Mud: An Immersion in
Love
Dear Mud,
I know it’s
been a while, but I spent time with you again last week and I’m reflecting
again on why I love you so much. Call it
a yearning to relive the joys of childhood, or living in the moment, but whatever
it is, Mud, you bring me joy.
Mud, why do I love thee? It’s simple.
Not only are you cheap and readily available, but you are a creative
outlet for when I’m thoughtful and lazy, and a crucial aspect of my productive
phases. I love your soft, squishy, smooth, and silky undulation that seeps,
fills, covers, and exudes happiness. You are malleable and forgiving, but you have
the ability to dry strong and inflexible, an amalgamation of joy. While your contents aren’t particularly
exciting, somehow mixing dirt and water creates a bliss that is so soothing and
peaceful—so creative and simple. You are an integral part of my world.
Mud, I’m
not alone—the gourmet world also holds fixation with you. Mud baths, mud massages, and aromatic mud
facials profess therapeutic benefits.
Yes, even Mud is loved gastronomically; Mississippi
Mud is sold on the counter in filling-stations in the South, waiting to be
fried up and consumed. My grand-babies, Isa and Zina will be the first to attest
that mud tastes good. People love hot
mud, cold mud, and I have no doubt that somebody, somewhere finds you, Mud,
sexy.
Is all of
this reason enough for my mud mania?
Does all this external validation somehow make my love of mud more
rational and acceptable?
No. For despite the fact that everyone loves mud at
some point in their lives, many have given in to society’s mores and the love
of mud has been cleaned out of them. Mud has become a dirty word that, like
most good things, research has deemed unsafe. The newest news is that, “…mud is
unclean and harbors disease, so glove up.”
Where has the
love for Mud gone? We’ve landscaped and sodded, and there is no longer a corner
left in our lives for the exploring a relationship with mud. We’ve shielded our children with clothing
more valuable than discovering the cleansing lessons of filth and prevented ourselves
from experiencing yet another basic joy. Heaven forbid…a soiled child!
Mud, perhaps
part of the disdain is the mess that accompanies a relationship with you. But, deep down we’re all a mess--one gigantic,
cloying mess and to admit that and to accept it is hard. Being vulnerable to feeling messy in exchange
for feeling joy is one of life’s great challenges. What if we were more like children who embrace
joy and shrug off messes—both mud and mistakes—simply because messes can always
be cleaned up?
Mud, you
complete me. I love you most of all
because my life is full of messes. Big
ones! This, from my journal in the
spring of 1990: “Today
the six-month-old sat by—and then inside—the mud hole with her Daddy while he
dug for the broken waterline. Two feet deep, then three, five and then deeper,
but eventually success! They discovered the source of the mud! But, the two of them were eight feet under and
over their heads.
Sometimes
my messes are intentional. From the
first to the last, each of my children have been introduced to mud, due to some
new mistake (project) I've begun. My last
child wallowed in mud for months as I worked on a new front driveway. Learning to love mud was the way I embraced the
inconvenience of my mess and the joy in the vision of completion.
It’s my
opinion that each of us should make space in our lives for messes and for
clean-up--like an active mudroom. In
lieu of that, my happy place in every home would be a room being actively
mudded—in constant repair from some big mess. Breaking down the bad and progressing to
something better is sublime happiness to me.
Because
life is a mess, and it washes.
Sincerely,
Terina Darcey
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