Above: Maryann Enright, CSJ, gardening with a student from Fontbonne

Composting: Endlessly Becoming

Maryann Enright, CSJ

My composting journey began in Waltham, where none of our neighbors composted, and gardening itself felt experimental. Uncertain about the soil, I sent samples to the University of New Hampshire for testing. The results showed that the soil lacked nitrogen and other nutrients. I began composting my own kitchen scraps. Originally, I covered a small area with a tarp and placed vegetable scraps underneath, later using the finished compost to nourish the soil.

My efforts drew curiosity. An elderly Italian neighbor was fascinated by my gardening and regularly offered advice. That spirit of learning and exchange followed me when I moved to Belmont, where I lived in a duplex with Sister Cathy Mozzicato and others. Together, we devoted a tiny area of yard space to composting and transported the finished compost to a nearby community garden. There, I learned many tips from fellow gardeners, including using seaweed as fertilizer.

That idea sparked a memory. My father often talked about how, in Ireland, seaweed was the only fertilizer. I thought: if it was good for his garden, it’s good for mine! I began gathering seaweed from Nahant and Lynn Beach, filling shopping bags with friends in tow.

Later, at a large convent in Forest Hills, Jamaica Plain, my composting efforts grew. With access to community garden plots, we used a large compost barrel for all table and kitchen waste. Most of the compost was hauled up the hill to nourish vegetables — radishes, beans, tomatoes — while a small portion enriched the soil of our personal garden. I was raised in the city and had few opportunities to get my hands dirty as a child, so I was just discovering gardening at that stage.

Above: Maryann Enright, CSJ, gardening with Michelle Coakley, Theology Teacher of Fontbonne

I transformed one particularly steep, grassy patch in front of the convent where I loosened the soil and scattered wildflower seeds. Though another sister later weeded — without knowing flower from weed — the wildflowers thrived for years, sustained by compost. Most of the compost went to the vegetable garden because we wanted produce, but the wild garden endured as a sign of beauty and experimentation.

When I moved to the Motherhouse, the promise of a garden sealed the decision. Discovering that there were more gardens than gardeners, I claimed an extra plot and made it clear that the space was for everyone. Access, however, was challenging; the uneven terrain made gardening difficult for some sisters. In response, I organized compost collection, with gardeners on each floor gathering scraps to keep the bins active.

In regard to the composition of compost, eggshells and coffee grounds are especially valuable. Both are rich in calcium and nitrogen, alongside paper towels, clean pizza boxes, corn, and other household scraps. Compost behaves like something alive: it generates heat, even in winter, and “cooks down” quickly. A full barrel can reduce to rich soil in six weeks. Some items, like corn cobs, need to be broken up by hand — something I happily do myself.

Composting attracts small animals, usually rabbits, but meat is avoided to prevent larger predators. Although farms can add in animal scraps to their compost (the occasional coyote or band of raccoons doesn’t bother them), here at the Motherhouse, we do limit what we can include in the compost bin. The elements we do include, however — stalks of broccoli, tops of carrots, potato peelings — carry with them great potential; table refuse has the possibility of becoming brown gold.

Much of my inspiration came from communal life and from Claire Archambault, CSJ, an older wisdom figure who believed “the sky was the limit.” Spiritual meaning runs deep through my practice. Composting is spirit-filled. Watching scraps lose their identity and become nourishment reflects resurrection itself: letting go so something new can emerge.

What better way to live the belief that we are all part of God’s creation, dependent on each other — human and otherwise, to live and thrive as one, as God intends? The food that fed us feeds the earth. It’s endlessly becoming.