Pride has taught me how to fall gracefully. This summer we surrendered to our ineptitude and bought a compost drum. It’s a neat creature, a black, coiled dragon that guards the back entrance from the laundry room to the north gardens. It has a little lid that flips back and the first thing we put into it were the crazy-wild marjoram that now infest all the beds. And because it’s right by the door there are no longer any excuses about taking out the day’s cooking scraps. Every couple of days, we give the drum a twirl and listen to the ka-thunk, ka-thunk that suggests maybe we shouldn’t have put all that mud in with the marjoram.
Sometimes I need a little extra help and it’s no great sin to get the right equipment while I’m in the learning stage. Of course, my ego resents this black dragon-drum. The competency police have been out in full force reading me the riot act about taking the easy way into transformation. The Poor-me Pixies have been hanging around too with their night-time serenades about giving up and never really amounting to anything.
To all of them I have this to say:
Well.. almost. But hey, it’s a heck of a lot closer than I’ve ever been to real live compost!
Now I’m wondering if there’s a zazen technique that involves getting spun and tumbled every couple of days to speed up the process…
Thank you for composting,