Does a Bear S**t in the Woods?

Does a bear s**t in the woods? Apparently not. This morning my neighbor reports a big pile of doo-doo in her driveway.

We have all learned from our forester neighbor to pick scat apart with a stick to see what the critter was eating. At first glance, we might guess Thanksgiving dinner. (Just kidding!)

The clue you can't see is that this pile of scat is about 100 feet from the dumpster shared by 10 households. The 2 dumpster divers on our private road keep begging people to wash out their food containers, and, please, don't put food-infused paper (e.g., pizza boxes or used microwave paper towels) in the recycling dumpster, which sits right beside our trash dumpster.

A fed bear is a dead bear, because a fed bear becomes a nuisance to the neighborhood, and then....

The bear is trolling her usual food sources (including our dumpsters), just like we shoppers troll our favorite stores, the places where, in the past, we found something that we like.

Unfortunately, our mind trolls our problems, turning them over and over and over and ..... Even if they are a pile of s**t.  Er, "scat," i mean.

As one Tibetan teacher says, "Have a good time with your bad time."

Eventually, we do realize that whatever s**t we are putting up with, it's just not worth it.

Right and Wrong Recycling

My sweetie goes dumpster diving every time he takes the trash to our neighborhood dumpster, which serves 10 households. Earlier this week, he found several cardboard boxes, and since someone's name was on them, he knew who was not recycling. He pulled out the cardboard and stopped at the recycling bins on his way into town.

This morning he's "compost-diving" into the little bucket beside the kitchen sink. "What's this doing in here?" He pulls out the paper wrapper of a burrito i bought yesterday, melted cheese attached. "Ooh. Icky." He wrinkles his nose.

"It's going into the compost," i say. "I'll take it outdoors right now." (I don't. I write this blog instead.)

He's the neighborhood recycling police, though his warnings are usually in the form of "I'm going to the recycling bins. Can i take something for you?"

He tries to be the household compost police, but i flash my Master Composter badge and try to get the upper hand. (Well, okay, cheese is not supposed to go into the compost, but i'm not entirely P.C.)

I'm right. You're wrong. As soon as we find ourselves in this internal dialog, we are in Stress City. Just notice that. It's stressful to think I'm right. It feels so gratifying; it feels so right. But look again. We are not the sheriff--of anything.

As if the world is black and white, instead of gray--which today is.