Is God in My Compost?

      My gardening and green practices have earned me a reputation. I've been called crunchy and a tree hugger. I was once called an (gasp) environmentalist, and it wasn't meant as a compliment. A colleague once suggested that if I spent less time gardening I would have more time for my professional work. That, I took as an insult. What some might be surprised to know, however, is that my green living is really more of a spiritual practice.
    I belong to a Covenant Group in the Wesleyan tradition, and while I am not very good about practicing acts of devotion such as Bible reading and focused prayer, I choose spiritual practices such as communing with nature, meditation outdoors and contemplative presence. There is nowhere I feel more connected to God than out in my garden, pulling the weeds from my garden and from my soul. Since Earth Day also happens to fall on Good Friday this year, during Holy Week, I thought it was an appropriate time to share something I wrote for my church newsletter several years ago.

Is God In My Compost Pile?

              During Lent, a visiting pastor spoke at our church about the cycle of death and rebirth in nature each Spring, which symbolizes the dark, reflective time of Lent and the resurrection of Jesus at Easter.  After the service, I confessed to the pastor, “The only peace I’ve had this week was when I was turning my compost pile!”  The clean, earthy smell of decomposing leaves, grass and table scraps always invigorates me, as I think of the flavorful, organic fruits and vegetables I will harvest from my garden.

            Spring garden chores have continued to keep me busy, even as my thoughts have turned more contemplative.  Building my compost pile, I’ve decided, is much like building my faith.  See, the thing about compost is that in order to break down plants and other organic matter, you need the right ingredients.  Too much brown stuff like leaves and the pile doesn’t do much; too much green stuff like grass clippings and the pile heats up into a stinky, slimy mess. 

            If the brown stuff and the green stuff are added in good proportion though, the whole pile heats up to an amazing 120 degrees or more and the microorganisms begin to do their work.  But don’t think you can just sit back and wait.  When left alone for too long, the pile starts to cool down.  Unless you stir your compost, adding air and moisture to the organisms within, the pile will become cold and “passive.”  A properly tended compost pile, on the other hand, takes waste and turns it into life-nurturing food for plants.

            Composting symbolizes our spiritual growth, which is in part a process of deconstructing or breaking down the stuff of life that separates us from God.  If we give over all of our stuff (in good proportion) to God’s compost pile, we have begun the journey toward our new life.  As the journey continues, if we fail to reflect, to stir things over in our minds and hearts, and to turn over to God the elements of life that need to be broken down, then our spiritual lives become passive as well.

            Like being a Christian, composting is a discipline.  While I’ve always liked the idea of getting something for free, I don’t always have the energy for the strenuous process of turning my 64 cubic foot pile.  Similarly, the process of spiritual growth sometimes feels inconvenient because it is a lot of hard work.  Why can’t I just turn everything over to God and be done with it!

            Perhaps the reward is in the process.  As the waste of our lives is added to our spiritual pile, the old worries break down, become unrecognizable and become the fertilizer that nurtures us.  Every mistake, every trial, every hurt we add after that is likewise transformed through God and only adds to the richness of our faith.  God IS in my compost pile!

Strawberries Are In Bloom!

Despite endless rain, early season warmth followed by frustrating, dreary, cool, sunless weather, the strawberries are in bloom! My garden journal indicates that I just may set another record for the start of my harvest. First quart was picked May 14th in 2008, May 22nd in 2009, and May 8th in 2010. We'll see if I can top 83 quarts this year--from three 4x8 raised beds, mind you.

I still have quite a few pints of strawberry jam left, and about a dozen bags of frozen whole berries. What will I do with more? Maybe I should go into competition with my Amish neighbors and start selling them! I can underbid $5.00 a quart.

Potatoes and onions are in; lettuce, spinach, greens and peas are up; tomato, basil and peppers are tiny but growing inside under lights. Hens have cleared the garden in preparation for a dose of mushroom soil and a quick turn under before planting.

So why is it I still feel like I am behind?

We're Expecting!

   I know what you're thinking: we're crazy. We already have too much on our hands. But I have begun thinking that two just is not enough. After all, pretty soon they will be out of the "nest" and then what will we do? My motherly instincts kicked in this spring and I found myself preoccupied with babies. So I am pleased to announce that sometime around April 27th, we will become the proud parents of just-hatched Black Australorps and Barred Plymouth Rocks.

Barred Plymouth Rock

     They weren't my first choice. I wanted Buff Orpingtons and Silver Laced Wyandottes. For a while, I thought about Speckled Sussex. In the end, I had to decide on breeds that were available at the same time as the broilers I was ordering. The white broilers will mature in about 8 weeks, which is just before we go on vacation. As usual, I am behind.

