Wednesday, December 19, 2012


I am a composting failure.

I think that composting is very much important, I really do. It is just that when composting moves beyond idealism and I actually need to put my discarded peels and egg shells in a fruit fly infested bucket below the sink, my naturally laziness kicks in, oh-so-quickly.

I know, I am a terrible person who doesn't belong on the West Coast. But I really am going to try to improve.

While I am a self-proclaimed composting failure, I think that composting is beautiful. What was once so solid and full of life becomes soft, subtle and filled with hope of regeneration and new life, like the ancient nurse trees lining the forest floor, that fall to the ground dead only to become a rich source of nutrients for future generations of trees and shrubs growing in the places where they once stood tall and strong through winds and rainstorms.

Rotten apple cores and onion skins lying in a plastic bucket below my sink are not quite as poetic as decaying red cedars in the forest. But the same depth of meaning applies.

Here is a visual reflection on compost that I did for an art class this past semester:

(I apologize if this isn't the clearest picture...texture and gloss medium don't add up to photogenic material...)

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