By Rev. Judith Laxer

It’s taken me a while to get the hang of composting. I was afraid of it, afraid I wouldn’t get it right, that I’d only make putrefied muck that would stink and draw vermin to my back yard. Of course I knew not to throw any animal protein or dairy products in the compost pile, but I’d read about how, done properly, one would have fresh, nutrient dense compost for their garden within a few weeks. Friends would tell me there was nothing to it. Toss the kitchen scraps in a pile, add a few handfuls of dry leaves and let it do its thing. I soon realized that I was missing something. Eventually that pile of vegetation would break down, just as everything on Earth does. But in a few weeks? Or even in a season?

I have learned that even the quickest results, the presto-before-your-very-eyes kinds of things always have a series of steps that precede them. And so, like compost itself I broke it down. Now three compost piles sit right next to one another. The first is for the clippings that come from the lawn, scraps from the kitchen, and last Autumns’ dry leaves. When that has begun to break down a bit, I move it over to the next pile to further decompose. This way I don’t keep delaying the first pile by constantly adding fresh scraps that need time to disintegrate. As I move the shovelfuls of almost soil, I marvel at the precious worms, whose castings are the equivalent of gold to the gardener. When the second pile is more fully ‘cooked’, I toss it in the third pile, breaking up the clumps that have formed. There it stays- dark brown and sweet smelling, until I shovel it into my wheelbarrow so I can then empty it into a waiting garden bed.

But the process of composting requires more than just separating piles. Like the plants that will grow from it, compost needs to be tended. Like me, it needs to breathe. I aerate it by turning it over and over with my shovel, and as I watch the worms squirm down away from the light, it causes me to ponder. How do the worms know to come here? Do they have noses on their seemingly nonexistent faces that smell food? Do they shout to one another from their seemingly nonexistent mouths, “Jackpot! Molding orange peels and rotting lettuce over here! Come and get it!” How did I know to come here? Did my soul smell the food of Earth? Did I somehow hear the call from the ethers, “Jackpot! Varied experiences and emotions here. Come and get it!”

Compost is a miracle. That the slop of coffee grinds and eggshells, rotten tomatoes and the woody ends of asparagus transforms into beautiful soil is nothing short of miraculous. It reminds me that I am nothing more than a different configuration of the same stuff that comprises everything. I might believe that I am separate from nature because I think and talk and perambulate, but I am just like the orange peel that will grow mold to help it decompose. And just as I will eat what my garden grows, my garden- or some part of the Earth- will eventually consume me. Whether that is my body in the Earth or my ashes from the fire, I too will become beautiful soil from which the next thing grows. What better occupation can we engage in when the growing urgency of April bursts into heady blossom than making Earth?

Rev. Judith Laxer is a modern day mystic who believes that humor, beauty and the wonders of nature make life worth living. She is the founding Priestess of Gaia’s Temple, an inclusive, Earth-based Ministry with over a decade of service. www.gaiastemple.org, www.judithlaxer.com

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