Black Australorps

     Plymouth Rocks were the traditional breed on Delmarva farms before the broiler industry revved up in the 1930s. My Delaware chickens are a cross between Barred Rocks and, improbably, red-feathered New Hampshires. (See my blog entry "Chapter One: My Chicks Are Born" describing these breeds). Black Australorps are actually an Australian breed, known for laying even in hot weather and for their luminous black feathers. They are also hardy in winter. My only other requirements were that they lay brown eggs, are productive and are "heavy breeds." I don't want them to get beat up by my other hens.
   I am worried whether we have enough room for more chickens, and how I will find the time to care for them and raise them right. But like any other parent, I will do the best I can and try to focus on the joy they bring me--not to mention the eggs.

Fresh Eggs, From a Cage Near You

 Photo by CA4A.org from TEACHKIND.org

     Last night, at an ISE egg farm not five miles away from my home, an estimated 300,000 chickens were killed as the result of an accidental fire that burned for over 3 hours. Ten fire companies responded to a blaze exacerbated by 20 mph winds with gusts up to 45 mph. Residents 10 or 15 miles north of the fire reported smelling the odor. Several years ago, there was a a fire at a nearby horse barn and seven horses were killed. It was a tragic loss, devastating to the owner and heart-wrenching to imagine how the animals suffered. Initial reports about last night's fire did not include the number of chickens housed at the facility. Perhaps that information was not yet released by ISE, perhaps it was not considered an important detail.
    Several people on Facebook and in the Delaware NewsJournal joked about the death of the chickens, making comments about barbecue sauce and fried chicken. You get the idea. There are idiots everywhere, I know. I wasn't surprised. I did shake my head, however, at what appeared to be a sincere comment: "I hope they got all the chickens out safely." Clearly, this reader is totally disconnected with the way in which poultry and eggs are raised today.
    You all know where I'm going with this, so I will preface this by being the first to admit that I am not a vegetarian or vegan, not all of my food is certified organic/humane/cruelty free/etc., and I personally don't have THE solution on how to feed the world using only humane, sustainable methods. My chickens are not pets and I have no desire to carry them around and stroke them like a puppy. When they get old and stop laying, I may not keep them around. Just last week, I wondered if I was going to have to "cull" (kill) one of my hens because she was sick, rather than contaminate the entire henhouse or use antibiotics to treat her. I believe, at least until I get better information, that sometimes it is necessary to kill a bird rather than compromise the whole flock. Someday soon, I will share my story of treating a hen for bumblefoot last summer. She survived, but I can understand why farmers are not always able to treat individual hens.
     My criticism is with the processes involved in factory farming, techniques that are both horrifying and arguably counterproductive, compromising the health of the hens and the eggs.  In 2001, the Washington Post conducted an investigation into the ISE facility here in Cecil County and found thousands of chickens crowded into cages, missing feathers, caught in the cage wire unable to access food. Hens in battery cages suffer severe stress and often must be debeaked to prevent them from pecking each other. Disease thrives in crowded conditions, so the birds must be administered antibiotics and are exposed to pesticides. While the industry "recommends" each hen be allowed about 8x9 inches of space, some groups allege that hens are given as little as 6x6 inches of space. Twenty-five percent of the hens die during their 18-month lifespan, and there are no regulations about how the survivors are killed at the end of this time. Studies have shown that raising chickens in battery cages increases the risk of Salmonella infection in the hens and  their eggs.

Photo by CA4A.org from TEACHKIND.org

        At the time of the Post investigation, a company representative said, "We use normal industry practices." Undoubtedly, this is true. While animal cruelty is against the law, exemption is made for “customary and normal … agricultural husbandry practices." Standards we might consider cruel are rarely prosecuted. The egg industry argues that battery cages are healthier for chickens and eggs, because the birds are protected from germs and from eating their own droppings. If the chickens were not healthy, they argue, they would not be productive. Techniques for maintaining productivity include providing artificial light and forced molting, not to mention more than a century of breeding. What are the reasonable limits when it comes to enhancing productivity? The answer likely is different for each food consumer.
    There is no substitute for raising an animal--or growing a crop for that matter--to help you understand the challenges of farming. I try to follow the standards for Organic Poultry Production outlined by the National Sustainable Agriculture Information service. I've had to make a few compromises. Organic chicken feed is not readily available, so I use a vegetarian feed with no antibiotics or other chemicals added. Many organic farmers aim for 1.5 square feet of space per bird, not including outdoor "free range" access. Simple observation has taught me, and poultry experts agree, that when chickens are crowded they will lay fewer eggs--and extreme cases experience much higher mortality. Confined to their small yard during bad weather or when we are away, there is a noticeable drop off in the number of eggs. The coop smells worse, the buildup of droppings is harder to maintain and the chickens basically look miserable. I can't imagine them spending their whole lives that way.
   Years ago, I toured some broiler industry facilities from hatchery to processing plant. That is definitely a story for another blog, but I can tell you that I was impressed as well as concerned. I am not here to tell anyone what to do or what kind of eggs to buy, but the general public's growing disconnect with how our food is grown and processed is disturbing to me. When I talk about slaughtering a few of my chickens or how my local beef is processed, some people stop me by saying, "I don't want to know, I just want to eat it." Until we all demand to know just what goes into our food, and how the animals we eat are raised, industrial, "factory" farms will go on doing whatever they are allowed to do to boost productivity. As consumers, we are partly to blame. We choose to support these practices with our money.
    Switzerland has banned battery cages since 1992. The European Union has outlawed the use of battery cages after 2012. In the United States, California was the first state to outlaw battery cages; the law will not take effect until 2015. Several food chains have pledged to use "cage free" eggs. There are no other laws in the works. Is this good enough for you?

