The weekend’s spring-like weather allowed for some time to catch up on the composting. The real, kitchen-scrap composting, not the composting in my heart.
Though I tried. I really did.
The scrap collection bin was filled to overflowing and needed attention.
Kind of like my heart does. It’s overflowing with big triggers and feelings and wounds that look an awful lot like pineapple tops and avocado pits and moldy bread.
We had stopped adding material to the tumbler months ago to allow its current matter time to process and break down. When Steve opened it, there was some finished compost to shovel into a trashcan to use in the real spring.
After emptying the tumbler of its finished product, he moved the mostly-frozen kitchen scraps from their holding bin, opening up more space to dump waste and giving the current debris a chance to move around and begin breaking down in earnest.
This whole process was a visual reminder to me of the movement that needs to happen in my heart, as I process and transfer stories to their proper places and dump the current, unfinished mess into the tumbler to be worked.
There is always more space to be made. And just when you think it’s all broken down, that orange comes rolling out of the middle of the finished compost and off of the shovel.
So what are you going to do about me?