Bread and Butter

"Culture" -- that could sound very highbrow.  And yet, culture is grown from the earth.  It's an organic thing, a grassroots thing.  It's the way of being of a people, from sunup to sundown.  It's the way they talk, the way they work, the way they sing, the way they worship, the way they pray, the way they play.

The eroding of one's culture can impact both the spiritual/emotional life and one's day-to-day, practical life in the physical world -- simultaneously.

I don't pretend to know what makes a full-blooded Irish person Irish; and, being all the way over here in the U.S., I'd feel arrogant even speculating.  What I do know, however, is that when the ancestral cultures of people are put aside, surrendered to the mixing and melding of modernity, fragmentation results.  Bonds between young and old can be shattered -- without a war, without any obvious struggle or strife.

Because culture is so closely intertwined with history, when we cut through culture, we cut right through time.  In this way, one generation begins to be separated from another.  It's the quietest, simplest thing when an "out of style" aspect of culture is simply swept aside or shamed aside by a society eager to see everyone and everything streamlined, equalized, "brought up-to-date."

Similarly, when a living monument to history is altered or dismantled, visual memory alone can't suffice for the loss.  Continuity is broken.  At a time when oral and written traditions take second place to momentary bleeps on social networks, the rupture of historical visual continuity stands to have an even deeper, more socially alienating effect on new generations.

Surrounded as she is by legend and lore, fishermen and boatmen, food and drink establishments, natural beauty, and reams of history, the River Shannon is a powerful symbol of Ireland, a living, flowing "coat of arms."  To break her up by siphoning massive amounts of water from her and restructuring her is to begin to fragment not only her underwater world but, literally, the "view points" of all the people around her.  In a very subtle but real way, Irish identity would be impacted.

To redesign the flow of a grand and majestic river runs the risk of irrevocably disturbing greatness -- greatness ranging from the heights of the sublime right down to those river-related pursuits which fuel the nation's daily routine.  This disturbance would be accomplished not by way of man's coursing through the river frequently or partaking of it in a usual manner, but rather in that depressingly modern way of man's attempting something grandiose and ending up with something grossly inferior.

If a proposed water-rerouting intervention threatens to alter dramatically the overall health of a river, the spectre of potential ecological disaster then looms over people's heads -- along with the impending disturbance of the river's seamless natural beauty.  If the rerouting intervention turns out to have serious flaws, the water supply can be harmed, people's health can suffer, river creatures can suffer, the river can dry up, jobs can dry up, morale can dry up -- and funds can dry up.  No more butter -- and very stale bread.  The nation may well be left, afterwards, with the sense of a natural treasure having been seriously undervalued . . . and possibly ruined.

On the level of the human spirit, this would be an incalculable loss.  It would tear a hole in that garment of Irish culture and history interwoven over time, a garment which embraces the familiar artistic and economic ways of the Irish people.  If the mighty River Shannon is compromised by imprudent intervention, people would then have to approach her in new and remediating ways, or -- worst case -- not at all.   

Far better would it be to attempt every possible alternative measure of providing more water for Dublin rather than risk doing anything which could ruin the major water source, itself. 

Grateful to the Fish

Chemically sensitive and now also dogged by something resembling rheumatoid arthritis, I found myself craving sweet potatoes and a Norwegian brand of smoked sardines today.  It's often said that when you crave a particular food -- assuming it's a good food and one to which you're not allergic -- chances are, you really need that food.  Beta-carotene and fish certainly constitute excellent nutritional support.  I decided, "Yes, I'll take both."

I checked in the pantry and, instead of a can of mashed sweet potatoes, I found a can of mashed pumpkin.  The pumpkin looked really nice scooped out, all fluffy orange.  Not bad!  I added some coconut oil -- in this warm, humid climate it's no longer white and solid but actual liquid oil -- and I have to say the blend is delicious.  When the coconut oil drips down the outer side of the jar, you don't have to wipe it off your hands.  You can rub it on your joints.  This is soothing.

Then, unassuming and obscure on my pantry shelf, there it was:  my abandoned package of Norwegian sardines.  Back in the late 90's, I'd eaten sardines nearly every day.  This past year or two, however, I began to be revolted by the sardines I usually ate.  Seeking a viable substitute, I tried the Norwegian brand.  They tasted very good, but the trouble was, they looked exactly like fish.  The tails were real tails.  I ate one package -- partially.  I couldn't bring myself to eat the second package.

The sardines I'd eaten in the old days had looked more like fatty, grey meat from a chicken breast.  (No tails.)  At the time, I'd needed this slight distancing of visual reality from the fact that I was eating the bodies of fish.  Tuna is helpful for masking this reality, as well.  Unfortunately, I've been eating approximately four or five cans of tuna per week. That's enough mercury-coated "chicken," I'd say . . . and a possible major contributor to my arthritic state.

When I'd tried to eat my "old" brand of sardines, every new can of that brand began to taste (to me) as though it had actually gone bad . . . even though each purchase was from a different store and spaced weeks or months apart from the previous purchase.  Was I tasting the results of chemical pollutants in the fish?  Possible sickness in the fish?  Chemical sensitivity enhances the sense of smell by a thousand degrees beyond the norm.  Taste and the other senses, as well, can become extremely acute due to the injurious action of common chemical toxins upon one's neurological circuitry.  Whatever the precise cause of my revulsion to this one boneless brand of fish (and "boneless" was important to me), I had to face it:  I'd lost a precious mainstay of my diet.

