Humus

Of late I have been fascinated by the rotting flowers and leaves in the park. The thick layer of various shades of brown and black, with fallen flowers on it, waiting to be transformed. The moisture from the rains heightens the sense of intense life among the stillness. A life whose movement is imperceptible to me.

Imagine what's happening in there, so quietly. The sheer magnitude of the constant transformation! The brightly coloured flowers and leaves losing their colours day by day, breaking down into thinner and thinner strands that merge with the soil, to go back to the earth which once fed their birth. And in the process forming a rich layer that will nourish all new life waiting to burst out from underneath. I am blown away by the sheer drama that is unfolding all around us, unnoticed.

All around us, death preparing carpets to nourish new life. So quietly, without fanfare - and without fail. The green blades of grass bursting out of what once used to be bright orange Rudrapalaash flowers. The sheer magic of this endless alchemy. 

"...Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years."

Wendell Berry

Each time I kneel down in the park to look closely at this layer under the plants, I am moved by the thought that someday I too will form part of this humus. That someday I will be of the earth on which trees will grow. I cannot imagine a better way to serve. The very thought fills me with joy.

And there will no longer be any duality. No me and the world. No me and others and the huge chasm between.

To merge with the earth must be the end of all separateness.

I cannot wait.