The black bin is for trash and the white is for recycling. Ever since we moved into a home with curbside recycling, I have learned the joy of sticking something in the white bin. Each item that goes into the white bin instead of the black bin is a tiny victory. “I’m not being wasteful with this,” I think to myself triumphantly (of course I should be celebrated for putting the milk carton into the recycling…) The truth is, before we bought the white bin we were often to lazy to walk the milk carton out to the recycling can in the garage – so it went in the black bin more often than not. We have put so much space between us and what happens when we throw things away. Have you ever sat down to ponder that? (What – you mean you don’t spend your free time thinking about trash?) I have become so cognizant that everything I put in that black bin ends up in a dump. “It’s just the way it works,” I say to soothe my self, “everybody creates waste.” While this may be true, and I am not advocating an attitude of guilt, I can’t help but wonder how my habits would change if that landfill was my backyard (or heck…even just in view of my home). Would it change the items I choose to buy? Would it effect the length at which I go to avoid throwing things out? Would I take the extra time to recycle, to give away, and to learn how to compost everything I possibly could?
Last weekend I was in Chicago to see Hamilton (“cuz I am not throwing away my – shot”) and spent a decent amount of time on the train. During one particularly long and uncomfortable ride, we sat across from a boy, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, with long, curly blonde hair. At first I thought he was asleep…but then I noticed the thick line of drool connecting his mouth to the pull of his zip-up hoodie. This kid was strung out – on what, I’m not sure – but he kept coming in and out of consciousness. Overtime he woke he put a large chunk of pink Laffy Taffy in his mouth and then his head drooped once more and he was out. I couldn’t stop thinking about my beautiful blonde-headed boys at home – or about friends who have struggled with substance abuse. Chicago was hard. It was hard to see pain like that on seemingly every train and every corner. I came home thinking that as much as I loved the city, there is no way I could live in a place like that. “I can’t see that every day,” I thought.
Just because we can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there. We have created so much space between ourselves and discomfort (by we…I mean people like me…I know there is a lot of privilege in that “we”…and I won’t define it for you). We throw things away in our black bins, and someone “magically” comes to remove it from sight, never to bother us again. We live in a really safe suburb. I eat meat from animals that I didn’t raise, that I didn’t slaughter, or process, or deliver. When I feel pain, I take medicine so that I don’t have to feel it anymore. I didn’t have to sweat over the land that grew my food, or dirty my hands in the soil, or break my back harvesting it. I buy clothing that I like and that’s cheap without thinking about who made it or what their working or living conditions are. It is so easy to distance ourselves from discomfort (if that’s not the most privileged statement I’ve ever typed), but again, just because we can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there.
Maybe sin is the cumulative effect of thousands of daily acts of negligence…of putting space between ourselves and creation…of putting space between ourselves and God in the “other.”
How can we become mindful and compassionate with our actions and choices? How can we avoid paralyzing guilt so that we can continue to do creative and generous work in the world? These are some of the things I’ve been pondering today.
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