Adventures in Urban Composting.

     Each time I try and sneak an apple core into my trash bin, the haunting words of Farmer David Brown echo through my brain: Don't call yourself an environmentalist if you don't compost.

At the time, I was a farm apprentice at Hay House Farm, a small, sustainable farm on the Connecticut shoreline. As farm apprentice, part of my reponsibility was to make sure every single shred of organic waste ended up as compost; compost was an integral part of creating the healthy and abundant vegetables and flowers that we sold at the farmer's market weekly.

Each morning I woud set out with a cart full of compost materials: food scraps from our delicious meals, the leftovers from restaurant kitchen scraps used to feed the chickens, hair cut remains from one of the adorable Lhasa apso dogs that followed us around the farm. I would haul the materials to one of the chicken coops and, amidst a flurry of squacking hens, dig a sizeable hole in the dirt floor of the coop, burying it all. A few weeks later, when I went to turn and aerate the chicken coop floor, I would be amazed to find the majority of my piles aleady decomposed. Periodically throughout the season, we would dig out the chicken coops and add to the large piles of compost that we used to feed the gardens. This was my first lesson in the cyclical beauty of composting.

So, what exactly is composting? Put simply, composting is the decomposition of organic material; when we gather our carbon and nitrogen filled organic waste- kitchen scraps, leaves, grass etc.- and create an ideal environment for decomposition, tiny microorganisms feed on the waste and break it down into its simpliest parts. The product is a fiber-rich hummus, filled with inorganic nutrients (nitrogen, phosphorus, potassium) that is perfect for feeding vegetable and flower gardens. For us crazy gardeners, compost is like gold.

The microorganisms responsible for this amazing alchemy have a few requirements. First of all, because they break material down through aerobic respiration (are you having flashbacks to highschool biology?) they require adequate amounts of oxygen. Turning the compost pile regularly is enough to give the little buggers plenty of 02. Without oxygen, the decomposition process turns anaerobic, otherwise known as fermentation (think swamp). If your compost pile begins to reek, you probably aren't turning your pile enough. A well aerated compost pile does not smell!!!

A successful compost pile also needs adequate water (but not too much!) and the proper ratio of carbon to nitrogen. Compostable materials are divided into two categories, green materials and brown materials. Green compost materials (kitchen scraps, grass clippings, dead house plants) are high in nitrogen whereas brown compost materials (dried leaves, twigs, pine needles) are high in carbon. The organisms that decompose organic material use carbon for energy and nitrogen to produce new cells at a ratio of about 30 C to 1 N. Too much green materials in your compost pile, and the organisms emit excess nitrogen as stinky ammonia, or NH3. Too much carbon-filled brown compost, and the decomposition process slows drastically, as the organisms do not have adequate nitrogen to grow their colony.

So, why should you give a shit if you aren't growing anything? Composting isn't only for gardeners and farmers. Anyone who cares about the earth should be educated about the environmental benefits of composting their organic waste. Currently, at least 25% of our landfills are comprised of food waste and yard waste. Because of the lack of oxygen in a landfill, the decomposition of organic material becomes anaerobic. This means that large amounts of methane gas (CH4), a greenhouse gas that, according to the EPA, is "over 20 times more effective at trapping heat in the atmosphere than carbon dioxide", is emitted into the atmosphere due to organic waste being thrown into landfills. Not great. And although trapping methane gas from landfills to use as energy is the newest craze, i personally think that keeping food and yard waste out of landfills and using it to make rich soil that can replenish the earth seems a tad more sane. But that's just me.

Check out the EPA's website http://www.epa.gov/osw/conserve/rrr/composting/benefits.htmers for more reasons to compost.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


So, just when I was feeling pretty smug about my self-proclaimed environmentalist status, my idealic days at Hay House Farm came to an end and I moved to Boston. It was time to see what I was really made of; my adventures in urban composting began.

