The public’s appreciation of the toxicity of glyphosate is rather limited. The fact that Monsanto marketed Roundup as “environmentally friendly” and “biodegradable” may have quite a bit to do with this general lack of insight. (In 2009, a French court upheld two earlier convictions against Monsanto for false advertising.)

Glyphosate is actually, in many ways, similar to DDT, which is known to cause reproductive problems among other things.

“There are some similarities,” Dr. Huber says. “… I am familiar with DDT, and the fact that it’s a very difficult compound to degrade. It’s biologically degraded primarily by a process we call co-metabolism… [T]here are very few organisms that can utilize this as a direct nutrient source.

There are a few organisms that can utilize glyphosate as a direct nutrient source, but again, most of the degradation appears to be by co-metabolism. In other words, an organism just happens to produce the extracellular enzymes that will degrade it, rather than the organism really getting any benefit from it.”

Glyphosate Persists in Soil, and Promotes Disease-Causing Pathogens

According to Dr. Huber, glyphosate can accumulate and persist in the soil for years. Persistence is determined by biological activity, soil PH, clay content, and how firmly it’s sequestered or absorbed in the soil. This is bad news, because glyphosate not only decimates beneficial microorganisms in the soil essential for proper plant function and high quality nutrition, it also promotes the proliferation of disease-causing pathogens.

“The organisms that are stimulated are the pathogens,” Dr. Huber says. “…all of the natural biological control organisms are very sensitive to that concentration of glyphosate. What we see with the fusaria, which causes sudden death syndrome in soybeans, is that it can be stimulated by glyphosate… so we find [up to] 500 percent increase in root colonization by this fungus. It’s a very serious pathogen, not only on soybeans. Fusaria on most of our crops is a major disease organism that we have to deal with.”

This 500 percent increase in root colonization of the fusaria fungus occurs even on Roundup-ready crops, because the technology does not ‘cancel out’ the effects of the glyphosate in the plant in any way.  

“All it does is make it possible for that plant to survive and to accumulate more glyphosate. We still change the soil ecology, microbial ecology, and… our intestinal microbiology.”

To quickly recap what we discussed in part one of this interview, while glyphosate promotes the growth of more virulent pathogens, it also kills off beneficial bacteria that might keep such pathogens in check—in the soil, and in the gut of animals or humans that ingest the crop.

“[W]ith glyphosate, we also see an additional stimulation of virulence, so we see increased ability to cause disease, as well as the loss of the natural biological controls,” Dr. Huber says.

It’s important to understand that the glyphosate actually becomes systemic throughout the plant, so it cannot be washed off. It’s inside the plant. And once you eat it, it ends up in your gut where it can wreak total havoc with your health, considering the fact that 80 percent of your immune system resides there and is dependent on a healthy ratio of good and bad bacteria.

Glyphosate—The Most Abused Chemical in the History of Man

Interestingly enough, when asked which toxin he would prefer to use if he had to make a choice between two evils, Dr. Huber says he’d take DDT over glyphosate any day.

“A lot of these materials can have a very beneficial use. I’m certainly not anti-chemical. But we have to use some common sense. What we have with glyphosate is the most abused chemical we have ever had in the history of man,” he says.

“… When future historians write about our time, they’re not going to write about the tons of chemicals that we did or didn’t apply. When it comes to glyphosate, they’re going to write about our willingness to sacrifice our children and jeopardize our existence, while threatening and jeopardizing the very basis of our existence; the sustainability of our agriculture.” … It doesn’t mean that it’s not reversible… But it means that we need to recognize what the concerns are, what’s happening, and then we need to change.”

According to Dr. Huber, we’re now seeing the results of a massive experiment based on flawed science and failed promises. We jumped in without the basic understanding of what these products do, and this was done just to support the bottom line of a few large companies, such as Monsanto. That’s madness!

Please See The Link Below For complete Story

http://articles.mercola.com/sites/articles/archive/2012/01/15/dr-don-huber-interview-part-2.aspx?e_cid=20120115_SNL_Art_1

We say “Eat healthy, buy or grow organic”. source; http://truthisscary.com/?p=20396

The joyful and creative family programs staff at Frog Hollow link people to each other everyday. They start conversations, sometimes deep, sometimes silly, always informative and rich. They do this face to face.

We did not want to get bogged down with technical issues and miss the most important parts of why we might blog or encourage others to blog: to make art, tell stories, share ideas, create links, and join a conversation. So we created “blog posts” on poster board, expressing our dreams for the neighbourhood.

