Last weekend Phil and I helped out as the "compost coordinators in training" at GrassRoots Music Festival in Trumansburg. This entailed a 14-hour shift on Thursday. We educated as best we could as we met people, and took turns carting away buckets of compostable material to the holding area. GrassRoots is moving toward becoming a "zero waste" event, which means all food items will be served on compostable tableware. Unfortunately, compostable plastics require much energy to produce, so it's hopefully only a transitional step.

Grassroots is 30,000 people assembled for various reasons. I spent a lot of Thursday pondering the event, perhaps looking too much through my psychology glasses. Saturday was different, as I was off duty and free to wander and explore more. We found some wonderful music, the kind that literally pulls you in and captures your spirit for a moment. As compost coordinators, we had "All Access" passes, which meant all our food was provided as well. Phil and I ate well, feeling much gratitude and disbelief. We'd often dorkily ask people we met, "What did YOU do to get the green wristband?" This was the symbol of our VIP status, and I immediately found myself scanning everyone's wrist for the band color denoting admission to this inner circle.

There have been some hot days, and recently some cooler and muddier ones. With every weekend full for this entire month, I am in a state of re-evaluation. I realize I need space in my life for sleep, contemplation, and dreaming. With too much busy-ness, these are easily nudged off the edge. I'm trying to keep making room.

Phil and I are reading "EndGame" again. It's written by an anti-civilization environmentalist. Last time we started reading it, it was too depressing and scary to continue. That was about a year ago that we stopped, but I hate leaving things unfinished, and I felt it calling from the bookshelf, so we're reading it again. I think we're in a better place, or maybe just a different place, to be able to read it and think about it without feeling so glum afterward.

The wild black raspberries are ripening, and with each nibble I think they may be the most delicious thing I've ever tasted. Around here, people call them "black caps." I call them yum.

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