I spent some the afternoon in the yard. It hit 70 degrees today and spring is in the full yummy lusciousness that I usually associate with May.

I celebrated Earth day by moving about a cubic yard of damp, black crumbly compost from the bin to a bed.  The other bin is three feet deep and cooking fast. I need the old bin empty to start over.

I love the very idea of compost. My father gave it to me as the story of Redemption.  I also love actual compost. The smell and sight, and the hosts of red wigglers.

We live in the Willamette Valley and among our many blessings is that we get to have a guilt free lawn. And it grows fast and the clippings mixed with kitchen scraps cook like Hell's kitchen. I could fuss with it and turn it and watch the wetness and get more, faster. But a cubic yard twice a year is plenty.

I don't try and keep the weed seeds out of it, I compost weeds, seeds and all. It would be a waste of green, and they would get in there anyway, and besides my dad taught me that everything should have its chance, weeds and all. Biblical he was, "Leave the tares till later."

I don't compost blackberry clippings or bindweed. They are of the devil and must be put out into the Gehenna of the city compost bins.  Our city will now take kitchen compost at the curb, bless them,  but they won't get mine.

I try to buy local, but I make my exceptions. It pleases me to no end to know that in my compost is a good bit of fair trade coffee grounds from Ethiopia. I have left bits of me over there. But Africa comes to my yard and feeds my tomatoes. And the banana peels;  I could do without them, having been spoiled by real bananas, but an indulgence for Alivia who enjoys them. A little Central America in our yard as well.

It is all good, it is all wholesome, it is all well.