Composting Stories

So New Ones Can Be Born

“We can create stories; perpetuate stories; reframe, reimagine and reform stories; believe stories, and, yes, sometimes let stories turn to compost so new ones can be born.”

- Kaitlin Curtice

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Without further ado, today’s pocket.

In Musical Chairs, a book I very much enjoyed this summer, Bridget, a celloist who lives in New York, retreats to her old run-down barn in Connecticut for rest and relaxation. She loves the barn but hasn’t kept up with its needs over the years, as evidenced by her slight electrocution at the start of the novel. Bridget decides to deal with the barn, though, to preserve it; she even fills out the paperwork to mark it as a historic landmark. When she does this, new opportunities avail themselves to her. Of course, because it’s a romantic comedy, every contractor and firefighter she encounters is incredibly handsome and available, but that is beside the point. What rings truer about Bridget’s experience is that sometimes we need to get rid of the old to welcome in something new, or as Kaitlin Curtice writes, “sometimes (we must) let stories turn to compost so new ones can be born.”

When I went to the lake last week, my intention was to have a creative retreat. I recently made the decision to pivot with the book I had started pitching to agents over a year and a half ago, a decision I will explain at a later point. In the hopes that I could figure out what my next creative step should be, I filled a backpack with New Yorker magazines, books on creativity, a pair of binoculars and my fancy camera that I never find time to use, and I headed to our lake cabin. I was hoping to photograph the baby swallows that had made a home in the porch eaves.

When I arrived though, it was quiet. Before I even unpacked my cooler bag, I went to check on the swallows, knowing in my heart they were gone. It breaks my heart every year when the birds leave even though I know that this is a natural part of things. Still, I was hoping to have their delightful chirping as a background noise for my creative endeavors. Just a few days prior, this porch was full of noise, with some of our family here, and now it was just Kam and me, not even the birds to keep us company. It didn’t take me long though to grow comfortable being alone. I read a book and listened to the birds flying in the distance. I didn’t do any writing that day.

I figured the next day I would get to it, but instead when I woke up, I made homemade granola with some oats I found in an unlabeled glass container in the cupboard. They smelled stale, but there was no mold, so I used them, a decision I felt would make my depression-era grandparents proud. One of my favorite family stories is about the time that my grandparents joined my parents on a trip to the Jersey Shore. My grandparents showed up with their red cooler full of food, including a packet of hot dogs that had turned a very wrong shade of brown. My dad explained to my grandparents that it was probably not the best idea to eat them. My grandmother conceded, but my grandfather was not as easily convinced. He turned to my dad and said, “So you’re saying we’re going to throw these out?”

After I put the granola in the oven, I started rooting around in the cabinets to see if other things had expired. Sure enough, the pantry looked more like a historical record, a documentation of a former time. I tossed the remaining expired items into the trash asking forgiveness from my ancestors before moving onto the fridge and freezer. The freezer contained a jar of unlabeled black beans and another jar of what appeared to be grape juice. Why I ever froze grape juice, I couldn’t tell you. When I finished purging the fridge and freezer, I scrubbed the shelves down and then took out the trash. When I did so, it occurred to me that I should probably deal with the large Rubbermaid trashcan full of dog poop that I’d been avoiding for years now. I transferred its contents to a large black trash bag, cursing biodegradable bags. I set the large offensive smelling bag on the lawn and returned to the house for some bleach to clean the can. On my way back inside, I couldn’t help but notice that the gutters were full of debris, and this was the case because the roof was covered in pine needles, so once I sprayed bleach in the trash can, I grabbed a broom and climbed up on the roof in my flip flops.

I managed to get on the roof without falling. It occurred to me that if I fell off the roof, it might take a minute to get some help, so I sat on my bottom and scooted myself along, using the broom to push the needles away from me onto the ground. Much too late, I remembered the tray of granola and hoped Kam wouldn’t notice it. It was scary on the roof but also satisfying to be able to take care of this thing myself.

When I had two feet back on the ground, I checked on Kam who looked so serene I felt bad for ever doubting him. However, when I started sweeping the needles off the porch, he picked up his leash and took it outside. He laid down in the sun with it as if to say, “Come on mom, that’s enough. Let’s play.”

