I opened the bin today and steam rose like incense from the pile.
It smelled of citrus peels, decay, and potential. People think composting is a task. But I think of it as a ritual. A reminder that death feeds life.
That endings become beginnings if given time and breath. Each banana peel is a prophecy. Each pile a slow resurrection.
The Tao doesn’t judge the rot. It uses it.
So I compost, not to save the earth, but to remember who I am.
A process. A turning thing. Not above the soil but of it.