I've been eying the compost pile every time I'm in the garden or in the parking lot next to the common house. I swear it has been eying me, too. That pile has been tugging on me, like a child that won't stop nagging an adult until he is given the attention that he craves. Sometimes I walk the extra distance just to cross paths, to check in with it. To take the opportunity to inhale, in one breath, the billions of bacteria ruminating in those gigantic mounds. Because how often does one have an opportunity like that?

I've been wanting to write about compost, yet before I could, I felt I needed to go back in time, to the beginning. When I meet someone, one of the first questions I ask them is, “where are you from?” Even though I've grown quite close to compost, allowing its shredded bits to haphazardly coat my face and neck, it occurred to me that I hadn't asked that question of it. So, feeling sheepish, I did some research on its origins. I discovered that the word compost is Latin, and it means “something put together.”

Recently, I heard Patricia talk about composting as a rite of passage at Songaia. I loved that because I can't think of my Songaia experience without thinking of composting. Those rich, gaseous piles have taken on a whole new association for me. I can't think of compost without seeing Doug in my head, clenching a fistful of the stuff and describing, with glistening eyes, the look and texture of ideal compost. I remember a particular day when we raked leaves together. Doug told me how much he loved raking leaves, comparing them to gold in terms of their value to the gardens. That moment has stayed with me because of his sincerity and the truth of the statement, which I have come to experience for myself.