Those with a greater gardening expertise might tell me that horseshit is not necessarily the best fertilizer for my lawn, that I could have better results with a purified bag of nutritious pellets of some kind, but something in me balks at that sort of expertise. Horseshit strikes my fancy ... not because I am some smarmy nature freak, but, well, just because. In my mind, horseshit is somehow real, although defining what is real is not honestly something I can do.
But it can't be cow shit, which is pleasant to my nose but wet and heavy to shovel; and it can't be pig shit, which I shoveled on occasion when I was young and thought was peeeeeuuuww; and it can't be the human shit Koreans are wise enough to mix into their rice paddies ... no, it has to be horseshit.
I guess what sent my mind meandering on this topic was partly looking at a Buddhist Internet site and being mildly put off by a picture of some berobed expositor with a smile on his face. Strange how spiritual advisers seem to lack the courage not-to-smile-for-the-camera when it comes to hawking their wares.
And that irritation segued into the thought that I pick my horseshit and you pick yours. It's no big deal -- really, it's not -- but there is something to be said for recognizing horseshit for what it is. Will it be fruitful or will it just nourish more bullshit dandelions? No one knows for sure, but it's nice if it smells nice.
Smells come and go on the wind. No reason not to enjoy them.
But worship seems a bit much. Worship the intellect. Worship the emotions. Worship possessions or philosophies or gods or principles. Worship the black socks I prefer.
It's nice to enjoy the smells and potential nourishment.
Just don't be surprised if you step in the shit.