Manda and Ruth getting to the core of their idea

Lisa and Jessica created a visual poem on taking flight as a community.

Maria Helena and Carrie chose 3 pieces of art to illustrate how we create beauty as a community when we love, work and share together.

The completed flight poem.

Eva and Lea created a whole new program idea connecting people who want to learn practical skills to seniors with experience. “Senior’s experience is your future!”

Manda and Ruth show of their dream of theatre in the streets sharing stories of compassion. Yeah!

We commented and made links using post-it notes.

Thanks Dr Garcia for the suggestion to use post-it notes. I shared I was doing an intro-blogging workshop off-line. She shared this  great idea! This is how the conversation unfolded on twitter (just like on a blog, the start of this conversation is the bottom comment- it unfolds in reverse chronological order.)

Here’s a few more photos.

You’re on the web intro blogging superstars! Well done!  

Stories get told. The Soul Sister Story Party was just one event of many over the last few months of Frog Hollow Neighbourhood House’s compassion project. Jacinda, our guide for the day, had the idea stories would flow naturally as we sewed together.

This is an old way, a traditional way for women to gather and share. Some of us know each other well; we’ve been hanging out or crossing paths in our neighbourhood for year. But some of us showed up to meet people- because we are new to the neighbourhood, or considering Garibaldi school for our kids in a year or two.

Jacinda taught us how to make the Soul Sisters, small dolls that she gives to women who offer kindness, compassion and support to her. She’s also sold a few and other women have bought them to honour women who have been soul sisters to them.

When an old friend of mine died a few years ago, I chose a bright golden soul sister to rest with her photo on top of the piano and when I walked by I would smile, or tear up depending on the day. It was soothing to have something to focus on, to remember her by through my year of mourning her.

During the first part of the soul sister party we told each stories of transitions, beginnings and endings. Some of us shared our birth stories. If you gather a group of women with young children together, birth stories get told. They are epic tales of courage and adventure, rivaling any tale of mountain climbing or Arctic trek.

We also talked about moving. Coming to a new neighbourhood, a new city, or a new country is right up there in life stresses with death and divorce. Raising kids without extended family or long-time good friends? It’s tiring just thinking about it. But we all jumped on one simple thing that does help:

Food.

It’s the old-fashioned way of supporting your neighbours. Jacinda said “we need the welcome wagon reborn.” Some of us had done version of this on our own and had clear ideas about what would make it easier, “Some support coordinating and maybe access to a big kitchen space…”

For part 2 we gathered inside Garibaldi school and got cozy while the rain fell.

We finger-braided hair and tried out a blanket stitch.

It was grand to finally meet one of our VLN families!

By the end, we all felt grateful for the time together and like this was something that needed to happen regularly. It’s amazing what can happen with local expertise and a common space to gather in. Thank-you to V.P. Carrie Froese and Garibaldi School for hosting us and Frog Hollow for supporting the Soul Sister Story Party!

And a big thank-you to Jacinda for sharing this tradition with us. Here is her story of the inspiration behind her Soul Sisters:

The Linda Link

The red gnome I’m holding was handmade ( with natural fibres) on Quadra island, by a woman named Linda Link.

Linda made thousands of these wooly little guys and girls too. She filled their tiny bags with stones from the beach where she lived. She was like a wizard with her hands, never have I seen someone so nimble-fingered. She and my  mother were tight girlfriends, coffee drinkers, could talk for hours. 

There was always a gnome of Linda’s hanging around  our house. We named an olive  green one Olaf. He stood above the kitchen sink. He lives at my Dad’s, thirty years later.

My mother is an artist. When I was a girl she made dolls. Linda commissioned Mom for a doll for her daughter Jennifer. It wasn’t long before  Linda was making dolls of her own. Linda was never without her crochet hook or knitting needles. Anytime you’d see her, she’s be working her fingers, magically producing wonderful little creatures. No one else makes gnomes quite like her. Creating these became a viable source of income for her. They were often given as gifts.  She made them for the rest of her life, until her death last year.

My mom went to purchase any that she could find when we heard of her passing. And gave me this one.

Linda Link was an inspiration and her ardent creativity still feeds my heart. How fitting that her name means beautiful. Beautiful link.

Headlines Theatre’s 30th Anniversary Production: 
Us and Them will perform at The Cultch (1895 Venables St, wheelchair accessible venue) from Oct 21 – Nov 12, 2011.

Headlines Theatre takes the blending of personal storytelling and physical image-based theatre to a new level - Us and Them is a grassroots, interactive, physical theatre (Forum Theatre) that allows audiences to intervene and change the way the story unfolds. 

