"When one tugs at a single thing in nature, one finds it attached to the rest of the world." John Muir
I have had the same compost bin since 1999.
It’s just a rectangular piece of hardware cloth shaped into a cylinder with the
ends twisted together. Each spring and fall I untwist the ends and form a new
cylinder next to where the old one was and transfer the contents with a pitchfork. Each time I
turn it I’m greeted by a nest of mice, a few snakes and of course a bunch of bugs.
An open bin means birds
and whatever else eat from the compost sometimes litter the yard with food they weren’t quite able to make off with. It also means occasionally
dumping kitchen scraps on an opossum. Nothing’s quite as startling at seeing a furry
white face peering at you in the dark. Sometimes I’m so startled I fling the
compost at them. They don’t move. They actually play possum.
For years my backyard has been an unruly gnarl of weeds and invasive vines. I want to upgrade to a composting tumbler because changing the way I compost is phase one
of my backyard renovations. I am determined to
beautify it.
A friend gave me a two-barreled
tumbler that I spent a June morning transferring compost into. When I got near
the bottom of my old pile, I heard something scurry away. As I shoveled
decaying matter-leaves, rotting vegetables, paper napkins-into the tumblers, I
happened to shovel in a bright pink something. I took a closer look.
It was five baby mice, no more than a day or two old. Pink as new erasers, blind,
furless, all huddled together, straining their tiny heads around, shivering. I
could almost see their hearts pounding through their translucent skin.
I called for my seven-year-old, who would
be enthralled with their discovery. She came running over and asked me to put
them in her hands. No easy task since suddenly my hands seemed huge and
potentially harmful to their delicate skin and sheer smallness. She held them
for a long time asking questions. Where
is their mom, can we keep them, can we keep just one, why are they furless, where
will they live now, why are their eyes closed, can we keep one, why are they
clumped together, when will they look like mice, why can’t they crawl, can we
keep one, are they cold, why are they shivering, do they need to nurse, can we
keep one.
She then wanted to build a
little nest for them. In the compost pile she found an avocado shell,
relatively intact and lined it with fresh dirt, nestled the babies into it then
blanketed them with orange lily petals. She wanted to keep them overnight. Just one night, maybe just one of them, can we sleep out here with them, can we keep one. I told her
the mom was nearby watching and waiting for us to leave so she could get them.
We found a leafy sheltered place near the old compost pile and we left the
little avocado lifeboat.
I am grateful for my daughter’s
curiosity regarding the mice and the tenderness with which she handled them.
I’m grateful she didn't recoil at their appearance. I'm grateful she had the opportunity to interact with nature in a way most of us normally don't get to.
Maybe the scurrying I had heard earlier
was the mom abandoning her collapsing home. Or maybe the mamma mouse was indeed nearby watching and took them by the nape one by one to a new nest. But I suspect
they perished or were eaten by something else, as is the way of things.
Even if I’d kept the compost pile as is, who’s to say these mice wouldn’t have grown up and found their way into the mouth of something bigger or to a trap in someone’s home, as is also the way of things.
For 16 years, I had unwittingly
provided a little world for some creatures. It contained biodiversity and
everything these particular mammals needed to live. But just as unwittingly, I
demolished that world, 'improving' my backyard.
Each day I interact with nature in ways
I’m completely unaware of. May I bring awareness to these interactions. May I also bring
curiosity and tenderness, like my daughter.
May this underscore my relationship to all beings around me.
Amen
ReplyDelete