I love the idea of composting. When Berkeley delivered to all its taxpayers a green bucket-like receptacle for citizens to collect table scraps instead of feeding them into the maw of their garbage disposals or trash compactors, I felt like, Yes, this is good! We needn’t feel bad when ingredients liquefy in the fridge before we’re able to turn them into edible somethings because now we can contribute the sludge to Berkeley, and Berkeley will haul it away and stir it up and chop it up and do the things you do with vegetable matter to turn it into gorgeous, chocolate-colored soil. Just think of the possibilities for using this divine dirt: dahlias, lemon trees, redwood trees, Brussels sprouts, strawberries, roses!
Our new green bucket even makes me feel better when I look into the mirror and I see myself slowing turning into compost.
And what if all the scraps from my life—the almost aspirations, the smelly sufferings, the bruised absurdities and decomposing disappointments—what if all of it were available for the making of nutrient-rich soil out of which splendid stories might spring? An assembly line of rot into riches.
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