns… oaks… squirrels… squirrels store acorns for the winter, but I’m pretty sure that individual squirrels don’t know about winter. Squirrels don’t know about time. Squirrels aren’t thinking, not in the way we think of thinking… but somewhere in the pattern in the universe that we call Squirrelness, there is contained information about the passage of time, seasons, preparation, the need to take particular actions because of What Comes Next. I might have woken him up again.

In a very real sense, squirrels have it easier. The pattern of squirrelness is pretty consistent on this time-food-prep thing. There aren’t millions of different possible solutions, all of which are competing for their energy and committment. Squirrels at the nut store don’t have to run the gauntlet of magazines telling them all about the newest trends in nut storage or suggesting that they should cut down on the M&M’s because their little furry butts are not up to snuff. In short, squirrelness is a (relatively) uncomplicated pattern. Humanness, on the other hand…

Humanness.

This is at the core, isn’t it? What the h-e-twosticks are we doing here?

Humans are different from squirrels. We don’t have pre-programmed behaviours; we must learn the patterns of humanness. And we are, above all else, adaptable. In fact, I have previously argued that we only exist symbiotically with our stories. They are patterns in the universe that live in and through us. “The Truth About Stories,” Thomas King tells us, “is that’s all we are.” This last I have considered long and hard since I first encountered it, lo these many years ago, listening to public radio before I became a part-time Buddhist, but already a devoted ponderer. I have come to hold it as both true and not-true. Verily, we do consider ourselves to be the sum of our identities, agents in some grand narrative that situates us in a particular time and place. The stories, the voices in our heads, the ever-so-certain projections from whence we came and to which we are (we fear) ever-fated, we experience as self/selves. And this is what calls me back again and again to the written word, to reading, to writing, to teaching, to conversation… “Here is a story I have discovered… here is part of the world as I see it… what do you see? Does this help? Do you stand near enough to me in the vast mindscape that this makes any sense to you at all? Tell me you understand. Tell me… I’m not alone.” (still the voices of the ego, quieter now, more fearful, plaintive…)

And not-true at the same time… for in the years on the cushion, on the mat, in conversations like the one I just murmured, I have heard stories that tell me that there is more. That we are more (or less) than the sum of our stories. Emptiness, atman, anatman, soul, Self, the watcher, consciousness… something that hears, perceives, notices, that regulates the interaction with the stories. Bare attention. Is-ness confronting is-ness without trying to make a story out of it. Flashes of awareness.

The knowledge arises that our stories do not love us. They divert our energies to particular structures, patterns of their own perpetuation, whether we agree with them or not. Whether they serve or not. Whether they cause suffering or not. We live so much of our lives trapped in the anxieties that develop when trying to choose between stories that disagree on what (they are certain) will happen if we take action. If we have free will (and I’m not entirely committed to that any longer) this is the moment of its arising: when we learn to find our way to the point of confrontation, maintaining awareness, disidentifying with any particular interpretation of our inner reality.

This, I have experienced, is possible. We can learn to find our way back and forth between the stories, the watcher, our thoughts, our actions and our impacts. We can live in intimate relationship with the universe, not seeking to reach out and make it into the story in our minds, but willing to negotiate, knowing that this is the process by which the universe precesses. “To action only are we entitled…” cautions the Bhagavad Gita, “never to its outcome.” We reach out, but not because we know what comes next. Not to control the outcome, not to prove our own value, or even our own existence by our impacts. Our actions, our writings, our stories themselves can become offerings to the World As It Is.

And so, despite my desire to not jump up and down, the exhaustion that takes me when I think about keeping up appearances, I write. Despite my inability to stick to a posting schedule, despite my difficulties figuring out how to tell you that *this* (this, here. THIS!!!) is what I’m trying to tell you… I write. The blog sits, perhaps neglected, perhaps unloved, but holding space for stories in case one of them turns out to be the one that this person needs to hear right this minute.

Rather than jumping up and down, I offer an invitation. In this moment, I send out love hoping not that I will be validated by your attention, but that you will.

(Wake up!) she whispered…

An Afternoon with Arthur

I looked out the window on Saturday during “post-tropical storm Arthur” and noticed that there were small-to-middling sized branches on the ground all around my car. I was concerned about the windows.

I said to my mother, “Um. Do you think that the cars should be parked directly under the trees?”

“Hm. Maybe not. Let me check and see what your father thinks.”

She went out to the motor home, to which my father had retreated for some peace and quiet in the middle of the storm. (Apparently my children are noisier than a post-tropical storm.) He came in and we briefly conversed about where else we might put the cars, gathered keys, and went to the back door. I opened it, and discovered that the lull in the storm was no more.

Rain was going past in sheets, horizontally. Branches whipped in the wind. It looked like stock footage of a storm. I stood there with the door knob in my hand for a moment, and said, “I’m not entirely convinced we should go out in that… “

I had just decided that the cars were going to have to fend for themselves, and started to close the door. “Maybe if there’s another lu…”

CRASH!!!

“Something fell on the house!” I said.

“I don’t think so,” said my mother. “This tool just fell off the dryer…”

“Something fell off the house?”

“I don’t…” said my father.

“Well, something happened to the house,” I insisted. (1)

I shuffled the kids back into the living room at the middle of the house, because I wasn’t sure what had happened. But I wanted them to be away from whatever it was. “Why?” they said. “Because!” “But why can’t we go outside and look?” “Because!” “But why?” “Because sometimes you just have to listen to what we say!” “But why?!” “Sometimes you just have to do what we say so you don’t die!” (I heard giggling as I walked back out of the living room. Not sure I got through to them, but they sat still for a couple of minutes.)