Woodsmen

     Saturdays in the spring and fall during my childhood were frequently spent in the woods, helping my parents and brother cut firewood. Dad had permission from the landowner to cut fallen hardwoods from the thicket of vines and briars that are the hallmark of Delmarva pine forests. This wasn't always the case. Ecological history tells us that the forests along the Atlantic coast once boasted old-growth trees so large that they shaded out most undergrowth. A man could ride through the woods at a full gallop.
    In the corner of these woods was a vaguely beaten trail that ran from the farm road behind the line of houses in the town of Church Creek, to Brannock's Neck Road about a quarter of a mile away, which then ran down to the water. Legend says that in colonial days, some gentleman met his demise there while on a late night ride. Dorchester County folklore keeper Tom Flowers--the "Old Honker"--first introduced me to the story of the "Ghost of Tick's Path." I can no longer remember the details of the story, but with a thrilling sense of dread and delight, I used to imagine I could hear the hooves of Tick's horse as I pushed the wheelbarrow full of logs along the path in the woods.
   The scents and sounds of those days in the woods still captivate me, from the sputtering buzz of the chainsaw and the oily smoke coming from its motor, to the musty, earthy smell of the leaves and the tentative twittering of the startled birds. When Dad cut off the chainsaw, the quiet dropped like a blanket except for the sound of the wind rocking the tops of the tall pines and the crunching of the leaves beneath our feet. I did my share of the work, but I am eight years younger than my brother and had the luxury of sensing it all.
   We continue to burn wood as our primary heat, and so spend our fair share of Saturdays cutting wood. Sadly, we usually do not cut in the woods. A neighbor or family member often has a tree that has fallen, and we are more than happy to clean it up and take the wood. We have spent the last 15 years slowing taking down the gum and "trash" trees in the hedgerow along our property, making way for pin oaks. It remains a family affair.
   My brother, who doesn't have a woodstove, often 'invites' us down to cut wood and performs more than a fair share of the labor. A good deal for us, but what's in it for him? I suspect he too has fond memories of weekends in the woods, and a love of being outdoors working. So it was that I found myself down in Dorchester County this weekend, trying to cut up the remnants of a 170 year old cherry tree on the waterfront property belonging to my brother Jim's friend. The base of the tree was probably six-feet in diameter, but hollow in the center. It had come down last year, fortunately missing the house. A giant hornet's nest was inside, but winter took care of that.
   We had cut and split the two-foot pieces of log last month, but Jim and my husband seemed determined to tackle the trunk, cutting through half of the massive base and then splitting it off with wedges. It seemed like a difficult way to get firewood, but I suspect it presented a bit of a manly challenge. As always, everyone had a job. I do not use the chainsaw--sharp moving tools and I have a bad history--but I haul and stack and do whatever else is needed. I do like to split nice dry wood, but this cherry was so old and tough, it almost seemed petrified. It was futile to try to split it without a wedge, although my 72-year old mother insisted on trying and so I felt compelled to attempt a few also.

   It was a strange day. A sudden burst of rain forced us to quit an hour after arriving. We loaded up some unsplit logs and retreated back to my parents' house. An hour later, it cleared and we returned to try chiseling off some more of the giant log. The sky grew dark over the river again and I looked over at my son, my husband, my brother and my father: my son fearlessly handling a maul; my husband on top of the trunk, silhouetted against the swirling gray clouds; my brother wielding a chainsaw; my father standing alongside the tree. The four most important men in my life. Woodsmen. It was an unexpected moment and I realized that what moved me was not nature. Cutting firewood may seem like an odd family tradition, but it is ours.