I am so incredibly grateful to live in the United States of America.

Not because we have a great military and we’re not afraid to prove it whenever we feel the need.

Not because we got Osama (or have the best political marketing team in the world that is able to remove most doubt that we possibly didn’t get him).

Not because we only sort of keep out illegal immigrants because we sort of need their cheap labor, thereby half-heartedly sharing our American Dream with those less fortunate but not truly allowing them to enjoy it because they are scared we might toss them out in the middle of the night.

Not because our supermarkets are full of more foods (or the thousands of genetically modified excuses for foods) than most nations’ markets combined.

Not because our entertainment industry tirelessly pumps out the cinema, music and games that fill the world with its greatest distractions.

Not because we have some of the most dramatic physical landscapes on the planet, the most beautiful national parks and the most efficient network of roadways connecting them all…

Nope. These are not the reasons I love being an American.

I am grateful to be an American because here I have the freedom to grow. Yes, there is that freedom to grow physically into the largest human form ever known to humanity. Yet, the growth I speak of is spiritual, emotional, and psychological. In America I enjoy the freedom to simply be an ass hole if I choose to be.

Here, I have the freedom to never work on my inner emotional journey or, and this is what I’m really excited about, I have the freedom to utilize our seemingly endless resources and supports in order to create the perfect balance between material prosperity and spiritual elevation and consciousness.

We live in an amazing country for so many reasons and I really love it here. Yet, what I’m most grateful for is the freedom to do my inner work or the freedom to ignore it until the day I die. That is a true luxury.

Well, spring has sprung here in Chicago. Barely. It isn’t snowing or blowing as much and the temperature is creeping (slowly) upward. It’s funny how we have come to call this season “spring.”

I suppose it would be awkward to refer to it as the Days of the Vernal Equinox, although Vernox would be fun and sort of appropriate in a Dr. Seuss sort of way. The Lorax is definitely a springtime fable in my book, all about the environment and how we relate to the world around us. We even have a tendency to refer to the beginning of better things to come as “springs,” like the Prague or Egyptian Spring, although Libya might have to wait until Summer.

So, as the perky little shoots of this and that (micro flora to be exact) spring forth into existence through the muddy clumps of mushy leaves I am confronted with matters of life and death, or more intellectually speaking: deterioration, disintegration and resurrection. In fact, I need only look to my hallway closet for evidence of this cycle of life. Last week I discovered a Tupperware container full of red worms, newspaper and old banana peels tucked between a stack of clean towels and some rolls of paper towels. My wife’s new composting project would have won me a science fair “honorable mention.”

And yet, it’s all really about composting, isn’t it? As a relationship focused fella, I don’t need to travel far to make the connection between past relationships and the composting required to sprout new strengths, abilities and insights for emerging relationships. Indeed, without allowing old incarnations of relationship to decompose we run the risk of spreading hopeful new seed onto the same old, tired, stuck soil.

I have dabbled in more than a little gardening through the years and I know that I can get the best darned seeds in the world but if I plant them into old, tired, mineral hungry soil I am going to have problems. Likewise, if we don’t learn from the past and put certain old patterns to rest, we run the risk of regenerating the same genetically modified experience and then what…?

We run the risk that our cucumbers will be as small as pickles and our melons will taste like tomatoes. Your past is the black gold needed to nourish your future. Compost away!