Assessed that the power was out. Unsurprising. Looked out the window. Wind roaring, water sheeting, branches tossed like so many sheets of paper.

“That tree across the road came down on the power line,” said my father. “The motor home looks a little… flat.” After a couple of hours of him sneaking out during lulls (against my protests that we couldn’t do anything about it anyway, and clearly they were temporary), he established that the CRASH had been the sound of the electrical mains coming off the house, and the stud they were attached to snapping in half and flying across the bedroom where my kids had earlier been watching a movie.

Just to reiterate all the things that didn’t go wrong: My father was not crushed by a tree in the motor home. Nobody was killed by a tree falling on them while they moved a car. My children were not impaled by a flying 2×4. The cars even came out of it intact, if not the motor home. (It wasn’t as flat as it might have been.)

And I have learned never again to succumb to the temptation to “just do a little thing” during a lull in the storm.

Also, if you need me during future storms, I’ll be under something heavy.


1. I heard a DC-10 explode once, and the people I was with that time also insisted that it was nothing to worry about. For the record, it sounded almost nothing like thunder. Sometimes I wonder what other people do consider a noise worth noticing.

State of the Garden

It is (finally) spring/summer in Cape Breton. Which means adding trees to replace the ones that froze to death:

(That doesn’t usually happen.)

tree taking advantage of sunroof on Jetta sedan

Gardening with Jetta

Prepping the lawn mower:

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

And getting ready for the prom:

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

I know, that’s not strictly gardening… but look what I grew!

Back on Bike

Time was, I lived in the country and didn’t have a driver’s license. That was a long time ago.

Then there was a good length of time that I lived in the city and didn’t have a car. Even that was a long time ago.

But it’s written in my bones, this memory of bicycle-as-transport. Not just “going for a ride” but “going somewhere”. Going out for dinner – on a bike. Getting the groceries, going to school, even going to work. Burlington, Waterloo, Kitchener, Fredericton… places that I knew on two wheels. Feet onto the ground, back onto the pedals, hand signals, backpacks, limited to transporting what-I-can-carry.

A few weeks ago I got to the page in my book (which I still insist I am writing) where I had to acknowledge that the bicycle, compared to the car, is a technology more appropriate/conducive to peace in the world. It’s more accessible, it can be used for many things, it reconnects us to our bodies, it slows us down… or rather, it prevents us from speeding up as much as we are able to when relying on fossil fuels. Nothing’s perfect; it still was hauled out of the ground… it is not that I am seeking no impact, it is that I am seeking a justifiable level of impact. And I drive (and fly, these days) rather a lot.

Thus, to reconnect with my bicycle.

It is a human-scaled technology, which moves us through the world in a particular way, at a particular pace… at a speed and location that are intimately connected with the landscape they move through. Or at least, more intimately than these hurtling boxes we (normally, many of us) inhabit.

I live by the water (yay!) Which means basically everything is uphill. (boo!)

The nearest thing that is useful is 5 km away (gas station, post office, liquor store, pizza, bakery, movie rental, convenience store, Sears outlet, and a little bit of hardware). But basically, it’s 16 km to everything else… which means I need to be able to knock off 32 km with a trailer attached and still do the shopping in the middle. Hopefully on one of the days that it isn’t raining too hard.

I might need a little encouragement.

Permaculture and Me

I am pleased to announce that I have just returned from the spectacular Vancouver Island to the also spectacular, if colder, Cape Breton Island, bearing a new Certificate in Permaculture Design:

CPD

I can’t tell you how excited I am to show you this. Also, isn’t it pretty?

A couple of weeks ago, I undertook the journey to OUR Ecovillage in Shawnigan Lake, B.C. to study permaculture (and Earth Activism) with Charles Williams and Starhawk. (I stopped in Vancouver for a tour of the Quest Food Exchange, a visit with new friends, and a brief foray into a city with Actual Public Transit.) The two weeks were spectacular, and riveting, and magical. We learned and learned and learned and learned, and somehow I gave up coffee and started spontaneously waking up with the sun.* We learned to find contour lines with three sticks, some string, and a rock. We built walls out of mud. We practiced communicating and working in teams and standing up in the face of a threat. We made biochar and aerated compost and a Really Big Compost pile that was cooking away beautifully when I came home. We ate outside and stayed around the fire until all hours. There was at least one instance of ecstatic dancing.

I also started going out of the building with the bathroom in it to find the composting toilet. Even when it was raining. So you know that there’s something going on there.

But what, you may ask, is permaculture? (Or perhaps, “isn’t that something to do with farming?” To which the answer is, “Yes. Sort of. Maybe. It depends.”) Permaculture includes an approach to growing food, but it is a more comprehensive relationship with entire processes. I described it, by the end of the course, as “the engineering I’ve been looking for all these years.” That is to say, it is a way of working in the world that acknowledges our roles as creators, modifiers and agents, but also works with rather than against the processes we are embedded in. I woke up yesterday morning thinking about a science and technology in which we are acknowledged as part of the system, rather than maintaining the pretence of objectivity. In which our bodies are acknowledged and our need for food and shelter is honoured, but the need for everything around us to have bodies and food and shelter is equally esteemed. We build systems that provide habitat while they are also providing nuts, fruits, shade, water retention in arid landscapes, space and food for chickens and honey bees, firewood and and and and… We work to reconnect loops that have been lines for far too long. Instead of consuming at one end, producing waste at the other, externalising costs step by step all along the way, this is an approach that might (finally) get us to Beauty All the Way Down.

I’m in love.


* Results not typical.

The Wonders of Lights

Look what we grew under our grow lights!

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Grow lights rock!

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