Turning and Returning:
Spiritual Composting as Teshuvah
by Emily Herzlin
Compost Happens, by Laura Grace Weldon
Nature teaches nothing is lost.
It’s transmuted.
Spread between rows of beans,
last year’s rusty leaves tamp down weeds.
Coffee grounds and banana peels
foster rose blooms. Bread crumbs
scattered for birds become song.
Leftovers offered to chickens come back
as eggs, yolks sunrise orange.
Broccoli stems and bruised apples
fed to cows return as milk steaming in the pail,
as patties steaming in the pasture.
Surely our shame and sorrow
also return,
composted by years
into something generative as wisdom.
When I was growing up, our next door neighbors had a compost pile in their backyard. It was all the way at the back right corner of their yard, which abutted the back left corner of our yard. My parents said I shouldn’t go near it, that it was gross and full of bugs. So of course I was fascinated by it. Sometimes I’d accidentally-on-purpose throw a ball towards that side of the yard to give me a legit excuse to examine it close up. I expected to see worms writhing around but really it just looked like a pile of dirt, so it was kind of a let-down.
It wasn’t until I moved to Astoria in 2012 that I started collecting compost scraps, because of a roommate who started us on it for the practical reason of not making the garbage stink with rotting food. But we didn’t have a yard, so we, like many Astorians, took our compost to a local drop-off bin. We couldn’t go very often, so we stored food scraps in bags in our freezer until we were ready to bring our haul to the bin.
My spouse Kris and I continued this practice of putting our compost in the freezer, keeping our food scraps in suspended animation, delaying their natural decay until we had time to carry them somewhere (or until the experience of opening the freezer became untenable). And then we would load up a backpack or tote bag and carry melting frozen banana peels and egg shells and orange rinds a few blocks away.
During the pandemic, compost drop-off became a way to socialize with friends and neighbors. When the city suspended the composting program, individual community members started taking on the burden of collecting food scraps and transporting them to locations outside the city for composting, or to community gardens. Waiting on the drop-off lines we’d get to bump into friends and chat. I’d sometimes get a text from a friend to go for a walk, and on the walk we’d make a stop at a food scrap bin to drop off our stores. On one of the coldest, heaviest snowfalls of the year, Kris and I could not handle our freezer being so full of food scraps anymore, couldn’t handle being stuck inside our apartment anymore. We texted our friend Carl who joined us for a snowy compost pilgrimage. We carried our heavy bags through the thick snowfall, leaving footprints in the church parking lot to and from the bins, invigorated by the cold, the wind, the snowflakes dissolving on our faces, the satisfaction of making space in our freezer, and sharing the experience with a friend.
They who sow in tears shall reap with songs of joy.
Though he goes along weeping, carrying the seed-bag, he shall come back with songs of joy, carrying his sheaves.
This image from the Psalms that has inspired our community this season made me think of us that snowy day, agitated and antsy, lugging our heavy, stinky compost bags, and coming back feeling happy and connected. An experience of suffering being transformed into joy and nourishment.
With this in mind I went down a bit of a nerdy-Jewish internet rabbit hole to find out more about the history and significance of composting and the Jewish tradition. I learned that composting is not new to the Israelites and fellow travelers. The use of manure and straw in composting seems to have been common in biblical times. Recent archeological discoveries confirm that the dung piles referred to in the Bible were indeed compost piles. References to composting have even been found on clay tablets dated 1,000 years before Moses was born.
Composting today is a process that enhances the natural decay of organic material by supporting the ideal conditions for certain beneficial organisms to thrive — things like warm temperatures, nutrients, moisture and plenty of oxygen. Key elements of the composting process seem to be: 1) the choice to compost materials rather than trash them in the first place; 2) the process of intentionally turning the compost to give it air and keep it at optimal temperatures; and 3) the elements of time and rest.
Turning the compost pile is central. Rabbi Ben Bag Bag famously said of the Torah, “Turn it and turn it for everything is in it.”
The word he uses for turn, הֲפֹךְ, is not the same as the word for return, שׁוּב, related to our practice of teshuva, of returning. הֲפֹךְ is about turning around or turning over, literally. But when it comes to the process of composting, and I think, for the process of teshuva as well, turning is necessary for returning. We’re NOT simply throwing out what is unwanted or icky, but allowing it to be, and to go through a natural process, through being lovingly and intentionally turned over and given time, transforming into material that nourishes growth, nourishes life.
And so at this moment in our year, in our world, and here at Kol Nidrei as we enter a holy time of teshuvah, we can gather our materials: what are the discards, the scraps of our minds, hearts, bodies, lives, that we’d sooner throw away and be done with, but that might be valuable materials for the compost pile?
This past week at Tashlich, we performed the traditional ritual of casting off into the water what we would like to let go of. But we also added two additional options besides the traditional casting off: to plant a seed in honor of something we would like to cultivate this year, and to add material to the compost bin--rather than casting off, what do we want to continue to explore, to wonder, to allow to unfold? What aren’t we done with, or what isn’t done with us? What are the parts of ourselves, our society, our systems, that we’d rather simply discard because they stink? The icky emotions, the regrets, the mistakes, the darkness we’d prefer to toss out?
What needs to be intentionally turned and turned, so that I, so that we, may return?
Berkeley resident Adam Edell wrote on the Jewish food blog The Jew & The Carrot: It is my understanding that in the Kabbalistic tradition of Rabbi Isaac Luria, the world was created through God’s words, which were held in glass vessels. Unable to contain the power of their possibility, the vessels shattered, their shards scattered to the corners of an imperfect earth, leaving us as gatherers of these holy sparks. It would seem that tending the compost pile is a manifestation of that instinct to take the broken, forgotten, used-up, and to transmute the mundane into something holy again: we feed our food scraps to our compost bin, knowing that the rich soil will give our fields a boost of nourishment come planting time. Some would say that as we “raise the sparks” we are taking part in Tikkun Olam; that is, repairing the fragments of the material world around us.
