Today I carried compost.
About two months ago on a train to Delhi, I had a thought. Farm to farm, an international adventure. A love story. We are all but dirt, between one form and another. Compost in the making. All my ego grasping is fuel for this firey crucible. In the end the quality of the soil is what matters, not who I think I am at this moment. I carry the self which is nothing but compost.
So why write? Well, several requests for a non-Facebook account of my travels have sunk through the layers of my ears. And because I love writing. Why International Compost? Because "Compost" was taken. Because I am in a great vat of transformation, fermenting from scraps into the unknown. And to add class to my soil and be able to go where I go, throughout the world. And then, why me? I have no other.
There are many stories to tell and many more never to be mentioned. My heart aches more than my head these days. Months of travel though towns and villages and cities. Each with a whole set of people going about their lives. Some aware of my brief stare. Most just absorbed in the day, the hour, the job at hand. What do I bring? What do I take? Am I ever benefiting or just a thief, fake tourist, superficial witness? What could I possibly hope to accomplish? To become that quiet presence that brings a fresh light feeling into being. To make others happy without any alteration. To be without any guile.
I carried compost today from a mother to her daughter and brought joy to both. So simple.
