I am a compost heap,

Her Journal March 30, 2015

and everything I interact with, every experience I’ve had, gets shoveled onto the heap where it eventually mulches down, is digested and excreted by worms, and rots. It’s from that rich, dark humus, the combination of what I’ve encountered, what I know and what I’ve forgotten, that ideas start to grow. (I could make a case for the benefits of wide-ranging experience, both personal and literary, as enriching the compost, but the life of Emily Dickinson neatly dismantles that theory.)

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Today I whipped up french toast soldiers, read a collection of stories about a curious monkey, built a space ship, battled neighboring pirates, consoled, corrected, and encouraged, all before lunch.

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