Colorado Compost Blooms

Just to give you a tiny glimpse of my letting-go process amidst this transplant from Colorado back to Texas, I was even teary-eyed this past weekend about leaving my compost. All right, I hear a few faint “Gimme a breaks.” But those insensitive souls obviously haven’t been nursing a compost pile for the last several years. Like with most piles of crap (I considered several words to describe such piles, but this one just seem to fit), these things require some labor!

For the most part, it’s been a one-woman job. Bill has faithfully scraped any remains from his plate into the compost crock container by the sink, woefully admonished when meat scraps, dairy, or eggs tried to slip through. And he did save the cardboard egg cartons for me. Religiously, from one year’s pile to the next I schlepped food remains, Bill’s hair cuttings, dog fur, contents of vacuum bags, and carefully ripped 2” pieces of toilet paper rolls and egg cartons out to the compost. Often the food gunk was way overdue for being deposited in the bin and definitely not a pleasant task of squeezing out of the soft plastic bag (icky, stinky, yucky goo). But dedicated gardener, eco-conscious human I aim at being, I kept at it.

That’s the thing about composting, just like life, we simply have to keep at it. We take what’s left of the acceptable and sometimes unacceptable, sift through the stuff, and decide to leave some of it on the pile to fertilize the next part of our lives. And damn it, this takes a lot of work, doesn’t it? From what I’ve been able to tell so far at a ripe 58 years, every step has held some worth, even when I have to admit (frequently) that I still don’t have things figured out.

Leaving our home and garden on Navajo Street hurts. Naively, we pictured living here the rest of our lives. Really, it was such a comforting thought. The sunny living and dining spaces, roomy kitchen, and peaceful bedrooms soothed us into believing Denver was the last stop on our journey. Add to that pile absolutely remarkable friends that Colorado has just kept on giving, stretched from the blessed San Luis Valley all the way to big D. And while we’re on the San Luis Valley, Graceland has renewed our spirits so faithfully that living without monthly visits here (I’m there now on my last visit until July 2011, heavy sigh) is incredibly difficult to fathom.

But here we go, Bill and I with feisty Gavroche and perky Amber Grace along for the adventure, Texas bound. We head south clear that this is the best choice: living with my elder parents, close to my sisters, to our son and family, closer to Bill’s siblings, and easier drives to Austin and Houston which hold many beloved friends. Suddenly the picture of “the rest of our lives” has disappeared, replaced with where (Whitesboro, TX) and what (elder-care) we’ll be doing for the immediate future. Things we never imagined, yet somehow it all feels just right, like we might be about to bloom. If we just keep tending, believing, and making space for goodness to grow out of life’s compost, it sure seems to do so, and quite beautifully. We feel home comin’ and goin’. Thank you, Colorado, for nourishing and tending us so lovingly during our treasured years here. And Texas, thank y’all for the welcome back.

(Pics by Patricia and family. Angel in San Luis Valley cemetery; this fall's aspens in the valley, me with Mom & Dad this summer.)