The most magical place in our home is the compost pile. With open arms, it takes the dead, the rotten, the leftovers. Add in sun and water and the hard work of slithery creatures and dutiful microbes, the compost is transformed into rich, black dirt. It feeds our plants and flowers. The micronutrients are reborn into something beautiful and often delicious.
I can see why people several hundred years ago thought life was formed from invisible particles that float in the air. It seems as if God breathes onto our muck and turns it into something of inherent good.Things transform quickly. One day an apple core, the next day something new. The building up from the breaking down, it seems divine. But its just life, the everyday miracle of existence here on earth.
I wouldn’t say that God is decomposing the waste products from my thorough cleanout of the chicken coop this weekend, but this humble pile has taught me a spiritual lesson or two.
I will let the losses in my life transform me. I will become stronger and healthier as I absorb the good from all whom I have left me, and all I have left behind. That which I have lost is still with me, in the same way that the molecules in the flowers my mom sent me for my birthday last year will be reborn into this winter’s lettuce crop.
I want my mother back. I want to sit next to her, drink coffee and feel her hand in mine. But that is not possible. I have choices, though. I can cultivate the gaping holes in my heart so something new can flourish. I can grow.