The art of composting
Just a quick note to share that (hopefully!) all the little bugs & kinks of platform migration have now been worked out. If you missed any of the first 4 editions of this newsletter, you can find them in the archives right here.
My dear reader.
I do not like it, and I have tried to resist it, but something that has proven to be true again and again in my life is that in order to not abandon myself I must sometimes disappoint other people.
One of the places where I’ve most noticed this tension between non-abandonment of self and disappointment of others is in my 18 years of public writing. What I need, in order to keep showing up in this way for thousands and thousands of people across so many years, is to periodically remove all of my prior work from public view. Delete the blog, take down the newsletter archive, remove the podcast feed — tenderly burying it all in the compost heap in order to create space (and build fertile soil) for that which wants to come through next.
Not everyone is like this. I suspect that the majority of writers, artists, and creators cherish their archives and want to build a tangible, long-term body of work. I respect that, deeply. I’m even jealous of it sometimes. But I simply cannot relate.
Over the past 18 years, with every single creative project, there has come a point where I feel absolutely certain that compost season has arrived, and when that happens I know that if I don’t act on it I will no longer be able to do my most truthful work. I have deleted every single digital space I have ever created, and never once have I regretted that choice. Had I not given myself permission to move through my writing life in this way I would have quit in 2010, which was the year I deleted my first blog, one I had been writing for three years.
Which doesn’t mean there aren’t consequences for being a compost person, namely that each erasure of the archives has been (understandably!) disappointing to some of my readers. I totally get that, and it sometimes makes me wish I were different, but it turns out that no amount of negotiating with the truth of who you are will change it. We need what we need. And what I need, in order to maintain a public writing practice, is to occasionally delete every word I have ever written so that I can start over again from the quiet space that remains once everything else has been cleared away.
Much of the reason I am a compost person is that I’m drawn to the ephemeral.
It’s why I love baking — you slowly stir the melted butter and dark chocolate together to form the base of a luscious, fudgey brownie, and then you eat that brownie one perfect bite at a time, and when it’s gone, it’s gone.
The same feeling permeates my long-distance hiking experiences — you walk and you walk, and every leaf, every river, every pastel sunrise, they are alive and you are alive with them in that moment, and then you keep walking, never to see that same leaf or river or sunrise again.
I recently realized that this aspect of self is why I’ve never created an evergreen digital class, something static to be sold on my website for years. I simply prefer the impermanence of a live experience, something dynamic and fleeting, only ever to be shared by the folks who showed up.
I’ve been reflecting a lot on this aspect of myself over the past year, and on how my elevation of the cherished ephemeral feels like a form of spiritual practice to me, especially in a collapsing world. Everything ends. We are guaranteed nothing. Uncertainty abounds.
And so I turn often, at my altar and in my journal, to the words of Marie Beynon Ray:
“We are not living in eternity. We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand and melting like a snowflake.“
May this moment be enough.
**
More soon,
Nic
This brings up the principle of impermanence in Buddhism, "[e]ssentially, the teaching of impermanence is that every conditioned aspect of life is transient in nature, subject to arising and passing. This includes every smell, taste, feeling in the body, sound, sight, and thought. These experiences come and go, and are unstable even when they seem to be permanent."
This practice is challenging to contend with most days, and I'm learning that the process of letting go of my work is as important as the process of creating it.
This is beautiful! I can relate. It makes me think that people who have a "need" to constantly be growing and evolving in some internal way (or that's just who we are), must release the past remnants of who they were to clear that space for the becoming. Almost like those nuggets of past memorial show up as pebbles in the way of the future, pulling our attention to who we were in a way that can make us stumble. I hadn't thought of it as "composting" or being "drawn to the ephemeral" but this is thought-provoking and helpful!
Beautifully put as always, Nic, and grateful to you for the generosity of how you share this part of your self and practice! I love the metaphor of composting and think about it a lot in my own writing. I forget who introduced me to the idea of 'dirt management' as a literal gardening or farming concept (as in, taking care of the soil) and also an analogy for any sort of creative practice and just generally being a human. We can't be afraid to let things return to the soil, and looking after our dirt is how we look after ourselves (and each other). 💖
"it turns out that no amount of negotiating with the truth of who you are will change it" I'm feeling that hard in this season of my life, and learning that the less I fight it, the better things are. Thank you, as always, for your words.
As another reader noted, this feels very aligned with Buddhist impermanence and also the yogic path of presence and non-grasping. I admire it very much! I'm afraid I'm an archive person digitally, but materially I really really prefer a declutter. I have about 2 boxes of "memories" but I often feel an urge to shed them, especially having moved apartments so many times over the years. Grateful for your thoughts, as always. Sending love (as always!).
- Curious to know: do you keep a just-for-you archive of your writing? Eg on a hard drive.
- Among other things, you modelling composting has helped me hold on more loosely to things I created, owned or even experienced. Instead of obsessing over keeping all the things (or the ‘right’ things). One example is books I accumulated I accumulated over the years. I find more joy now in sharing them than building a big library (and figuring out how to bring them from Europe). Another example is memories. My memory is not what it used to be and while I am capturing some of them for my future self, it feels okay to let the rest go. Sometimes I am disappointed that I let go of a book or didn’t capture a memory, but temporary disappointment doesn’t mean anything went wrong.
So true, I apply composting to my subscriptions. I change my subscriptions depending on my interest. I can't wait for what is next. Enjoy, Jolene
I really appreciate this perspective, Nic. There's so much unspoken pressure to maintain that "body of work" to prove legitimacy or so people know what to expect, and yet... it's limiting too. Why keep reinventing yourself within the same constraints? That's the antithesis of—mm, what word do I want here... nothing 100 percent fits—evolution that is born out of joyful flourishing?
It makes me think of the blog I maintained for several years... I went through a divorce in 2017 and just couldn't bring myself to write publicly anymore. Last year, I did not renew the hosting space and they deleted the site. I reuploaded everything to squarespace, but couldn't find the wherewithal to republish it. There was/is freedom in having it all taken down for me. I hadn't evolved my thinking to consider it from your "compost" perspective, but I like that. Maybe starting from new seeds is how the writing grows again.
I really respect this approach but I’m curious: do you save the writing somewhere for yourself in case you ever wish to revisit it?
Nic - Love the term and concept of composting in this way. This seems like a great prompt to thank you (overdue) for the now composted material. I particularly turned to your podcast eps (Rose Thorn Bud) as something that was especially meaningful in modeling connection, supportive friendship, and reflecting on seasonality. Now I’m celebrating and look forward to enjoying this phase!
This is a lovely reflection, Natalie. Thank you!