Just today, however, the thought of those pretty, thin little Norwegian fish coated in silver skin started to be . . . appealing.   Then, being wildly inflamed in the leg and feet joints -- and starving -- I simply had to have them.   They're very good!  (Even the tails.)

A food that doesn't hurt me.  An anti-inflammatory food that can actually do tremendous good beyond the mere satisfaction of hunger.  A food in its pristine form.   How I've missed my fish!

To think that the River Shannon is bursting to the gills with them!  Dear people of Ireland, guard your beautiful and health-giving fish!   If the fish of the Shannon are to be guarded, then the river must be guarded from imprudent interventions which would disturb the ways of its natural habitat.

If I had my way, I'd live on fish . . .

Yet I was heavily impacted by the perceived deterioration of my one chosen brand of fish.  Because of this, it's easy for me to see how the widespread pollution of fish -- and the frequently diseased or declining states of fish whose movement is restricted -- can severely impact the health of a nation.

Fish -- hardy, healthy fish that are free to roam -- are a national treasure.
     

Preserving the River Shannon from Large-Scale Water Abstraction

~ May, 2014 ~

It is my hope to share with you here, as frequently as possible, some lovely visuals (see page, The Beauty of the Shannon) and my more poetic thoughts regarding this jewel of a river.

My advocacy for this worthy cause, over a period of almost two years now, has brought about an interesting development on a deeper level than mere environmental conservation.  I've come to love this river.  I reflect so often, these days, on the many ruined bodies of water here in the U.S.  These are most demoralizing and depressing sights to behold.  I would always wish to spare other people that type of environmental degradation, and the ugliness of garbage-strewn riverbanks, walkways, and side paths.  Much construction, development, and processing of natural venues always runs this risk, requiring increasing vigilance and maintenance as time goes on.

I love the River Shannon because it radiates a sweetness, a purity, an innocence.  It reflects an enduring strength of all the culture and history which has sprung up around it.  It characterizes a homeland.  Just the way it is, it's part of the fabric of memories of a people . . . all of the lovely things that a beloved grandparent would relate to a beloved grandchild.  May the River Shannon be there, as she has been for so long, just as she is, to receive the admiring glances of Ireland's now and future children, and of all the visitors from afar who seek her beauty and her peace.

The Sanity of Beauty

While I'm neither an environmental engineer nor a whiz at quick mathematical calculations, I can readily comprehend when something is beautiful.

Science and statistical projections can easily elude those of us who aren't inclined to interpret the world through those lenses.  Beauty, however, is within the reach of us all.

When something beautiful is endangered, we can feel the shame of the impending loss somewhere down deep in our spirits; yet, we don't always react to the endangerment of beautiful things.  Beauty can be equated, at times, with mere sentimental value.  When it is seen only in this light, beauty can be easily dispensed with, sacrificed --  for a perceived higher good.

People in Dublin need more water -- while I'm sitting here envisioning the picturesqueness of the River Shannon and writing about beauty.  Why would I do this?

The Irish in me flinched upon learning that the integrity of this great and legendary River Shannon was endangered -- specifically by what appeared to be only partially considered, strictly utilitarian plans for large-scale water abstraction from its lovely bounty.

I consider, here, ends and means.  The desired end, in this case, is good:  more water for human beings.  The means proposed in order to achieve this end, however, fail to give adequate consideration to alternative solutions and to potential flaws in the plans, themselves.  Are such means, then, truly justified?

I go back to consideration of "the beautiful."  What makes something beautiful?

Something truly beautiful, I believe, carries the imprint of order within itself and radiates the purity of that order.  Something ordered is something which is in balance with itself and its surroundings.

Balance.  An artistic portrait, to give one example, is said to be beautiful when the features of the face are well-proportioned.

A musical work can build a stunning structure of sound around the simplicity of ordered rhythms and compatible harmonies.  Again:  order, balance, proportion.

If the highlights of true beauty are order, balance, and proportion -- these things, in turn, bespeak some kind of an intelligence.  A portrait of great beauty is intelligently made.  A musical work of great beauty is intelligently made.

A river of great beauty, also, is intelligently made.

When we consider the intricate intelligence at play within a river ecosystem, we can marvel at its vastness.  Because of this complex biological interconnectedness, what happens at one end of a river can profoundly affect the creatures at the other end of the river.  The repercussions of the smallest change in a river ecosystem can be staggering.

This is no random occurrence.  If, on a strictly scientific level, we accept the reality of a river ecosystem, then we also implicitly admit that man's interventions can pose a fearsome risk to such a well-oiled machine.  This very awareness of "ecosystem" now holds us responsible to respect the totality of intelligence which choreographs the movement of every last eel and salmon.  How big are we, really, in the face of this?  What might be the consequences of exaggerating our own size by thoughtlessly dismissing nature's repeated cautions of disturbed and damaged ecosystems?

Many people attend schools of higher learning in order to begin to probe, in a serious manner, nature's secrets of biological interconnectedness.  We humans often require higher learning merely in order to pose intelligent questions about the inner functioning of the natural world.  The profound intelligence of order in the natural world can only dimly be sensed by even the most brilliant scientist.  Should we not, then, give the greatest of pause before the shining majesty of a river which, for century upon century, has sustained a country with the bounty of its beauty?

This would seem the most sane thing to do.