Over the past 5 years of urban living, I have tried it all. When I initially moved to Boston, I worked as a professional landscaper. I brought my compost to work in a tuberware and tossed it into the piles of yardwaste that we composted at a local farm. I'll admit it- kind of ridiculous. When I moved to Cambridge and left my landscaping job, I attempted to use a shoddy compost bin in my backyard. My landlord was quick to veto that idea; I didn't really blame him.


I soon discovered the Cambridge 'food scraps drop-off' initiative. I'd bring my kitchen scraps in a bucket during the drop-off hours and I could sleep easy knowing that they were not sitting in a landfill turning to methane. Phew. And now, living in Providence I am lucky to be only blocks away from Whole Foods, where a nice compost bin stands at the entrance awaiting me and my smelly compost.  Whole Foods has made considerable efforts to compost nationwide- check it out:

                              http://blog.wholefoodsmarket.com/2009/01/composting/

Starting my own gardening business has brought on the additional responsibility of composting yard waste at a larger scale. One day, I hope to run a small, sustainable farm- much like Hay House- where i can compost on premises and use that to feed the many garden's I care for. But for now, running my small business quite unglamorously out of my urban apartment means paying someone else to take my yard waste, letting them turn it into compost, and then buying it back later on to then feed a client's garden. Only in the city. On a more positive note, several of my more rurally located clients decided to start their own composting efforts in their backyards; nothing makes me happier than passing the torch of environmental stewardship.  

So, do I compost every single shred of organic remains that crosses the threshhold of my apartment? Not exactly. But I do make a conscious decision to do the best I can and, for the most part, my rotten leftovers and banana peels end up as compost feeding someone's garden. So, until the day that I'm out of the city and can easily walk out my backdoor to compost, I just remember that every tiny effort to be environmentally conscious, as tedious and smelly as it may be, is an act of gratitude and respect for our lovely momma earth.

Dropping of landscape waste to be composted at a small farm in Weston, MA

 Compost pile behind my humble abode in Costa Rica.

Lovely compost bins at Whole Foods make life for the urban composter a little easier.

Why Do I Garden?

     I always worshipped nature, but certainly was not always a gardener. It always felt good to have my hands covered in dirt, but it was many years until I came to fully understand the innate, creative power contained in the rich soil between my fingers.

Besides from a few vegetable plants and the much loved house- plants in my home growing up, my passion for gardening went largely undiscovered until my early twenties, during the time I refer to lovingly as my spiritual crisis.

Immediately after college, my interest in holistic health, a deep longing for personal/spiritual growth and some much appreciated divine intervention, led me to Portland, Oregon and the National College of Naturopathic Medicine. I enrolled in a four-year, Masters of Science program in Chinese Medicine. I found myself swirling and spinning in the knowledge of the ancient Daoists, learning a medicine and way of being that was based largely on living in accordance with nature. I dove head first into a path of inner cultivation, personal healing and self-growth. With everything I thought I knew challenged, I struggled to assimiliate into my being this new way of understanding myself and my world.

And then it hit me. My spiritual crisis. As anyone dedicated  to conscious living understands, growth isn't always pretty. 

As I began to shed layers of old patterns, stale thinking, and limiting beliefs, I exposed parts of myself that prefered to remain hidden. Long neglected physical and emotional injuries, years of body image and food related issues, unfelt emotions. All bubbling to the surface, wanting love and attention, refusing to be numbed anymore. And while I continued to sit everyday in class, my head filling with more and more amazing knowledge, all I really wanted was to stop thinking. All I really needed was to get out of my head and into my body. Into my heart. I knew that the only way I could become the effective holistic healer that my long and expensive education was gearing me towards was to first take time to love and heal myself.

Not suprisingly, I was craving the feeling of physical, outdoor work. Having been in school for the past 18 years, I wanted time to reconnect with the non-cerebral parts of myself. I wanted to completely understand the Daoist teachings. It wasn't enough to read that certain organ systems corresponded energetically to different seasons; I wanted to viscerally experience these energies. I did not want to think, I wanted to really know.

