More Compost

How could it be possible that I am in a place in my life when I want my most significant relationship to be with compost? Right now, I feel that compost is more important to me than anything else.

And so here, where I am living in a place of seclusion from community, my only responsibility is to carry the kitchen scraps down to the compost bin. This is my passion. Even though I may never see the fruits of next summer's crops, I feel connected to the harvest before the earth is thawed or the seeds are germinated.

Some days, the sun shines. But today, everything is grey. I feel grey. Like Anne in London's blog posting, I can understand that there is no need to be gay on a grey day. But in this grey of late winter, I feel the swelling of life. The expectation of something new. The excitement and expectation of transformation during this time of transition.

Composting

There is something magical about walking through the snow, carrying a full compost pail to the bins on the property. It is late winter. Snow and below freezing temperatures still hug the rural areas of these regions of North America. This morning's fresh snowfall reveals the day's visitors' tracks: bunnies, birds and countryside mice and shrews. The tops of the bare trees were illuminated by the sun which was setting; the sun was already sinking into the horizon. I savored the warmth of the glow, even though I could feel the windchill coming from the snow.

I didn't have a nervous break down. That would require an extended hospital stay. It would have required pharmaceuticals and meetings with a therapist. A nervous breakdown would have made my life more complicated and more stressful.

Instead, one morning, I walked out of my primary living situation. I left the suburban condo and found a hermitage in the country. And now I rebuild.

Chop wood. Carry water. Dump compost.

Photo from: eastgwillimburywow.blogspot.com/ 2009_03_01_ar...
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