The Practical Art of Composting

We've established that microhermitting takes many forms:

seasonal slowdown

grief spacing

postpartum rest

creative isolation

spiritual pause.

These are all different facets of composting, different ways to transform rather than just withdrawing and rotting.

But here's what I keep circling back to: how do you actually compost instead of rot?

I'm still learning... and to be honest, most of the time, my microhermitting feels more like rotting.

However, sometimes I get it right.

Sometimes it's being outside with not many clothes on, sun on my skin. Just standing there.

Sometimes it's when I wash and deep condition my hair. A forced pause because my body is soaking wet, my hair is soaking wet, and I need a minute to let my hair soak in moisture. I can't scroll. I can't do anything. I just have to be in the moment.

Sometimes it's a huge glass of water and snuggling on the sofa chasing rays of sun. Phone in another room. Incense burning. Something soft playing in the background, probably house music or lofi.

Sometimes it's being in the same room as someone while we both do our own thing. They're reading. I'm writing. We're both here. Both quiet. Both okay.

Sometimes it's just standing on my nature strip with no shoes on, leaning on the concrete fence. Watching the palm trees sway. The kookaburra perch on the electricity lines. The myna birds squabbling on the strip two doors down.

Rotting uses energy but leaves nothing useful behind. You wake up feeling the same or worse. Your body is still tired. Your mind is still racing. You just... killed time.

Composting transforms. Something is breaking down so something else can grow. You don't always feel immediately better, but an energy has shifted and your nervous system remembers that your body got what it needed.

I don't have a formula for switching gears from rot to compost. But I've noticed a few things that help me shift.

1. Put your phone in another room. Not on silent. Not face down. In another room. This is the hardest one for me but the one that works best.
2. Add one sensory moment. Light incense. Put on music that makes you feel like yourself. Open a window. Drink water, don't just think about drinking water.
3. Let your body be uncomfortable for a second. Stand outside. Let the sun hit you. Get in the shower. Let yourself be wet, cold, hot, exposed. Something that reminds you that you have a body and it's here.
4. Tell someone you trust. Not for permission. For witness. "I'm composting for a bit. I'm okay. I'll be back." Sometimes just saying it out loud to one person shifts it from collapse to intention.
5. Or don't tell anyone. Sometimes the most sacred withdrawals are the ones only you know about.

I don't have this figured out. Some days I doom-scroll for hours and call it rest. Some days I microhermit and feel exactly the same afterwards.

Maybe the point isn't to get it right every time. Maybe it's simply to notice the difference. To recognise when you're rotting and ask yourself: do I want to keep doing this, or do I want to try something else?

Composting doesn't have to be perfect. It doesn't have to look like anyone else's version. It just has to be intentional.

Strike a match if you have one.

Put on that playlist.

Take the shower.

Get that water. 

Stand outside barefoot.

Let the sun find you.

Let the world wait for a bit.

Because this is composting. The kind that yields abundance, signals new beginnings and softens the earth.

Let it be messy.
Let it be imperfect.
Let it be yours.

Compost transforms. Rot just… stinks.

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This completes the Microhermitting series. May your withdrawals be intentional, your solitude be sacred, and your returns be sweet.