Several months later, after much agonizing soul searching, I found myself, clad in work boots and overalls, surrounded by the beautiful gardens of Hay House Farm in Old Saybrook, Connecticut. I had been hired by the amazing artist and farmer David Brown, to be his seasonal garden apprentice for the next nine months. That was just the beginning...

So why do I garden? I garden because with every seed I plant, with every plant I love, with every banana peel I dump into my compost pile, I am paying hommage to this earth. I garden because it keeps me healthy and strong and allows me to love and respect my body in a way that no other form of physical excercise does. I garden because the brilliance of a summer perennial garden can keep me inspired for days. I garden because growing my own food has taught me to honor my meals as sacred nourishment, and not just calories to be calculated. I garden professionally because I so desperately want to share the full, feathery beauty of a peony or the pure amazingness of a cucumber dangling from its delicate, prickly vine.

And there are times when I feel lost. Questioning, seeking and aching. So, I garden because I don't know what else to do.

                                                            I heal myself with my gardens.

Sunrise 18

I spent some time in NYC this past week and I was lucky enough to paint another sunrise from the South Seaport. It felt so nice to be awake and painting at such a still time in the city, before the crowds started rushing to work. Surrounded by several qi gongers on the end of the dock, I painted the sun rise over the Brooklyn Bridge.

Sunrise 17

This sunrise was another sunburst from the Quincy Shore. I painted the sun once it rose a little higher in the sky, as it shed a glowing yellow onto the water below it. I painted this very quickly, and then just sat and bathed in the light for another half hour or so.

Sunrise 16

Another still morning on the reservoir and I added the last layer to the painting I had been working on.

Sunrise 15

Sitting on the dock at the Seaport in NYC. Amazing view of the sunrise lighting up the buildings and Brooklyn Bridge.

Sunrise 14

My sunrises aren't going to be consequetive, but they will happen, 49 in all. Here is another beautiful sunrise from the Quincy shoreline.



"Sunrise 14" - acrylic, colored pencil on canvas paper.

Sunrise 13

As I was heading out the door to walk to my usual sunrise painting spot in Higganum CT, I was struck by the feeling of the morning air. With the days and days of rain, the air felt completely saturated... extremely charged and intense. It was still about 15 minutes before the sunrise and the sky was a powerful shade of glowing gray/blue/white. The black trees against the sky created such a beautiful contrast, that I decided to just sit down right there and paint this simple scene. Chestnut tree against wet sky.

The air felt so charged that the space around each tree was electric. I felt like I could see the atoms vibrating around the branches. I sat there as the sky gradually lightened.

Correction: el amanecer. Sunrise 12 = Sunrise 7 part 2

I was informed that my spelling of Spanish sunrise with incorrect. Thanks Kerri :)

For Sunrise 12, I returned to the reservoir with Sunrise 7. It had been raining for days; I sat next to the raging waterfall and painted. Despite the fury of the waterfall, the lake remained as still and silent as ever, giving nothing away.

I am facing southeastish as I paint this scene. The sun, rising in the east, illuminates the sky in the southeast and then reflects into the lake. It's pretty spectacular.

I failed to bring the majority of my paint tubes with me. Again. So, I used the limited palette to add another layer to the painting. In actuality, the scene was much mistier, much grayer. So, I will return to this painting again to add the final detail.

Full Moon.

It is the night of the Full Moon. Just as the New Moon is a perfect time to bring new intentions, ideas, and projects into our lives, the Full Moon is a good time to let things go that no longer serve us. I like to imagine old and hindering patterns slowly dissolve away with the waning of the moon. This evening, I sat for a bit and thought about what I need to let go of this month.

I always feel especcially connected and energized by the Full Moon. In its honor, I attached some pieces of mine that I created by the light of la Luna in years past.

"Message in the NorthWest Night" - Colored Pencil, acrylic, paper, stitching on Cardboard.