I searched for my phone to take a picture of him, and I saw that Dan had texted me to say that he hoped we were relaxing and having fun. I was sweaty and dirty and covered in sap. I sent him a picture of the porch covered in needles that had once been on the roof. “I must really be at an impasse with this book,” I said.

My husband, ever supportive, texted back, “That is impressively productive procrastinating.”

I hearted his message. Clearing off the roof was oddly relaxing, and I was having fun. I remembered that the last time I got on the roof I was also working on a book. It occurred to me that this clearing out might be part of my process.

I finished sweeping the needles off the porch, and then I hooked up the hose and rinsed out the garbage can. As I did so, I noticed the discarded mattress topper on our lawn. Seabass took it off one of the beds when he was teaching himself how to do a backflip years ago. One summer night, during quarantine, the four of us lay on it at three am watching a meteor shower. It was now covered in needles and bird poop, and so I bundled it up and set it beside the trash bag.

I felt fatigue starting to set in, but I had just enough momentum to finish my uncharacteristically urgent cleaning spree by addressing the floors. I didn’t have a mop, so I just grabbed a rag and soaked it and started moving it around the floor. Whenever I sweep or mop, I think of my grandmother, and how she swept our summer childhood cabin meticulously every day. I felt the morning work catching up to me. I was running out of steam. I thought about the writer’s office hours I attended the day before for a memoir class I am currently taking and how one woman commented on how she makes herself write in the morning because that is when her brain is at its best. Here I was using my best brain to clean an old jar of beans and wrangle poop bags. I wondered where I’d gone wrong.

I finally took a break and took Kam down to the lake for a swim. I tied him to the dock and dove in. The water felt so good, the way it only does when you have worked up a sweat and smell of pine needles and a trace of dog poop. Kam whined because he wanted his turn, which was fair, so I took him to the beach and let him run free.

When we got back to the house, we made a trip to the dump with the windows open wide. When I got back to the lake, I showered. I had intended to make myself lunch, but I was spent, so I just pulled out leftovers from the previous night’s dinner and sat on the porch and contentedly ate them. Then, I rested. My best brain needed a nap.

I didn’t play with any of the toys I brought. I didn’t take any photos or use my binoculars. I didn’t take out my glue or the scissors I brought from home. I didn’t even open the books on creativity or attempt a scrapbook. I read and tidied the lake place and climbed on the roof, grateful to have managed it without falling, and in the afternoon, when I woke from my nap, I pulled out my phone and used the notes app to sketch an outline for my next book.

Somewhere among the pine needles, black beans, and tree sap, I let myself let go of an old story, so a new idea could take root. I love her already.

This Week in the Garden

We harvested the garlic on Sunday as a family. It is by far our largest yield, with most of the bulbs being above average in size. I think this is because we used our best cloves to plant last year’s harvest.

Tomorrow morning, I will harvest more blackberries. They are lush, and I’m hoping I have enough to make something special with them. I think I just might.

The air quality deteriorated on Friday. It was so bad that I drank my morning tea inside. Mateo was supposed to go on a field trip, but camp was cancelled. He and I made ice cream instead. His ice cream required so much work and was so delicious.

The poor air quality days are rough. It feels so desperately apparent that we are failing this gorgeous planet we call home.

I’m grateful that tonight the air is clear and I’m sitting outside again. To be honest, if that wasn’t the case, I’m not sure I would have gotten my pocket out this week.

I pulled in the last of my snow and snap peas. When I did so, the pill bugs seemed to start eating one of the dahlias that was living right next door. I’m not sure that dahlia will make it.

It is hard to acknowledge the things we spent so much time on that are not going to make it, but I imagine that this too must be composted, and something else will be born.

My sunrise hibiscus bloomed this week, the first bloom since I transplanted her outside. I’m hopeful she will keep blooming for the rest of the summer.

I would love to continue this conversation in the comments. What resonates with you today? What are you letting go of? What are you welcoming in? How is the air in your garden?