On Saturday I vacuumed corners, wiped baseboards and dusted off my stone collection. Caught up on correspondence and paid some bills. I wrote about worms squirming in compost. I strategized my health plan.
Sunday morning, in the rising light, there’s wind in the leaves of the hibiscus. Birds are singing to pink and grey-blue sky. It is quiet but for the rustling of tree limbs. Jeb still sleeps and I simply sit.
There are plenty of words. An overflowing fountain for a lifetime. For now I am hushed by the sweeping of gusts. I am so small. Resting in the vast emptiness of the wordless.
Before I knew that doctor appointments would take up two of the week’s work days, I had committed to being a driver for Jeb’s school field trip. Once a week the children gather at a nearby organic farm where they experience every aspect of growing food – from seed to harvest. They eventually sell their produce at their school’s farmer’s market.
Yesterday was compost. One by one, the children step up to a large bin on a scale and add their weekly bucket of food scraps to the heap. Everyone gathers around the slop, many with their noses tucked beneath their collars, as our farm leader looks and inspects each contribution cheerfully.
“Yes, this one has had a lot of air. A good fresh batch. This is great. Oops, a few stickers on the banana peels. Let’s just get those off.”
She sorts her fingers through the decomposing food without a trace of hesitation.
Another bucketful gets added and the children have to step back not to be splashed by the slush. The scent of ripe and rotting scraps wafts warmly in the air.
“Ooooh!” says one of the children, pointing at the new addition.
“Yes,” says our farm leader, matter-of-factly, “this is more chicken food than what we want, ideally, for our compost pile. Does anyone know what those are?”
The five and six year olds don’t answer right away.
“Those are maggots and they come from flies when flies lay their eggs.” She goes on to explain the life cycle of a fly and then suggests that we don’t let the compost sit around quite so long.
“Make sure you bring your compost every week,” she says with an encouraging smile.
Jeb and I haven’t brought compost at all. We have a system of our own at home. But I think about how all the children and parents have gathered around to see the different bucket contents revealed. I can tell that Maria’s family had beets that week and it’s clear that Adian’s parents drink lots of coffee.
photo by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved
I may be brave enough to reveal my heart’s inner longings and the biology of my womb on WordPress to a world of strangers, but I feel way too private to show my compost to the peering eyes at our neighborhood farm.
This week’s contribution weighs in at 65 stinking pounds. Flies swarm and the children’s olfactories are hitting max capacity. Applause all around for what will be a great addition to the farm soil and the saving of space in our island land fill.
Our sweet farm leader with her strong, tanned arms and well-worn, woven hat takes us to the big compost pile where food scraps are transforming into rich fertilizing soil.There is a formula of layering. Wet, dry, soil. She shovels our wet slosh to the top of the pile, layers dry banana leaves on top and then adds scoops of earth. We all repeat the formula together.
“Wet, dry, soil.”
The magic recipe for transforming old into new.
My metaphoric mind and I turn over the layers of life’s lessons. Which ones are wet? Which ones are dry? And what would be the soil?
“Hey, there’s a worm!” one child exclaims as our farm guide adds more earth to the heap.
“That’s right, he’s a good helper for our pile,” she confirms.
One child asks about how they breathe as the worm is buried in another scoop of dirt. The adults are amused and stumped.
Ever-positive, our farmer says, “That’s a good area of study. We’ll have to find out more about the respiratory system of a worm.” She’s smiling. “They certainly are breathing!”
It’s hot, the kids are thirsty and the compost smells. I’d been resistant to this farm trip because I didn’t think I could afford to miss more work. But occasionally Jeb will come over, put his arm around me and squeeze. He’s happy to share a moment standing in the new carrot sprouts.
courtesy of My Anatomy from University of Illinois Extenstion
I’ve got my own inner compost pile to sift. Stacking the wet of deep-seeded funk with the brittle truth of dry. There will be worms and maggots and even butterflies that are not beneficial but nothing goes to waste here in the garden. We use what we’re given, work with the elements, learn to transform. To grow.
Back at home I discover that worms breathe through their skin instead of lungs. As long as they stay wet they can absorb the oxygen. I liken the wet of worm to the openness of human feeling. May I stay supple and fluid to life’s lessons. Allow my feeling heart to flow. Let my instincts guide the rooting through the darkness, transforming muck into something rich and good.
When the doctor calls for a follow up to your ultrasound
You cry quiet tears when you’re told there’s another one on your ovary
try to see the bright side of the fact that it’s not cancer
you wake at 2am and spend hours on the internet looking for answers you know you will not find
you show up to the lime green decor of “101 Waiting” room
say ‘yes’ when they ask if a medical student can join in your conference with the doctor
you figure that we’re all learning here
you are surrounded by walls decorated with fallopian tubes and uteri (yes, that’s the plural)
your own ovary pulses
paper butterflies hang from the ceiling above the stirrup chair
you’re relieved when the doctor enters and says he remembers you
you’re mortified that the medical student is the epitome of tall, dark and handsome
you shake hands and settle in with your clipboard
you have your own copy of the report
you have your questions numbered one through seven
you know the difference between a functional and dermoid cyst
you have the latter
again
yes, the medical student has heard of them
but the doctor says you are a rare case
with a situation that would be referred to as “recurring”
you sigh relief when he says it is small enough just to monitor
no need for surgery at this time
on your way home you stop at the department store
and decide to buy yourself a new bra
you haven’t done this in three years
there’s a two-for-one special called “double trouble”
and you ignore the fire-flaming label
buy your bras
and exit through the valentine’s day lingerie
at home you try to write about your experience
but it’s all too close and tight
you have an hour before you go to get your son
you take a walk to let the worries to the wind
allow your mind to simply wander
as your breath falls in step with waves
carpenters cut at the seaside house
the air smells like sawdust and salt
in the pavilion an elder chants a language you’ve never heard
while dancers in ti leaf skirts
clack sticks with their partners
the sounds are primal
ancient and alien
her call and their response
the click of stick against stick
hits your heart with the deepest of feeling
a place beyond words that brings tears
tourists are snapping photos
and you walk by longing to stay
but sobs could come
and their dance so sacred
you’re already too close just by breathing
photo by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved
you wonder what it is
these things that touch you beyond what words can name
the chant of another tongue
your father’s poem
that one song by sun kil moon
beside you and your womb and your grateful heart in wonder
the big pool is lapping gently
the peace of its stillness
the solace and the calm
it’s a wait and see
right now just being
quiet with this comfort
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