Grab a Shovel

My Dad was a blunt guy.

“Divorce is a sh*t pile. Every day, you take a little sh*t off the pile. Then one day, no more pile!”

Twice, he’d divorced and recovered, leaving him with lessons I’d hoped to never need. 

But then, at 40, my reality was clear: My marriage had failed. I lived in a place chosen for an “us” that had disappeared, in a small town in central Pennsylvania, away from my family-of-origin in Ohio and far away from the Maine coast. My hopes of having children with a loving partner in a healthy relationship faded.

Divorce was imminent. A staggering weight of grief. I dog-paddled, gasping for air in the chaos and pain of it. Exhausted and weary, I was overwhelmed with the work ahead of sifting through the ruins and figuring out what was next.

For months, I was shell-shocked and could only talk to the most helpful, trusted people: My mom, a few of my very best friends — and my dad, who turned out to be surprisingly helpful.

Every day, he said, just take one piece of crap off the pile. I didn’t need to figure out the rest of my life, just hunker down and shrink the pile.

“How’s your pile today?” he’d ask on our daily phone call. I’d report how I had handled one piece of paperwork, or made one small decision, or met a deadline then took a nap. Maybe I picked a new paint color or got rid of some piece of left-behind furniture I’d never liked anyway.

And if I had nothing to report that day, I’d get a reminder about taking crap off the pile.

Compost Lessons

His advice resonated with me, and helped me stay afloat until I could feel the solid bottom under my feet again.

You see, I am a gardener who geeks out about my compost pile. Out back, in the habitat also known as my garden, there beside the woodpile, tiny miracles are unfolding every day — even in the winter.

All that ugly crud — the grass clippings and brown leaves, the banana peels and watermelon rind, green skins sliced off cucumber and carrot, shells from the mussels we ate last week — becomes rich, dark, nutritious soil to feed new growth. The compost pile needs some space, air, time and moisture.

On Autumn days, gardeners chit-chat about the little surprises that have grown from the forgotten seeds deep within our compost piles. The ones that did not get hot enough to fully die and instead sprouted from all that so-called ugly richness: the squash, the gourd, the cherry tomatoes, the funky small bumpy pumpkin. 

Gifts that rose from decay, then flourished in the richness it became, to remind us of all the life churning on in a pile of dead stuff.

Quite amazing, really. Spectacular. All that grody dead stuff is, well, life-affirming.

The trash becomes treasure. The old life breaks down to feed the new. 

In that way, nothing is ever really wasted, just fuel for new, beautiful growth.

This is how it works: Bacteria and other micro-organisms feed on the old leaves, grass clippings and food scraps, releasing heat as they work. These creatures are so tiny, yet do a tremendous, transformative job. (Dig into that science with a fantastic YouTube video posted at the bottom of this story.)

Those little bugs and critters are mighty super-heroes.

For the Love of Tulips

And so, all that late fall into winter of my divorce year, when my Dad hammered on about the pile, I thought of all my Mom had taught me about “compost.”

Trust the compost process and something new and beautiful will emerge.

Sure, Dad said. Whatever. Just keep shoveling crap off your pile.

One step forward. Two back. A few forward. One back. The days lengthened again. Spring returned.

That April, I noticed a single tulip climb from the top of my dark, rain-soaked compost pile at the bottom of the steep hill behind the house I’d bought for us that was now all mine. Some bulb from a tossed-out grocery-store planter must have reached out of the shrinking pile and up toward the light. 

Those leaves and stem were among the first green that year. Then, a small, oval, egg-shaped bud appeared on top and opened into a deep pink bloom like a luscious cherry atop a hot fudge sundae.

Hallelujah! Surely, I said it out loud and even danced on the garden path, as if no one was looking.

On a visit to Boston that May I showed my friends pictures of the pink tulip that grew out of the compost pile. Their kids thought it was weird. Apparently no other houseguests showed off pictures of their compost pile, but my friends knew that meant I was OK.

A New Life

There would be many more difficult days that year. But indeed it got better and a beautiful new life grew out of all that experience. 

I am now living, you could say, inside that beautiful pink tulip. That mistake marriage taught me a lot. With one week left in the “hunker-down” year, I met the love of my life. Perhaps you know him as “the pear guy.” Read You Had Me at Pears. This year, we’ll celebrate seven years of marriage and 10 years since we met. I got lucky, and fell head over heels with him and his two sons. Together, we re-made family. Read a Stepmom’s Tale of Making Food & Family. My stepsons are now all grown up.

These days, in these times with a heap of serious crises — let’s remember that new, beautiful growth emerges from the messiest, ugliest things and times. Magic is among the mess. New life somehow grows out of loss, grief and wrecked lives.

No one has all the answers. The grief of divorce is different than the grief of losing a parent. In my world, “We’re all healthy and that’s what matters the most” has never carried so much truth and gratitude.

But I know this: The reach toward the light of all living things is a fierce, awesome force. Finding grace on the other side of grief is a process that takes time, light and breath.

Grab a Shovel

Whether small or gigantic: A sh*t pile is still a sh*t pile.

Many of us learned things in 2020 that we can’t un-see. This is a time of reckoning. Since then, even more crises: Jan. 6, Russia’s war in Ukraine.

We’ve been through a lot. Some friendships and family ties will take work to reconcile while others will fade.

Think of it like my Dad would: Grab a shovel and work that pile a little bit every day. Or my way: Moment by moment, with an open heart and small acts of peace and kindness, be the small, and mighty micro-organisms that transform the old jack-o-lantern and brittle leaves into rich earth.

Same difference.

We would be wise to do whatever we can to NOT add any ugliness to the pile. Grab your shovel to dig out of the mess. What does that mean?

It’s time to work together on the most important stuff. To talk and solve problems. And let’s be real. This is hard work and a lot of us are tired. There may be an ugly pile of crap standing in the way of working together — painful comments, different ways of seeing, a loss of trust and respect.

Solve problems. Question. Hash it out. Consider the common good. I’m seeing so many leaders put their power over country, their greed over common good.

Do what you do best, what you were born to do.

Say your peace, or not. Apologize. Forgive. Or let it go. Maybe you can be friends again, or not. You’ll know. Just don’t let poison keep causing pain. Heal and work toward peace as best you can. Resolve it. Shrink the pile.

Stand up and speak out. We’ve got to keep talking — even when we don’t agree.

Write a personal love note to someone you are missing. Make a pie for someone dear. Better yet, give a pie to someone you don’t agree with. Just ideas …

From this mess each of us can make something better, richer, healthier and more fulfilling. This fills me with hope. And hope is always worth sharing.

P.S.

Do you see magic in the mess of these times?! I’d be thrilled to hear about it. Leave a comment below!

Learn the science of how a compost pile works. Here is one of the best, most engaging explanations of the compost process I’ve encountered in my decades of being a compost geek. Here’s the link.

Enjoy!