Field Notes -- Composting

In a corner of my side yard, between some aged lilacs and a newly planted apple tree, sits a black plastic compost bin that looks like a big Darth Vader helmet. We’ve had it for years (it was provided by our garbage company), but I’ve still not mastered the alchemy of layering “greens” (nitrogen) and “browns” (carbon) to heat up and break down into rich, crumbly, dark soil.

Intentionality

It’s been a couple of seasons now that I’ve only sporadically tossed in some kitchen scraps here, an armload of yard cuttings there, or the peels and pits from a fit of jalapeno-peach jam making. In a combination of laziness and haste to clean up after meal prep, I tossed stuff too readily into the garbage. Without attention or intention, I was treating my compost like trash.

But in February, Vader called to me. I’d been thinking a lot about scarcity and abundance, about being grateful for what I have and to (as my nana would intone) “waste not, want not.” I recommitted to being more mindful of what I throw away and what I commit to the compost bin and its cycle of renewal.

But for that to happen, I’d need to redo Vader: take the awkward plastic structure physically apart, clear it all out, and begin again.

Forgiveness

When I opened up the lid, inside was dry and spiderwebby, like a crypt. Not what you might call bioactivity. It looked dead and decaying, not alive and decomposing. I felt like a failure. I felt sorry.

I wanted better. I wanted to breathe life into the things I’m composting, the things diverted from my table or exceeding what I need, the unused parts of things that could still be put to use. I wanted to activate those things so that they can transform!

But as I began to exhume Vader’s contents, I discovered that while there was a lot that had not broken down properly (as I had feared), compost had, in fact, happened. Sure, it took longer than if my bin had been better managed, but nature had managed just fine without me. I didn’t expect compost to be forgiving, but it was. And so I forgave myself.

Discernment

As I was sorting the coarse, dry yard waste that would need to go in the green bin (where it should have been put in the first place) from the actual soil Vader had produced, it was enlightening to see what else hadn’t decomposed well: some surprising (eggshells, still intact after years!), some not (so-called “compostable” utensils, avocado pits, and those damned dastardly stickers they put on produce). It was a lesson in better discerning and judging what should be composted and what not to fool myself about.

Then came the sifting. I set up a janky sifting station using some leftover wire mesh screen set on top of a large plastic planter. Throw a few handfuls of compost on top, shake and bounce it around with fervor, and voila! What’s in the pot is ready to be applied to the garden beds, and the rougher texture remnants can be used elsewhere as mulch to retain moisture or keep down weeds. Everything serves its purpose. (Except for those produce stickers.)

Transformation

Composting honors nature’s cycles and feeds the earth. But it’s also good for us—and I don’t just mean gardeners.

In their brown paper “Healing Love: Into Balance,” Audrey Jordan, Kate Morales, Rosa Gonzalez, and Shiree Teng explore composting as a metaphor for metabolizing human experience, asking that we “build our capacity to compost the trauma of injustice into nutrients to feed a more loving world” by transforming our losses, our mistakes and failures, our patterns that pose barriers to right relationship with others and our planet.

“The concept of trash is what creates true endings. Banished from the sacred circle, what gets thrown away is denied the opportunity to grow into its purpose. What we lose when we believe in waste is the imagining of a next cycle”

This speaks presciently to our current moment.

“We are in a state of suspension between what is dying and decaying and what is becoming. We are in the process of composting.”

Composting, as described above and in the garden, is planful and hopeful. It’s an act of preparation for the future. It’s an act of faith—and of love.

But it takes time. Giving rest and darkness to what must pass away in order for the new to emerge is important. The breakdown must occur.

A new seed will eventually stir. First, protected by the dark, curled within the soil. Then, slowly emerging, pushing its way up and out into the light.