As an East Coast transplant to California, sorting trash was…um…an adjustment for me. Well, that’s not entirely true. Growing up, we had separate trash cans outside for aluminum cans and bottles, so recycling wasn’t completely foreign; but compost was new. Having three separate places for trash inside the kitchen was also new. However, once I receive instructions for a task, I tend to be regimented in following those instructions. When we moved into our house in the Bay Area, I started reading about what was allowed in each color bin. I set up our kitchen so that each type of trash had its own receptacle, and the kids and I developed a system so that they helped me empty the indoor waste into the outdoor bins each evening.

My perfectionist tendencies made me check the indoor bins regularly to make sure all the waste was getting into the correct places, and the kids quickly picked up on what went where. Ana Lia would even move plastic bottles from the trash into the recycling. Those tendencies did not diminish when we moved to Southern California; in fact, it’s possible that they intensified. Afa frequently puts paper towels in the recycling, when they belong in the compost if they only have food waste on them and in the trash if they have something besides food waste. He also doesn’t mind throwing compostables into the trash, which frequently grates on my nerves (whether or not it should.) And I often check the bins to see if everything has been disposed of properly. 

As a partial explanation, being able to compost has helped me overcome a significant mental barrier around food. I feel like I have to finish all the food on my plate so that I’m not wasting food. For a while, I also felt like it was necessary to either finish the food from the kids plates or hoard it in the fridge as leftovers until it was finished. Neither of these are healthy responses to food left on plates, and knowing that it would be composted eases that mental burden about wasting food.

We live in an apartment high rise, and our trash is collected each evening from right outside our apartment door. I put the compost out each night because that one is the most likely to smell. There have been a few times when we put our waste in the hallway at the correct time in the evenings, but it doesn’t get collected. This happened one evening when it also had been a few days since we had emptied the compost bin. So the compost bag smelled, but I was determined to tie it up and put it outside the following evening again.

The kids and I went out for the afternoon to the park and the library. Afa got home from work while we were out, and by the time we got back, he had cleaned the whole kitchen. But instead of being grateful that he had cleaned the kitchen, I was immediately annoyed that he had thrown the compost in the trash and already emptied that trash into the downstairs dumpsters so there was no way I could rescue this small bag of compost.

I have worked very hard over the years to repent from fits of rage that used to accompany my anger. Years ago, this level of annoyance would have ended with me yelling at everyone, hurting people’s feelings, and rupturing multiple relationships – all over a stupid trash bag. Thankfully, through much prayer, support, and repentance, I have learned some self-control during these moments. However, it is still more than obvious when I am upset about something. I start dancing, hopping, and gesticulating wildly, all in an effort to get my emotions under control. All of this is embarrassingly visible to other people, as I am still learning to master my emotions, specifically anger. Instead of walking into the apartment and being grateful that Afa had cleaned the kitchen, I was making a fool of myself over the compost going into the wrong bin.

While I was in my own world trying to regulate myself, I heard Afa quietly say something to the effect of “Did you know there were maggots in that compost?” This sentence didn’t have the immediate effect it should have, but it did register as unusual in my mind. I thought, “He said maggots, but he must have meant fruit flies. We get fruit flies often.” I finally finished my ritual of regulation, and as I calmed down his sentence came through with great clarity. He did not mean that there were fruit flies; if he did, he would have used the words “fruit flies.” Thankfully at this point everyone had left the kitchen, and I was processing all of this alone.

My husband had come home from work and realized that there were maggots in our kitchen. He then cleaned all the maggots up, did the dishes, and washed the trash bins where they had been. I had significantly contributed to their presence by not getting the compost out each night, but I had not had to clean any of it up. He took care of all of that. Then I had the audacity to be upset that he had put compost into the wrong waste bin. The magnitude of my ridiculousness washed over me.

I no longer needed to calm myself as the truth of the situation came to light. I walked into the living room and sat beside Afa on the couch, took his hand, and apologized for getting upset with him when he had done all the disgusting work. He started laughing because he is so patient with my foolishness and wrapped me in a hug; he quickly offered forgiveness when I asked and the evening continued beautifully.

There were so many points in this story that things could have derailed, and years ago, would have derailed. Afa and I have both grown immensely over the years, and what could have been days of fighting was over in five minutes. Recognizing our mistakes, taking responsibility for them, and humbly apologizing all lead to repair of relationship ruptures. Choosing to dig your heels in out of pride only leads to further destruction.