There's The Tempest, a drama by Shakespeare, and there's the perennial plant, Good King Henry. Both white men. Both British. One an old text with faux leather cover & the other gone to seed. Together, they make a perfect mix of nitrogen and carbon in my compost pile, Because it had rained a lot, I added some old newspapers to the mix and was surprised that they were from 2018 - must have been from the back of the storage bin. When I stirred all this green and brown stuff together, they mixed & mingled, creating a fertile space for decomposition. It takes time, but not much, if I aerate the compost by turning it over & making sure it gets good & messy along the way. It smells like an old barn, which I love, and all that work makes me strong. We are in the midst of a global pandemic. There are riots & demonstrations throughout the country. I'm angry, sad and very tired of feeling complicit in a system I did not design or choose. Turning compost is my way of processing the all of it. The natural cycle of life, death & renewal I witness in this pile is also context for the other continuum it includes - - The shredded news, sometimes current and sometimes from years past, that reveals the causes and effects of policies and actions over time. Mix & mingle a diverse bunch of decomposing matter, turn it over once in a while and you get soil to renew the earth from which it came; Create policies that increase inequality and you get anger, frustration and the perpetuation of an unfair system. It's all right here in the compost behind my garage, messy, smelly and beautiful in a weird kind of way. In 2018, when I composted my Harvard and University of Virginia diplomas, I experienced the power of decomposition as not just a source of life for the earth but also as a source of inspiration & renewal. What seemed a dangerous & radical act at the time did not cause the earth to shatter, but instead freed me to reframe my narrative. For two years now, I've been exploring what it means to be the product of privilege and to own my complicity not just with the climate crisis, which was the original impetus for my reflections on "Two Degrees," but also with the social and economic disparities that exist as a result of our current market economy. Facing truths is hard, but when I go astray, feeling tired & lost as I do now, compost keeps me grounded. It is in that pile behind the garage that clarity emerges: The power of diversity & balance, the importance of showing up & being patient, and the beauty that emerges from the mess. It has taken me a week to craft this post. My whole being seeks balance free from anxiety, but it is an anxious and uncertain time. What to do? Instead of leaving Shakespeare's volume unopened, I tore it apart, allowing the narrative to break free and become something new. Instead of
leaving my diplomas in a frame in the attic, I tore them up & let them break free as well. There is power in recomposing, decomposing and reframing our narratives. Sometimes, there truly is a tempest in the compost. It's smelly & messy & hard to take, but it's beautiful, too, and I'm ready for whatever work is needed. It builds strength of many kinds. A simple please & thank you. A call for spring and gratitude when it finally arrives. That's how my week has been. A simple call... Please. And a response. Thank you. There's not a lot more a gal can say. Still feeling overwhelmed by the reality of our 'new normal,' but finding solace outside, with camera, texture & color. And as happens, when I frame leaves or flowers, stories emerge. Today blankets of Sweet Woodruff reveal the truth about perennials, how they sleep, creep, then leap. Yesterday, the story was about people - - crowds at the annual Yard Sale where I purchased this dignified bird, my friend Larry, who gave me these violets, and Elmer, from whom we purchased these River Birch trees over a decade ago. And then there's dandelions, showing up in random places, a pesky weed for some, but a cheerful harbinger of health for others. It's all about the narrative we choose. The dandelion at the foot of a tree, shaded by daffodils feels different from the dandelion blowing in the wind on a grassy hillside at the landfill. And the hawk soaring above that same landfill inspires a different kind of reverence than do robins digging in my yard. I love how even when alone in the garden or on a hillside in an industrial part of town, I am with others, part of a narrative that transcends the weather on a single day or my state of mind in a given moment. Please.
May I find hope in a time of trouble. Thank you for the gifts that emerge. Forget me not. The world is sweet, even though it can be hard to focus & things feel blurry when people & plants try to share space. It's possible, though. So much is possible. No. No Smoking. No Parking. Positively No Parking. And definitely no bad behavior, because cameras are recording even me, meandering around empty back allies in Hanover, NH on this cold day in May. There are cracks in the sidewalk... and bricks everywhere provide structure. Yellows seem particularly pronounced, warnings inspiring discomfort, until I look down & see these leaves emerge from the grate... and this tree in a small garden in the midst of it all, and the word Please. Please.
One word, simple & inviting. Threats disappear. No more cold and fear. Just one word. Please. |
Lyn Swett Miller
reframing the narrative, one day, one image at a time Let's ReFrame: By Degrees
A place where photographer Lyn Swett Miller considers wonder, joy and transformation in a complex world. Archive
September 2021
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