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It was a really big deal.  I actually remember when she built the wooden composting bin, at the side of our 33’x122′ city lot.  The bin was obscured by trees and bushes, but when the family next door discovered the purpose of the receptacle, conflict erupted along with a mild vendetta, which my mother stubbornly waited out, composting all the while.

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Mum had to train us to compost properly of course, and the odd fracas occurred over inappropriate additions to the compost bucket, and there was lots of whining over who was expected to take it out.

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As a kid, I was mortified by my mother’s passion for composting.  The compost bucket was added to my semi-conscious list of reasons why I couldn’t have anyone over to our house through my early adolescence, along with my father’s sword collection and the weird books everywhere, etc.  Why did *my* parents have to be such wacky anarchists?

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Of course, by the time the 90s rolled around, composting was starting to come into vogue, and mum rolled her eyes, just like she did when Yoga became part of the zeitgeist (she was a yogini in the 70s, no big deal).

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Now, everyone has a compost bin.  It’s positively gauche not to, isn’t it?  No one talks about compost, no one worries about compost.  It’s not a topic of discussion, or debate, or anxiety.

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Sure, there are some compost freaks out there–people who just love composting so much, they can’t get enough–they write blogs, they write books, they bore the less fervent to death.

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One thing is for sure:  I hardly ever hear anyone worrying about the dangers of composting.  No one even seems bothered by the smell anymore–after all, if you’re doing it right (lots of mulch and green & brown matter) it is totally inoffensive.  No one is up-in-arms about the possibility that digging out the compost bin in the spring might create an increase in heart attacks.  No one really takes seriously the occasional whispers about compost and the fear of bacterial contamination, disease, and death.  We just shut up and compost.

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I had the privilege of participating in a home birth education workshop a few weeks ago.  The attendees were primarily couples who had either had previous hospital birth experience, or who were planning on giving birth to their first babies at home.  There were a lot of questions along the lines of “Is this safe? Is this ok?  Can we do this?”

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The workshop was headed by my good friend and colleague Nat, whom I love beyond description, and who also happens to be hilarious.  After answering several questions about the comparative safety of home birth to hospital birth, Nat said, in her characteristic deadpan delivery,

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“Look, home birth is like composting.  A hundred years ago, there was no question about composting, and there was no question about giving birth at home, because this is just what we do.  But we have had to rediscover compost, and when we do, there are a lot of questions.  Is this allowed?!  Is it safe?!  Can you do it in a city?!  Same with birth.  After you have had a baby or two at home, it will just seem obvious to you.  I’m having a baby–why would I go to the hospital??”

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So yeah. Birth is like composting.

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Thanks Nat.