A Trash Can’s Tale

I think I ought to start with this story:

about a year ago, I wanted a trash can.

But not just any trash can. It had to be perfect.

I wanted a trashcan with two handles and a lid of metaphorical steel.

It had to be plastic, preferably black, no wheels required.

And I didn’t want it to have a bottom.

Because this trash can, my friends:

this trash can was going to be glorified.

It was going to be my Compost Bin.

One day shortly thereafter, the Boy and I were driving down the road. It was rainy and muddy and just generally disagreeable.

(Except for ducks. Ducks like rain and I like ducks. Somewhere there was a happy duck. So it wasn’t all bad.)

But I digress.

We were bouncing down the road in Rex, the Boy’s Jeep. And suddenly, by the side of the road, I saw it.

“STOP!” I shouted. “STOP, QUICK!”

The Boy stopped.

“WHAT IS WRONG?” he shouted, because I had startled him very much.

“THAT TRASH CAN. IT IS PUT OUT FOR TRASH, BECAUSE IT HAS NO BOTTOM. WHICH IS PERFECT, BECAUSE I NEED A TRASH CAN WITH NO BOTTOM. IT IS SO GREEN IT IS ALMOST BLACK AND IT HAS A HANDLE, AND I AM SURE I CAN FIND IT A NEW LID. IT IS NOT PERFECT, BUT I LOVE IT ANYWAY. AND IT MUST COME HOME WITH US. I AM SORRY IN ADVANCE FOR THE MUD.”

This is how the compost bin came to live in the corner of my yard.

A native Americ…

A native American Elder was asked,

“What shall we do if we get lost?”

Stand still. The trees before you and the bushes beside you are not lost.

Wherever you are is a place called here,

and you must treat it as a powerful stranger

both asking to know and be known.

Listen. The forest whispers,

“I have made this place, you can leave and return once again

saying, here.”

No two trees are the same to Raven,

no two branches the same to Wren.

If what a tree or a branch does is lost on you,

you are truly lost.

Stand still. Listen.

The forest knows where you are.
Let it find you.

– David Waggoner