com·post

/ˈkämˌpōst/

noun

            Decayed organic matter used as a plant fertilizer

verb

            To make (vegetable matter or manure) into compost

 For those of you who don’t know, I am an organic gardener. Most of my free time is spent tending fruits, veggies and flowers. The direct outcome of my hard work is food I can eat. The joy I get from watching plants grow is one of the best parts of my days. 

For me, there’s nothing more satisfying than connecting with the cycle of life this way. From shit, dirt and decay flowers and food are born. Without this decay, there would be no growth. Death and Birth go together, like peanut butter and chocolate. The decomposition of plant matter feeds the life of a garden. Some compost is made from critters, like worms, eating the plant matter and pooping out some of the finest compost ever. The bounty of the garden depends on this process. 

I have come to view our emotional processes through a similar lens. There are a handful of sayings in our culture that capture this sentiment— “no rain, no rainbows” or looking for “the silver lining.” In birth, the hard work of labor leads to the profound arrival of the baby. Our hard times, struggles, shadows and pain are essential for growth, healing and living up to our potential. 

But many of us are afraid of our dark places. We avoid sadness, anger, anxiety and grief. We are adverse to feeling pain, trying exhaustively to keep life on the surface… or in happy places… or at least distracted places. And yet, we find ourselves in a deeply challenging time, where everyone’s tank is beyond empty. We are stressed. Our normal ways to balance, cope and thrive are stripped away from us. We are left disoriented, confused, trying our best to just get through. 

I’m as unhappy with the pandemic as the next socially distanced human. I can’t wait for this all to be over. Politics have been so wild and unsettling. Tensions are high. Over these winter months, however, I have started to wonder if I can see the current circumstances in a different light. Is this somehow an essential part of the garden? Can I allow these hard emotions to feed me? Can I face these times, my own shadows and our collective suffering with an open heart? What can this teach me? I don’t know the answers however the questions calm me. For me, they bring the possibility that there is something meaningful to be learned here. This change in perspectives somehow helps me get through another ‘Groundhog Day.’

In the winter months, the garden is quiet. Beds are covered with straw. Annual flowers and vegetables break down in the spot where the glory of summer has passed. Dead, grey branches are everywhere. Sun lower in the sky, it is cold and damp. What does this stillness have for me? What am I pruning away in preparation for new growth? Can I trust in the cycle of life, knowing whatever is gone will be reborn in some form or another? 

Nature has it’s season. Perhaps we do too. 

To be of the earth is to know 

the restlessness of being a seed 

the darkness of being planted 

the struggle toward the light 

the pain of growth into the light 

the joy of bursting and bearing fruit 

the love of being food for someone

the scattering of your seeds 

the decay of the seasons 

the mystery of death 

and the miracle of birth.

-John Soos