Using a shovel to compost is like using a fly swatter to serve soup. It is possible, but there’s never a moment you’re unaware the wrong utensil is in your hands. But when life hands you lemons, throw them at people you dislike. After all, any supernatural event is worth expressing forcefully, so when a shovel is all you have, dig it.

            I shifted most of the mass of the compost pile from the south end to the north and then dug down another third of a meter or so. The heat was kicking in, the mosquitoes were flying in formations, and humidity had become the primary atmosphere. Yet there is something acutely Zen about manual labor to prepare the soil for a garden I will not plant for many months.  

            Too much time, far too much labor, and some aggravation of unusual size later, the pile is turned and ready for the next batch of yard debris. I dug down until I hit water, to find out how wet the area was, and it was.

            Composting works without optimum anything. I supply sweat, put the pieces together, and receive rich, black soil. Nothing is ever perfect but the ending.