And now, the longest I’ve written in a while. It’s about my compost pile. My compost pile had moved to a place closer to the back of my mind a long time ago. There are two flights of stairs now between the compost pots and our balcony. Getting lazy just happened. Not to be read as “I stopped composting”. Oh, I kept on with it, just that I slowly went about disregarding the ground-rules one by one. I still remember the first time I began composting. The excitement; the careful balancing of Carbon and Nitrogen, C and N always in caps, seeing them everywhere I looked, like newfound words. The hoard of dried leaves I collected. Checking if the moisture content is as it should be – like a squeezed-out sponge. Worrying if the pile does not heat up right. Turning the pile every few days. And waiting for the smell of the woods when it is done. Mmmm…
That went to “It’s happening anyway”. Much like the attention one would devote to a train that arrives exactly at the time it is supposed to arrive. No gushing over its arrival, no mulling over, relishing or lingeringly beautiful lines written about it. Just an eight syllable thought alloted and dismissed.
I remember looking at all the dried leaf piles that I could collect from earlier this February, mentally registering them wherever I went. The nearby parks, in a nearby street under an old abandoned car, the police park near Bowring Club, in Cubbon park and even at the workplace. So convenient. Now, why didn’t i notice that earlier. And yet I did nothing about it. It was continuing to compost. It wasn’t smelling. It was all going pretty fine. Maybe they laid the ground rules too strict, I said to myself. I stopped sieving out the compost and just tell it be the carbon for the fresh kitchen waste I kept stirring in every week or so. So logical.
Nothings wrong. It worked. Just that I find myself with too many tiny bugs. They apparently are the ones that work in a cold compost pile. The pile is still fine, I don’t have any unsavory creatures. Some roaches that I need to get rid of. And two more pots to clean and start fresh all over again. That would amount to a few more hours, squatting by its side and sieving out the compost and getting back to the ground rules. Or in the words of my activity tracker some 1400 steps to be taken and a kilometre or so to be walked. I’d put it on while sieving pot I of the pile earlier this morning just to keep track of time.
Moral of the story. The universe never tires of conspiring to bundle up new lessons for you to learn. Even it’s from a cold compost pile. Also, never conveniently avoid anything fundamental to a process. Especially if the process is a miniature adaption of what generally happens in the universe, simulated in three terracotta pots rather comically placed one on top of the other, in your backyard, balcony or wherever you can keep it safe from the rain. So long.
a few floating seconds
of no yin and yang
Till a whole month or so I gaze
And from nowhere arrives
Every now and then
right out of the galaxy
While the dodo forgot to fly.
I see a quiet wonder
A Carl Sagan
Laughed away into anonymity
by a drunken Zen master
Only to surrender through a suicidal poet
Dying and living, back again
Through a madman
Decoding dreams from a random website
While it rains cats. And fish.
I see with a child’s eyes
A friend’s. A love’s.
And maybe a bag of plastic’s too
And that could be when
the confusion begins
or the beauty!
I fall in love with these carpets
head over heels,every february
She wildly throws her arms up in the air
and thrusts her broom at the tree
There must exist a boardroom
where an idle romantic notion
a sweep of practical drivel !
Something like this couldn’t have been possibly contained! Pages that are full of humor, a resolutely rebellious streak and an honesty that will reach within your heart and tug at it.
You can’t help but laugh along through one poignant-yet-funny scene after the other; it begins with little Marji’s life as she understands it, even as the backdrop is a country hurtling into war and religious fundamentalism.
Remember what it was like growing up? The many crazy convictions you stood for so staunchly? The rebellion?
Here is one story that is filled with imagery as vivid from the one that you lived and loved and sometimes even hated. Yeah…it gets a little desolate in the second half ‘The story of a return’ as Marjane grapples with her sense of identity and the hopelessness of a country that is determined to shut as many doors as possible.
A few excerpts, just the text of course. Wait till you see the graphics! 🙂
At the age of six I was already sure I was the last prophet. This was a few years before the revolution.
O Celestial light!
Before me there had been a few others
I am the last prophet.
So my father was not a hero
Is everything alright, Marji?
If only he had been in prison.
They cut my dad’s leg off, but he still didn’t confess!…So they cut off an arm as well.
Luckily one day they told me about my uncle Anoosh.
The only one of my father’s brothers I had never met. Because he had been in prison. And now, for the time in 30 years, my grandma was reunited with her six children.
And I had a hero in my family…Naturally I loved him immediately.
Meanwhile I got to go to my first party.Not only did my mom let me go, she also knitted me a sweater full of holes and made me a necklace with chains and nails. Punk rock was in.
I was looking sharp.