This past year I’ve been part of a racial justice practice group that meets to check in and learn together. We started off using a book by mindfulness teacher Rhonda Magee, The Inner Work of Racial Justice. Through her book I came to understand that an important part of the work of racial justice for white people is about how we meet and make space for the difficult feelings and reactions that come up in us around race and racism, particularly the learned habit to turn away from, rather than towards, our discomfort. For example, she offers this formal practice, which she calls a Pause for Compassion:
“We begin by noticing a moment of racial discomfort. We pause. We take a deep and grounding breath. What are the sensations in the body that make this discomfort known to you now? Consider placing one or both hands on the area where you feel discomfort. Inwardly recite these phrases: “This is a moment of racial discomfort. Such moments are common in a world shaped by racism. I deserve kindness in this moment. And I offer kindness to others impacted by this moment as well.”
By not simply throwing this moment of discomfort away or trying to reason our way out of it, through lovingly and compassionately turning it over in the compost heap of our experience, we give it a chance to be integrated into our learning, so that it may serve us in similar moments in the future. Maimonides asked, how do we know if someone has truly made teshuvah? His answer: when the person is faced with a similar experience, and this time they make a different choice. We set aside dedicated time to turn over our discomfort, to practice with it. The next time we encounter a moment of racial discomfort, instead of getting startled or running away, we stay present. When we are present, we can see more clearly, and make skillful choices about our thoughts, words, and actions. This is one way of practicing Tikkun Olam, unlocking the holy sparks within our discomfort.
There is the turning of the compost pile, and then there is letting it rest. I’ve worked as a mindfulness teacher in healthcare for the last few years. I would get referrals for patients from doctors all over the hospital, referring patients to meditation practice to help them reduce their pain, or relieve their anxiety, or get rid of a whole host of symptoms. How can meditation make my pain go away? patients would ask me. As much as I wish that’s how it worked, it isn’t. We can’t meditate our pain or anxiety away, which I know from personal experience as someone with chronic illness and anxiety, but we can learn to bring curious, loving attention to even those painful parts of ourselves, to be with ourselves with friendliness rather than hatred, which provides a certain kind of soothing and comfort that in its own way can be healing. What if we could stop trying to change ourselves for one second and just allow ourselves to be? If we could imagine for a moment that there isn’t anything wrong with us, nothing about us that we need to throw out.
This year in the Jewish calendar we are entering what is known as a Shmitah year. Shmitah years occur every 7th year, and the Torah states that in this year, fields are to be left to lie fallow, and all debts are to be released. In this spirit, can we take a year off from our endless self improvement projects, a year off from the subtle and not-so-subtle ways we never let ourselves be? Can we let the landscape of our bodies, hearts and minds lie fallow, release our unrealistic expectations of perfection, and allow ourselves to gently unfold in all our natural holiness?
There are many opportunities in our daily lives for spiritual composting. It may come up in how we handle conflicts, in the way we talk to ourselves about our mistakes, in our relationship with our bodies, in our relationship with grief. And sometimes it may be wise not to turn something over, not to let something rest. It may not be the right time, or it may be wiser to throw something out. Not everything can be composted. But may our decision to turn towards or away from suffering be a conscious, loving choice, not just a habitual one.
Earlier tonight we recited the Kol Nidrei prayer: All vows, that we have vowed, and sworn, and dedicated, and made forbidden upon ourselves; from this Yom Kippur until next Yom Kippur...We regret having made them; may they all be permitted, forgiven, eradicated and nullified, and may they not be valid or exist any longer. Our vows shall no longer be vows, and our prohibitions shall no longer be prohibited, and our oaths are no longer oaths.
Perhaps we can see this as an intention for the year ahead--not that we have thrown away our vows, but rather--a prayer for us to learn to relate to our emotions, thoughts, habits, and systems, not as permanent, solid, and unchangeable, but as material that we can turn and turn and raise the sparks of. And that whatever pain or sadness or grief or shame we may be carrying into this year, likewise, is not permanent, is not fixed, but is organic, and is in the holy process of becoming.
As we close, take a moment and pause, and take a breath, inviting into your awareness some organic material in your life that you would like to intentionally add to the holy compost pile this year, either for rest, or for turning, or just for the simple fact of acknowledging that this, too belongs... taking in these words from Aurora Levins Morales, from the Rimonim Liturgy Project:
let them go like birds released from cages
let them go like fruit rinds giving themselves to the soil
let them go like pebbles rolling away underfoot on a steep trail
let them go like crumbs scattered for pigeons
let them go like sweat dripping from our brows
If we have messed up, let it go into the great compost heap
and become the nutrients for new seeds, intentions, blessings
pink blossomed, azure, ripe with tender food.
If others have hurt us, let clean water irrigate the wounds
and let the runoff water effortless gardens
that spring up between the furrows of sleeping fields
between the cracks of unswept sidewalks,
take over the untended lawns.
Let grudges crumble to dust.
Let shame dissolve into loam.
Let each harsh word we hurl at ourselves
be turned into petals before they land.
Let everything, all of it, be recycled.
Let the trash become jewels we string into necklaces
and drape around each other’s necks.
Let us enter the year of fallows
burdenless. loose-limbed,
lie down on the dark earth,
do nothing,
let tiny rootlets emerge from our fingers
let ourselves be covered with moss
and instead of doing
become the sapling students of the elder trees, and
be ourselves into the new year
and be ourselves toward the new world that waits
like an autumn bulb packed with unimagined colors
ready to wake and bloom
just under the skin of what is.