"Moon Tree"- Acrylic, colored pencil, paper, cardboard, stitching, moonlight, on canvas

I really wanted 'Moon Tree' to capture the energy of the moon, so over the many months that I created this piece, I would place the layers of the painting on the roof of my house to sit under the ligt of the full moon. After they spent some good time outside, I would add the layers to the painting.

Almencer. Sunrise 10 and 11

Sunrise in Spanish. My dear friend Kyle who has been frolicking around South America for the past three months taught me that.


"Sunrise 11" - Acrylic and colored pencil on canvas paper

Im not a huge fan of this sunrise painting for some reason. I think it feels a little too dainty. Anyway, the sun started initially as a red fire ball right behind the harbor islands. Then, as it rose, it turned into a glowing yellow, casting a yellow light on the water and the sky.

'Sunrise 10' - Acrylic, colored pencil, paper towel (yes, paper towel) and tisue paper on cavas paper.

A sunrise from another one of our many rainy spring days from last week. I was feeling the need for some texture. I put some paper towel and tissue paper into the painting, and then covered them with layers of paint. Sometimes I do that; I use whatever materials I have disposable and see what happens when I incorporate them into my work.

Sunrise 9

Sunrise 9: another calm and cloudy sunrise from earlier in the week. The ocean reflected a cool shade of green this morning instead of the usual dark/gray/blue/green. I wonder why?

Sunrise 9: acrylic, colored pencil on canvas paper.

I'm running a little behind on posting my sunrises. I will take some time today later today to catch up. I don't have my camera with me, so I will need to get the paintings scanned.

Little by little the sunrise is coming earlier. The days are getting longer. Waking up for the sunrise each morning is balancing my internal clock. Prior to this little experiment, I was awake far too late into the night. Even if my eyes and body were tired, my mind wouldn't turn off. To make up for the late nights, I would sleep later in the morning. And the cycle would just keep going.

Now that I am waking up early to greet the sun, I am finding it much easier fall asleep at night. After a full and long day, my mind is quiet. I feel aligned, once again, with the natural energetic cycle of day and night.

Strawberries.

Making room for my asparagus neccesitated transplanting some new strawberry plants that took it apon themselves to spread over into another bed. I dug out this whole pile of new plants and transplanted them to a better home. Yehaw. This means even more delicous and juicy berries this summer. And of course some delicious strawberry jam.

I started this strawberry bed several years ago. Taking a few stragglers from the Hay House Farm, I basically just threw them in the ground let them do their thang. Year after year, the plants have thrived and multiplied.

Strawberries spread by runners; they have a very horizontal orientation, sending shoots, or runners, out in all directions. The runners then root into the ground and a new little plant pops up. Pretty fantastic. This original strawberry bed of mine is getting pretty crowded, and if I were a better gardener, I would already have a few different beds established, trimming the runner's off the plants each season and spreading them into different beds. But, I'm not a better gardener, and at this point in my life i don't have the acres of land that I am determined to get my mitts on eventually.

Strawberries are easy to transplant. Just cut the runner and move the new plant wherever it needs to go. However (this is important), when planting strawberries, you have to make sure the crown of the plant is above the soil level or the plant will rot. Not good. The crown is just the top of the root system, pretty easy to discern. It's a big bump at the top of the roots and at the bottom of the leaves. Oh, and you'll most likely have to cover your strawberries with some type of netting. Birds and beasts alike will try to beat you to your berries if you give them a chance.

Sunrise 8

A drizzly morning and another wet painting. I appreciated the simplicity of the foggy beachscape this morning; it felt calming and peaceful....quite different from the fire and briliance of last week's sunrises. Trying to capture those extreme scenes left me feeling a little frantic.

I crave these cool, drizzley days in early spring. They remind me of my time living in the Pacific Northwest. On days like this it feels good to allow for a little melancholy, a little indoor quiet time with too many mugs of coffee.... maybe even a nap.

