In truth, I am a gardening novice. I like to think that I have genetically inherited both my grandmother’s and my mother’s innate ability to grow things, but it just isn’t so. The majority of plants that thrive in my garden are low-maintenance, or recurring bulbs and perennials that would have to be seriously neglected in order to fail. Most of the tidbits I’ve learned along the way are due to the loss of a plant. Sad, but true.
On the contrary, composting is one of those garden-y things that I can proudly say I have mastered. I’m a no nonsense compost-er, paying little attention to my pile. Sometimes I water it, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I turn it, mostly I don’t. Sometimes I aerate it, actually no, that’s never happened. Somehow though, my pile of scraps and lawn trimmings still turns into black gold.
It’s the most amazing sequence of events, this whole composting thing. All those little critters living inside are gorging themselves on my “trash,” while simultaneously churning out one of the only good things I can claim I’ve done for my garden.
So here’s to you, you tiny decomposers! Thank you for your poo. I promise to keep feeding you left over flower bouquets, egg shells, coffee grounds, and other various sorts of goodies.
Scraps I added to my pile, too beautiful not to document.