The Compost of the Soul
Sue: “You know, Bruce, I was out the back turning the compost this morning, and I thought, this is exactly what life feels like sometimes.”
Bruce: “Hot, messy, and full of old rubbish?”
Sue: laughs “Exactly. All the scraps and peelings, the bits we’d rather forget. But given enough time, they turn into something good.”
Bruce: “Yeah, I’ve noticed that. The stuff I thought was useless, mistakes, regrets, old fears, somehow softens over the years. Like the rough bits break down.”
Sue: “That’s grace doing her slow work, love. She doesn’t rush. She just keeps turning the pile till it changes shape.”
There’s something sacred about compost.
It’s resurrection in slow motion. Everything that dies or decays becomes the soil for what’s next. Nothing is wasted, not the failures, not the grief, not even the bits of ourselves we’d rather hide.
The mystics understood this long before we gave it a name. They called it the dark night, or the hidden work of love. It’s the time when nothing seems to grow on the surface, but underneath, the soil is becoming rich enough to hold new life.
Bruce: “So what you’re saying, Sue, is that even the bad stuff’s got a purpose?”
Sue: “Oh yes. Even the smelly stuff. Especially that. The soul’s compost bin holds it all, the losses, the shame, the unmet dreams. Give it a little air, a little patience, and the Spirit will turn it into nourishment.”
Bruce: “That’s all very well till someone starts stirring it. Then everything starts to stink.”
Sue: “True. Transformation’s not tidy. But the smell means it’s working.”
In a world obsessed with appearances, the spiritual life is more like tending compost than polishing glass. It’s not about being pure, it’s about being real. The goal isn’t perfection; it’s participation in the quiet cycle of decay and renewal that runs through all creation.
The mystic path doesn’t skip the mess. It blesses it.
And maybe that’s what the whole journey is: learning to trust that the breakdown is not the end, it’s the beginning of fertile soil.
Bruce: “Well, Sue, that’s the first time I’ve been grateful for the smell of last week’s pumpkin.”
Sue: “Same here, love. Turns out the Holy Spirit’s got a great nose for compost.”
A Blessing for the Compost Heap
May the soil of your soul be soft and deep.
May the scraps of your story feed the roots of tomorrow.
And when life turns everything over,
may you find the holy warmth rising from beneath,
the quiet sign that grace is at work.