I have a graveyard in my house. It’s in my kitchen on top of the microwave. That’s where potatoes go to die.

Their bakeable skin gradually wrinkles and soon sprouts. If I’m alert I catch the first sprout, cut it out, and add the remaining potato to a dish. Once the rotting begins, however, I’m rarely alert.

That’s when the rot of the potato spreads to me. I focus on the wrinkly skin and mourn the lost food. I feel bad about myself for my wasteful western ways. I feel guilty.

But this is a moment of transition not death. The potato itself is not dying. The potato is reproducing. The tiny, bright green sprouts are not only hope for new potatoes, they are intrinsically beautiful. They are divine beauty in this moment.

Pausing before the divine, I confess I too often waste. I overuse at the expense of others. I want and take in the face of other’s needs. And then I let my guilt be darkness rather than a sign of beauty — of you — within me. May new sprouts grow in my heart that I make decisions that are mindful of those in my town, in my nation, and on the other side of the world.