Rio Grande Mennonites are doing what?

Suddenly I couldn’t be prouder of my Mennonite ancestry. From the top to the bottom of the Rio Grande watershed, Mennonite churches have come together in a new ministry, Watershed Discipleship, which is nothing less than a radical re-placing of Christianity.  If we are  listening. And we should be. Those that despair of cultural change at a glacial pace should sit up and take notice. They are changing faster than the glaciers are now melting.

No denial or delay. No myopia about what our efficient, industrial ways are doing—species extinction, climate destruction, declining natural fertility and “peak everything.” No wrapping themselves in traditional ways of thinking (“No matter what we do to the planet resources, there is always abundance”). And none of the unspoken, and, though I hope not, possibly real reason people don’t act like they take climate change seriously: “Well if this means sacrifice, you go first. I’ll get mine for my family, even if it’s like the classic run on the bank.”

Out west, these churches could be singing the cowboy tune where seldom is heard a discouraging word, because they are armored against the words that have been leveled at me: “You can’t save the world, Jean.” What armors them is that they know that while they can’t save the world, they can save places. And, “We won’t save places we don’t love. We can’t love places we don’t know. We don’t know places we haven’t learned.” And so their Watershed Discipleship community is a learning community and a way forward.

Concrete actions include recently hosting a 17 day intensive on permaculture. And making a Bioregional Covenant to get 75% of their food from within 100 miles by 2025. The Mennonites have always been known as Christians concerned about peace and justice and known as practitioners of a land-based ethic . “Once again in the history of the church, the Spirit is inviting us to radical discipleship” is how organizer Ched Myers characterizes it.

I’m especially impressed they are applying the concept of restorative justice to their theology, with attention to “all those who have been wounded by human development—plant, animal and human alike.”

Gratefully I say, this is the way to revitalize Christianity.

To compost, but how?

In our first ten years here, our plantings didn't, um, do well. We have wet spots (bone dry in summer), and spots sucked dry year round by Western Red Cedars. Our half acre is heavy clay, shaded by conifers on three sides. We've killed rhododendrons outright,and tortured many other plants. Three magnolias have grown, but glacially, if that still means slow. We tried amending the soil, building up raised berms, a drip hose for summer. Failures all. I'd have given up and let the sword ferns have the yard, but my husband is a tree and shrub enthusiast of some ambition.

Complicating things, we're in the sensitive Lake Whatcom watershed--the lake is drinking water for 85,000 residents. Even though the land is sloped, the water table is high much for much of the year. In a hard rain I can readily see water running off. We don't use anything on the lawn, but rapid run-off is still bad for the lake.

What I need is a low cost way to improve the odds for our rhodies, magnolias, maples and smaller stuff, and do my part to help the lake as well. The Washington State University Extension office has a word for me: Compost. Actually, several words: "Compost will save the world!" Reduces run-off, builds better soil structure, and the rest.

Did I mention I'm averse to physical labor? Just thinking of buying compost and hauling and wheelbarrowing and shoveling makes me reach for another cup of tea and a blanket to put over my head. I raise a mug to you who do this by the truckload. But, can I make my own, in piles located in various spots near where I might later use it?

Of course it won't be traditional hot composting--much too shady here. Cut to last summer. I hired a gardener while nursing a hurt back. Anna poked into the old, unsightly weed heap across from our driveway that we never got around to hauling away in an embarassing four years or so. She declared the stuff under the surface "fluffy" humus, and used it for new beds. I had been composting before I knew it. The lushest humus that's ever graced this half-acre, and no lawn and weed chemicals. The trick will be to avoid the unsightliness. And figure out how to add food waste in raccoon territory.