"Sunrise 8" - Acrylic on paper.

Sunrise 7

Another morning at the reservoir, this time facing southeastish. I wanted to get a different perspective. Again, I only painted the backdrop for this painting. I will need another morning to complete it.

I used pinks and reds for the base layer. When I add the next layer of more accurate colors to the sky, trees and lake, the bright pink/red will glow subtley through. This creates a sense of light in the painting.

I won't be returning to the reservoir for another week or so, so I will finish this little painting at that time.

"Sunrise 7 (part 1)" - Acrylic on paper.

Asparagus

Asparagus rocks my world. Shooting straight up from the ground in early spring, it reaches towards the sky and announces the beginning of the food growing season in New England.

Several years ago, when I apprenticed at Hay House Organic Farm in Old Saybrook, CT, my favorite April task was to harvest the asparagus so that we could eat delicious asparagus and cilantro omellettes for lunch. Yummmm. I have been seriously desiring my own asparagus bed ever since.

Asparagus is a tricky perennial veggie to grow, taking 2-3 years of tenderness and lovin' before you can harvest. But, once the bed is established, you will have the delicious green stalks for years to come.



This year, I was determined to start my own (small) asparagus bed, so I ordered crowns which arrived at my doorstep last week. They were just the cutest little buggers; the crowns are simply the root system of a one year old plant. Starting with the crown is easier than starting the plant from seed and allows you to start harvesting the shoots a year earlier.

I was so nervous to put the crowns into the ground this early in the season; they looked so vulnerable and it is still cold. Since they are dormant, they are supposed to be able to handle some spring frost. So, I dug two 15" trenches, 4 feet apart. I put some homemade compost at the bottom, and made little mounds 12 inches apart from eachother. I drapped each root system over a mound. I tucked them in with about 2" inches of soil, and wished them luck. As they grow, I will continue to add soil until the trench is even.



Asparagus roots and my roots.

TU GU NA XIN: Spitting out the old, Taking in the New.

"Sunrise 6 (Sunrise 5, part 2)" - Vernal Equinox. Acrylic and colored pencil on paper.

Today is the first day of spring, the day of the vernal equinox. The sun positions itself directly above the earth's equator and Night and Day are equal in length. From this day forward until September 22, the light will take a larger share of our days than the dark.

This morning I finished the sunrise painting that I began yesterday. The sun rose more colorfully this morning, casting a clear golden light on the surrounding hills. It reflected more brightly in the still water and seemed to dispel some of the lake's mystery.

I am intending to maintain a daily qi gong practice to accompany my 49 days of sunrise paintings. Today, on this first day of spring, I find it particularly appropriate to practice the Tu Gu Na Xin (Spit out the old, take in the New) 4 direction meditation passed on to me by a dear teacher Master Zhongxian Wu. Starting with the East, the direction of spring wood, I breathe in the energy from each of the four directions and also from the earth's center. I breathe out any stagnant, unneeded energy from the various systems of my body. And I am ready for spring.

Sunrise 5 Part 1

This morning, nestled in the hills of the Connecticut River Valley, I sat on a slope beside the Higganum Reservoir and painted the sunrise peeking over the sleepy hills.

It was quite nice to share the early morning hours with the resevoir, an old friend whom I have known since the carefree adolescent days of highschool when my sweetie and i would escape school early to go ropeswinging off its steep edges.

I was only able to capture on canvas paper the first layer of this sunrise. The backdrop needed to dry before I added any more paint, so I put the painting aside and sat with the steaming and mysterious lake in silence and watched the sky lighten. Tomorrow I will return to this same painting and add the next layer of detail.

Sunrise 4

It was a mad dash to the shore this morning. Due to the loud, St. Patrick's day antics of my rowdy roommates, I barely slept and didn't wake to my alarm. Although I didn't get to experience the inital shift from dark to light, I did make it to the beach in time to see the rising sun. And it was amazing.