“We want to invite audiences to participate, bring their knowledge and experiences into this community dialogue around why and how we create divisions between ourselves and ‘other people’ – and how we can build bridges together”

Us and Them
When: Oct 21 – Nov 12, 2011
Where: The Cultch, 1895 Venables St, Vancouver, BC. (Wheelchair accessible venue)
 
Preview: Oct 20
Live, interactive, global webcast: Nov 12, 2011 8PM PST
All shows at 8pm.
2PM Matinées: Oct 26, Oct 30, Nov 2
 
Tickets available through The Cultch: 
604-251-1363 or http://tickets.thecultch.com/ 
Regular: $20
Student/Senior: $15
Matinée/Preview: $10
All tickets + venue service charge $3.36

Free vouchers available for low income individuals at LifeSkills, Megaphone and other centres, groups etc. Contact Headlines for more info.

For more information, download the PDF

Download the PDF

Download the PDF

Megan sent along the following story to share with the Caring Community Project. She writes about her family, her childhood that took her to her family homesteads in the Shushwap, BC and her time in those wild gardens.

I invite you to head through the garden gate and explore her story. In it she shares a secret, one that connects to one of my dreams for a more compassionate community for children. What dreams does Megan’s story awaken in you?

A history of growing
By Megan Adam

Raspberries. All summer I’ve been waiting for my new patch to fruit and ripen. First year planted, I understand it may not happen, but this was a hot summer and all sorts of extraordinary things went on in my west coast garden. Besides, my neighbour promises these are “ever-bearing” from early summer to fall. Did the vines go in early enough to give over a mouthful, a handful of my desires? I water them often, rejoice in the blossoms unfurling before dropping off to reveal the nascent berries beneath.
 
Anticipation. My fingers extending to the sweet, velvet thimbles that roll off when ready, their centres a perfect entrance for the tip of the tongue to split the berry in two before chewing the rest of it down and starting on the next. Not so juicy as to stain hands, no pit or rind to get rid of – just a few thorns to bypass. Every winter dreaming of the first days of raspberries since my early secret forays into my great-grandmother Leslie’s garden.
 

Not far down the dirt road from my family’s cabin, my great-grandparents’ house slumped on the shores of Shuswap Lake. Paint long worn to the russet of summer’s dust, an old icebox stood doorless on a back porch screened in wire tatters.

By the time I discovered that place in tow of my older cousins, became aware of who had lived there, my great- grandmother had already been dead twenty years. While we kids immediately figured a way into the house and made frequent explorations into rotting rooms, it was the derelict backyard that really captivated.

Under the shade of the giant walnut tree and among grasses so tall I was invisible crouched among them, two things grew in abandon: mint and raspberries. The fragrant mint I stripped from the stalks, rubbing the leaves on my hands for scent before collecting pocketfuls to take home and add to my mother’s lemonade.

The raspberries, however, I consumed only there among my ancestors’ ghosts. Still growing against the frames my great-grandfather had pounded in decades before, these bushes were prodigious despite there being no one around to prune the old canes back. Bored, or angry with my taunting cousins, I would slip away to that house, taking a book and disappearing into the shade of the tree and grasses, gorging myself on raspberries and solitude.

 
When the house was finally torn down in my late teens (a fire hazard they said), it wasn’t the old dwelling full of mouse droppings I mourned but the razing of the berry patch and nut tree. What a waste it seemed. If you were going to tear down a house why wouldn’t you leave its yard and gardens intact in case the next owner wanted the benefit of a forty-year raspberry garden, an immensely bearing walnut tree, wild edges of mint and lemon balm? But they didn’t, it turned out. The small cabin that eventually graced the lot was bereft with a lawn designed to keep every other growing thing out.

 
Up the hill from the Leslies’ broken yard my Great-Uncle Ernie had a place, one of the earliest homesteads in the area which littered the ridge. From his cabin you could see up one arm of the lake and down the other, not to mention across the great waterway that defined the area. But what shone in my childhood eyes during those visits was the half-acre garden he kept at the edge of the field, full to bursting with summer delights.

Baby corns sweet like candy off the stalk, beets revealing pinstriped middles when split with my father’s pocketknife, tomato vines staked tall that we could hide among while the adults made the halted conversation of relatives coming together once a year.

And bees! My Uncle kept four hives, once allowing us to watch from a distance as he donned his suit and pulled trays of golden comb out one by one for harvest.

