Daily Offering

Currying the favor of the gods is generally not my business, but showing my appreciation for my good fortune is often what makes my days, my life, meaningful. Much of this appreciation, which for me has become spiritual practice, takes place in my kitchen. With two little kids and a husband to feed, even if I felt compelled, I wouldn’t have time for the hours of meditation that help the devoted find their center. Some days, even finding time to cook three squares a day is impossible. But my kitchen, alive with art, colorful dinnerware, favorite books, handmade curtains, and repurposed furniture, offers me a sanctuary where I have found my center.

I have a view of the garden, a seasonal testament to the certainty of change and renewal. Music floats in from a stereo in the next room, drowning out my doubts, insecurities and frustrations. There are announcements for new babies and cherished family photos on the fridge, to remind me of my legion of loved ones. For sweet surprises, I tape cards and notes from friends inside the cabinet doors to trigger memories of good times shared. It is here, in the heart of my home, that I feel most connected to the people in my life, and most connected to the spirit of Nature, the covenant of Love.

Like fingers working prayer beads, the busy task of cooking frees my mind to wander or to focus, depending on the day. While baking bread and biscuits, stirring pots of soup and sauces, I get lost in my memories and dream about my life, inspired by the possibilities for the future. As I rinse and cut veggies, crack eggs, or roll meatballs, I am grateful for my hard-working husband who provides for our family. I whisper thank you (thank you!) for our healthy and beautiful children, as well as dear friends and neighbors who make our many shared meals my most happy times. And my gratitude ripples out. I am indebted to the farmers that persevere against great odds, to the plants and animals that give me so much pleasure, and to the hope I still find in every day on this sorely damaged Earth. It is here that I pray.

If you'll allow that a woman can find sanctuary in an often messy, sometimes dirty, cobbled-together kitchen, then perhaps you will allow me to extend this metaphor and say that I create a food altar each day. Like so many people around the world who show gratitude for their bounty by creating ornate displays of fruits and nuts, beautiful breads and colored eggs, I too create an altar. But unlike traditional food offerings that likely rot once the ceremony is over, I choose to make good use of the bounty the Earth has given me, presenting to Her my scraps and peels, pits and crusts to be turned into rich compost. It’s my way of saying thanks.

In the corner of the worn, wooden work surface where I prepare my family's meals sits an unassuming milk-glass bowl. It starts each day, fresh and ready, as I do. It is filled throughout the day, as I am. It is my altar…it is my compost bowl.

The order of the day determines the ritual. It’s breakfast time and our four-year-old son, Cedar, climbs up to the counter and peels a banana for slicing. The peel goes into the bowl with any uneaten banana that his baby sister, Cora, may have thrown to the floor. Nothing wasted, just reappropriated. I'll catch my breath after morning diaper-changing and bed-making to start a fresh pot of coffee. Yesterday's spent grounds and filter go into the bowl and I brew a new pot. How deeply thankful I am for coffee every day! My first sip might elicit a cleansing breath and a “Hallelujah."

Morning snacks come next. Fruit pits and strawberry tops go into the bowl beside some leftover pb&j crusts and crackers that hit the floor. Lunchtime is often my time to prep for dinner. As I dig through the fridge and pantry for divine inspiration, I find some stale corn tortillas. I chuck these into the compost bowl and already we have over a pound of food scraps saved from the landfill. I pause to acknowledge that nothing has been put in the garbage today, save one diaper. The afternoon provides spent tea bags and some uneaten peas, carrots, and pizza crusts from lunch.

Finally, we head into dinner time. Onion tops and garlic skins, carrot tips, and potato peels fill the bowl. I look to the softening sky and take in the waning afternoon light. Between slicing and sautéing, I sneak out, bowl in hand, to greet the yard where our compost bin awaits. I give up my daily offering. The Earth has provided for me and my family and I am thankful. I, in turn, give back to Her what I took, but could not use today.