"Sunrise 4" - Acrylic on canvas

Sunrise 3

The sun rose so brilliantly this morning that I abandoned my brush at several points; I needed to be still to take in it's full, dazzling effect. It was humbling. For about 20 minutes before the sun appeared, the sky was a firey, blazing orange. It's energy was reflected like flames scattered throughout the water. I was somewhat struggling to adequately set the scene, when the sun suddenly appeared between the harbor islands: an intense, glowing, blinding ball of fire. As it rose, the water exploded into a rainbow of colors.

This artistic process is new and difficult for me. My tendency to create laboriously and neurotically must be abandoned. The shifting energy doesn't placate my need for perfection; it doesn't pause so I can obsessively revisit each minute detail of my work. The building momentum and eventual overturn into lightness is quick, and I must surrender if I hope to capture even a fraction of its beauty.

Pretty darn appropriate that such a firey sunrise should announce the arrival of St. Patty's Day.

"Sunrise 3" - Acrylic, colored pencil, paper, Lucky Charms, on canvas.

Sunrise 2

I felt stillness around me this morning; at some point in the night the water and wind finally stopped, creating a quiet spaciousness to welcome the morning. It felt comforting and safe. After pausing for some deep, oceany breaths, I realized I only brought three colors of paint with me: dark blue, yellow and black. Luckily, I had primed the canvas with a glowing shade of light orange, and was therefore able to (almost) capture the beauty of the morning sun using this limited palette...adding plenty of water to de-intensify the hues. The orange/white from the background, still wet, added just enough of a glow...


Sunrise 2- acrylic on canvas

Sunrise 1

I was certainly a sight to behold this morning- crouched and cold in the trunk of my trusty station wagon at 6:30 am, trying to shield myself from the torrential downpour that was relentlessly whipping my face as I somewhat hastily threw paint on canvas. And voila! Sunrise number one: a ghostly, drenched, somewhat unexciting little painting that marks the beginning.

"Sunrise 1" - Acrylic, colored pencil, and March Monsoon on canvas.

Nature Yantras.

In addition to my sunrise paintings, I am working furiously to manifest a new series of work that explores my observations of the natural world and the idea of sacred art. Ancient concepts .....new to me.

"Love makes me follow" - Acrylic, paper, colored pencil, stitching, cardboard, blood, sweat, tears...on canvas.

"Morning Colors" - Acrylic, colored pencil and paper on wood.

"Mandala" - Acrylic, paper, gauche, stitching on canvas. Mandala shown here having a serious conversation with pincone.

Untitiled- acrylic, paper, colored pencil, stitching, gauche, probably other shit too, on canvas

"Allium" - Acrylic and colored pencil on canvas

49 Days of Sunrises.

49 Days of Sunrises: Experiencing the Shift from Dark to Light

I am most interested in the liminal times, the moments when the line between one thing and another is vague, ambiguous and vulnerably open. I am interested in the times of day, of the year, or of life, when things are at the edge of shifting into something else. Sunrises, sunsets, equinoxes: at these times there is certainly a perceivable shift, but the exact moment of the transition can be hard to define.

It is at these times when I am most often and overwhelmingly struck by the presence of spirit. As I pause and viscerally connect to the feeling of the light overcoming the darkness, or the darkness overtaking the light, my senses heighten. I feel a distinct and tingling connectedness to the earth around me. I can remember myself as a small girl, running barefoot and wild through the grass of my rural home at twilight. Suddenly pausing, I breathlessly came to a quick and definite conclusion: There was magic in the air.

In this particular project, 49 days of sunrises, I will be exploring such experiences, specifically the shift of darkness to light. I am eager to be awake, present and connected at this time of day everyday for 49 days. Through the medium of paint, I will collect and express my experiences of this liminal time, of the yang building beneath the darkness and of the light’s momentous overturn of the night.

I started this project today, March 15, the day of the new moon and five days before the first day of spring. It is a time for newness; new ideas, new beginnings, new seasons.