This
is perhaps
the 100th shrub
I have planted in our yard
during the past decade, and this
tight tangle of roots gets me every time.
Not all plants are so completely
ensnared, but most ​seem
to be at least this
rootbound.

Sometimes
aggressive action is
necessary because it is
absolutely essential to free the
roots from themselves. If they remain
entangled, the shrub will never
be able to settle into
its new home.

Earlier
today, when
I held this particular
plant and gently worked to
free ​the roots, I thought of how
hard it has been to liberate myself from
the constraints I created as a result
of ​expectations of all kinds,
some from within &
some from
​family.

A plant
will thrive in 
its new home when
its roots are free & it has the
water & nutrients it needs. As I write,
I am increasingly curious about what roots I
may choose to cut so that I can participate fully in
conversations about climate, race & our
nation's structural inequalities
that limit our collective
capacity to
thrive.

There's
work to do 
at home and all
around, so we've been
working - digging & mulching,
pruning & planting. It
​feels good to
​work hard.

And
even though
these phlox are out
of control and need attention,
I'm OK with their extravagant abundance
because five years ago, there was
nothing in that particular place
but a neglected corner
of the terrace.

Those
lupin blew over
from a neighbor's field,
but the comfrey by its side and
those chives behind were intentionally
planted to increase soil fertility on what was once
a rocky dry hillside. These woodland phlox, so different
from those flowers surrounding the bird,
thrive in a space that was once
a pile of sticks.

These
phlox and
this myrtle (or
Vinca Minor) have
finally merged on the
hillside by our driveway.
5 years in the making,
this space is, at
last, feeling
whole.

I am
grateful
to my garden
for reminding me
that neglected places
can be transformed. There
just needs to be a plan, focused
attention, and patience to
let what will emerge,
​emerge.

Purples
are beginning
to share the stage with
other colors, like these white
flowers on a lone Hawthorn tree that
is abuzz. It was for these pollinators that we
created this garden in the first place, so hearing them
in action gives me hope and purpose as I
go outside to get back
​to work.

​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.

​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.

Seeking
something normal,
I collected compost from
Umpleby's Cafe and Bakery in
Hanover and came home to process
it. But when I downloaded the photographs
from what had been glorious Compost
Compositions, I saw that something
had gone terribly wrong
with the exposure.
Why now?

Then there
is gratitude for my
sister-in-law, Katherine,
whose recently released book
of poetry, Voice Message, captures her
profound grief at the loss of her 21 year old
daughter almost a decade ago and the loss of all
that might have been, but can't be because of a single fall
on a single day on a ski hill far away. I can't read
more  than a poem or two a day. It's
just too intense right now
with this virus...

Instead
we are together.
As they mourn the loss
of a graduation or a 20th birthday
with friends I think about all the different
kinds of losses and can, I think, finally comprehend
that grief in all its forms is real, but that
ultimately, some is just so
much more profound
than ​others.

A lost
child can not
be retrieved. So when
my husband told me that babies
& other young people are now dying from
Covid-19, I experienced more grief, but am grateful
for 'Woman's Work,' like tending the garden or sewing cloth
masks that will protect us from ourselves (lest we touch
our faces) and each other, (lest one of us is sick
and coughs). It is strange to protect
ourselves from ourselves. At
this moment, though,
what else is a
mother
to do?

So, I
sew masks
out of repurposed
​boxers and favorite old
floral flannel PJs, which were
buried at the bottom of our rag pile
in that funny drawer beneath our dryer
which we so rarely open, but which
is, at this moment, proving
extremely helpful.

It turns
out that making
masks is harder than I
thought. What I am creating
looks nothing like what I see on all
those YouTube videos. Then I ​remember
that we are in a time of crisis, and I
am doing the best I can with
what I have, where
I am.

The other
day at the landfill,
I had two cameras, so
even though the settings were
off on one, the other was just right.
Using the tools at hand, I was able to capture
the eerily empty six-foot social distancing spaces at
the recycling center. In a time of crisis, I think
it helps to have guidance whether in
the form of a spray-painted
box, or poetry in a book,
written by someone
you love.