 
I was eleven when my Uncle Ernie’s bush plane disappeared for good behind a stand of trees, leaving his homestead entangled in a legal battle which took many years to unwind. Again, us kids had free access to his property as it mouldered away without his constant care. The beavers finally got their way and flooded the field with their overgrown dam, the locked one-room cabin adopted a family of squirrels who had gotten in through the chinks on the roofline.

Only the garden gained in his absence. Going wild over the years, self-sowing in that hot interior climate so at any time during those summers I could climb the hill to gather monster-sized carrots and cross-pollinated squashes.

A huge and important secret – that this garden continued to flourish away from the nurture of people. That food came up all by itself year after year. Certainly that growing wasn’t organized and the weeds grew as great as the cornstalks in some corners. But dig around a little and there was a potato, some purple radishes, edible greens that made up half the weeds.
 

Once the will was finally settled, several years after the accident, my inheriting cousin came with logging machinery to take the edges of the forest that ringed the place. Somehow it was cheaper to level the whole property than leave the center alone. The gardens, the cabin, the cattle fields all chewed and turned under by the metal jaws and claws.

A couple of years afterwards, around the age of twenty, I went back there, walked up the rutted road with my father to see that the only growing thing on that fertile, sunny piece was thistle and fireweed, the land’s scrubby attempt to heal itself after so great an assault. The only signs of the creek, buried beneath the churned earth and woody debris were a few hopeful springs which had emerged along the lay of former fields.
 
I could go on about the gardens I grew up in and how they are all gone now, how economy trumps life, how the urban world has no place for the kitchen gardens that sustained much of my family over hard winters. But when I look around my East Vancouver neighbourhood I am inspired despite these losses, to see the self-sufficiency of the past continuing to exist here.

Italian, Portugese, Chinese gardeners who have lived in their homes for decades, practically farm their urban lots with fig trees growing over rooftops, chicken coops tucked against the sides of garages, even the occasional beehive. Of course, without the acres of land my forebears had, these avid growers aren’t building labyrinthal corridors of corn and pole beans, but these gardens contain their own secrets just the same.

Capturing my imagination as I peer over fences while walking the alleyways, stopping to survey the latest planting on my morning walk to the bus. I want to know what’s all in there, what’s coming up and out in the fall, in the winter, in the following spring. I spy arbors leading to hidden sitting nooks and wonder what it’s like to inhabit that lush space. It’s a nosiness about the people themselves, as if knowing how they design and grow their backyards will unlock some fundamental element about who they are in the same way I imagined a great- Grandmother I never knew while hiding in her raspberry patch twenty-five years ago.
 
Although I have gardened in many homes, it’s not until I actually bought a house last year that I really began work on my own grand garden design for the first time. Out of a yard once comprised of badly tended lawn I am carving my own remembrance of those integral spaces which formed my earliest understanding of what a garden could become over time. A place providing both refuge and nourishment, keeping secrets from all but those who venture inside.

My small lot demands ingenuity, overly-raised beds and organic screens to both maximize growing space and create the type of quiet separation from the city I seek. As yet, I am far from the verdant raspberries that went to wild in my mouth as a child. But I can see its beginning. I can see that for each shovelful of earth turned and planted, the promise of privacy and reflection among the weeds and raspberry cane is as much a motivation as any food or flower. And that the hard work of gardening is its own kind of legacy. A lesson. A place we leave behind for others.

Download Party Invite as PDF

My Mom was confident with a pencil cocked in her right hand.
Equally at ease with a pen that ‘s fine tip flowed black ink. (To this day I feel drawing pens make for excellent writing pens- a ballpoint just can’t saturate the way ink can. Words paint and marks are made without apology, it stokes the river of stories, makes my heart pump with excitement, expectancy.)

I remember the fine instruments, her careful technique with the right tool, her focus and respect for making form.

She would quiet when I would beckon her over to draw with me, taking the pencil gently from my hand. I would open with awe at her rendering of a human hand, or the head of a horse, the sweeping tail of mermaid- and felt a hot envy beneath my skin- a hint of competition warbling through my blood, wishing I could  draw like that.

One grey day that seemed as long as a fortnight when I was seven, we made a book. The story of the watercress fairy; illustrated by yours truly, bold beeswax crayon drawings, written with my mom’s rust-coloured lilting gorgeous penmanship and bound with strings of orange wool.

It was a tale of destiny and duty- a girl’s courage- the eldest daughter of a elfin family who saves her family and community by discovering watercress growing in the dead of winter.

I loved that day, our warm and easy collaboration,each of us artists, storytellers and collaborators, telling a story about how nature feeds us. How one gift opens
to others.