I found god in a compost heap // a skeptic’s spirituality

I’m a compulsive skeptic. A decade of religious indoctrination will do that to you. It took me two years to warm up to tarot, ten to stop clarifying “I obviously don’t believe in this stuff” when joyfully discussing horoscopes, and I still scoff at psychic reading signs before catching myself. So when asked whether I’m spiritual, my answer has always been a confident no.

But five years ago, I learned about composting. It’s the process where organic matter like food scraps and animal products, typically destined to mummify in a landfill, are given the opportunity to break down into soil through a forgiving formula of nitrogen, carbon, oxygen, and water. The process is so logical, scientific, and equally poetic, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t been introduced to it earlier. I couldn’t imagine a more dignified death, and accelerated rebirth.

Then I started noticing the pattern everywhere: every beautiful thing rots, transforming into nourishment for new growth. An idea tosses itself out of the static, decomposes back into the buzz, then resurfaces in a Frankensteined reconfiguration. A social media tween gets swept up by the algorithm, becomes a household name for a year, gets washed away with the digital wave only to live a second life as the ‘cool mom’ all the other kids wish they had. An agave plant lives a timid 23-year life, then devotes its final year to building a 30-foot tall stalk before going out in a fireworks display of seeds.

It’s impossible to unsee: the beginning, end, rebeginning of everything. But I notice it most in a handful of soil. I have to wonder how many molecules in it belonged to a living organism moments ago, and how many beings that same molecule cycled through before it was the last one. And my father’s father who died in Lebanon when my dad was a teen, is he in here? Traversed through tree roots and fungal routes to know me? Have I been meeting him my whole life?

The answer is yes. They’re all in here. Every dead thing hums with life. It became almost foolish for me not to entertain animism. Respecting my elders means not only cherishing our living grandparents and the trees, but also honoring the reimagined remains of our literal elders’ — the humans, the animals that gave way to the humans, and the fungi that gave way to the animals. This reverence is rarely taught; it’s something I discovered at 24, far too late in life. So of course it feels ‘natural’ to play our role well in the Tragedy of the Commons.

When the cultural norm is to live in a wooden box separate from the elements and then be buried in a wooden box separate from the elements, of course the narrative becomes ‘we’re in a battle with nature, and we must win’. But the coffin will surely degrade, so we must mercilessly love the soil.

In the year 2500, a child will curiously scoop up a fistful of soil to study, and a trillion of us will be there gazing back, equally in awe.

A whole lot of words to say: maybe I am spiritual. My therapist certainly agrees.