It does feel,
though, that mothers
and mother earth have super-
powers in their abilities to hold and
sooth pain &, by doing so, nourish that pain
so that it can transform into whatever
it is meant to become, in all
its tactile, fragile
​beauty. 

#frontstepsproject is on Instagram

@Katasasvari can be found on Instagram & on the web

Voice Message by Katherine Barrett Swett - - Please order through your local independent bookstore. I ordered mine through Still North Books in Hanover, NH

If you can, please support those in your life who needs it...whether it's the person who cares for your loved ones, cares for your home, or cares for you. Venmo and a simple old fashioned check work wonders.

For almost 
a year, I've been
documenting the Landfill
and have not been surprised by
the tons of waste dumped onto the
ground, creating a mountain
where there had once
been a valley.

A few
minutes later,
when the sun went
behind a cloud, it was not
the play of light, but the play of 
textures and tones that caught my eye,
and the way the color of the ground shifted
from raw black soil to brown shredded bark to a
layer of plastic and then on to the snow-covered hillside.
And here was this massive vehicle whose sole
job is to smash it all up, but which,
in the process, creates these
elegant circles in
the soil.

To manage
our waste, the landfill
crew harnesses a complex mix
of engineering, biology, chemistry and art.
​It's all about containment - How to safely entomb
our garbage so that it stays where we put it,
does not leach toxic runoff or become
a landslide, or explode from
​noxious gases.

For me,
it's not hard to
manage what I know or 
to plan for things I understand. Like
in this discarded tax preparation worksheet
from 1992, I can do whatever calculations I must.
But when confronted with variables I do
not understand that are beyond
my control, I become
a bit befuddled.

While
at The Landfill
last week, though, the
manager indicated that they
were receiving 35% less waste than
just two weeks before. He suggested that it's
like everyone & everything is taking a deep breath and
a giant pause. Maybe, I thought, that is what the earth and each
one of us needs right now...as long as we care for
​each other along the way...because
we are most definitely in
this together...

...pausing
at the landfill
or at home, or wherever
we may be right
​now.

Sarah
has instinctively
allowed her superpowers
to evolve over the past decades.
It's taken me a bit longer to discover mine,
and to let them flourish. I love that I embroidered my
first stitch at the same time she sent me that coffee filter bracelet.
It was like a subversive invitation to just go for it, whatever
'it' might be. And here we are, more than a year
later, and I've embroidered an entire dress
and she is working on her second
knitted coffee ​filter bag. 

Each week,
​110 pounds of compost
processed in the bins behind
our garage.

As you know,
compost is a thing
for me, coming from a
place of deep caring
and ongoing
​curiosity.

I wonder
where these tons
of compost will lead
in 2020 and
​beyond. 

And
​there is more.
Behind these photographs
there is me, a woman in mid life
choosing to share her work
and, by default, her
story - - 

Perhaps
that is why last year I had
so much fun dismantling and composting
my Harvard and UVA Degrees.
​Why not explore? 

Or, perhaps
that is why I am OK
sharing my first attempt at decorating
a silk dress with embroidered
imagery of my own
design.

Now
​that it is Show Time
the connections between these
experiments becomes
clearer. 

Our grandmother's
dresses out for a dance
​in 2007.

My sister
and I played dress-up.
Our mother ​took
​photographs.

And then
they hung in my
attic for over a decade...
until ​it was time to
let ​them live
​again.

Some
went to our
local theater company
and others went to goodwill.
A few stayed behind
though, because,
well, they just
​needed
​to.

How could
I resist those colors,
textures and the spirit of my
grandmother?

Well...
Not exactly me.
But what
if...

I'm a mender
(see last week's blog
post), not a maker or re-maker, but
maybe there was a costume designer with
the imagination I needed to help
re-create these in my
own image?

What a 
gift to have an
energetic, creative
person who loves fiber
come to my house and lovingly
​transform a complicated fabric into the 
coolest pair of 'retro' trousers
​a gal could own.

Gram must 
approve, because I feel
her spirit when I wear her re-imagined
evening gowns, which now contain Rebecca's energy
as well. Stay tuned for our next shared
​creation...It seems that
patience pays.