Sometimes, when I dig into compost, I try to understand the universe—I know, but it’s true.
I try to understand that this hollow rhizome I hold in my hand,
once an iris, emptied by worms,
motionless,
“dead,”
is no less alive than me.
That here, where the sun shines on my bent-over-back, and I feel the warmth of it,
that here in the Present is not just a passing feeling,
but some glimmer of
Truth.
The sun warms the soil, seeds sprout, I consume them along with star particles,
super nova dust,
and somehow
I live and
breathe.
That this planet is explosion inverted, star catastrophy united into soil, water, rhizome, worm.
I am, literally,
dust.
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I'm Sarah--mother of two daughters, 10 and 8, born in Oregon, raised in Eastern Washington, played basketball and learned a little Japanese language at the University of San Francisco, volunteered as a youth minister in Adderbury, England, farmed on Lopez Island (where I met my husband from Nebraska), farmed some more in central Ohio for Dominican Sisters, graduated from OSU's college of food, ag and environmental sciences and moved to Michigan. I bake sourdough bread and pizza, like to run into neighbors outside on a regular basis, only knit if the weather is cold, and love the feel of my heart beat and the burn of my lungs after paddle boarding in a lake or working outside, especially after turning the compost pile. My husband is a researcher and instructor at a state university, and we often dream about sailing with friends. Maybe I'll start making Christmas presents early this year, but probably not.
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