Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud
I went to a women's Autumn reflection this past weekend and while there's lots to say about it, I only have time and connection speed to support the sharing of just one snippet for now.
Mid-day Saturday my personal schedule included a block of free time. The suggestion was to spend a third of it socializing with other women who had free time, a third of it writing poetry, and a third of it doing whatever else appealed to me. I opted to skip the poetry, take a long walk through the fields and woods, and to socialize a bit on either end of it. The previous portions of the day had included little movement and my body was restless. This condition was enhanced by the crisp Autumn air which gusted and sent leaves into spiraling Pied Piper configurations beckoning me to come and play. Besides, I reasoned, my gut told me there was a major feather waiting for me out there.
As I walked up a steep hill, I was surprised by the variety of plants still producing new leaves. Ferns, both hardy and delicate, grew cheek-by-jowel with waning poison ivy, prolific shamrocks, fuzzy purple flowers I didn't recognize, now brown goldenrod, wild strawberries with new fruit, and grasses of more sorts than I can name. That list represents what could be seen in one four square foot section. It might be fair to say the hillside burgeoned. It struck me how little encouragement wild plants need to express their life force with enthusiasm.
This thought was compounded by observing the vast mini-environment created by an outcropping of slate. Even with no topsoil ferns and mosses and trailing vines took hold in cracks and expanded. A salamander, or newt, or similar creature darted in and out. His presence brought the little ecosystem into its own scale and by cupping my hands around my eyes to block my peripheral vision, I could imagine what prehistoric Ohio might have looked like. Then a (by comparison) gargantuan chipmunk entered the scene and I was snapped back to the present with a smile.
Shortly after cresting the hill, I crossed a lane and entered a tall field of wild multi-flora roses, bright with thousands of tiny orange-red rosehips, and waving stick-like goldenrod, spent and brittle. Tracks and scat of deer and assorted smaller mammals and birds of prey were evident. I followed a small trail made by some kind of farm equipment and found myself slowly descending the back side of the hill I'd climbed. As I walked, the wind was less intense and the silence increased as sounds were baffled by the goldenrod tufts and the hilltop. I noticed that now that I've lost 94 lbs my hiking shoes are a little loose and I'll either need thicker socks or new shoes in the near future.
At the edge of this field was a small forest, largely made up of tulip poplars, sassafras, maple, and beech trees, with an occasional lanky pine or black oak. The ground was carpeted with leaves of every conceivable size and in colors that blazed from impossible yellow to crimson. Some of the maple leaves had swirling patterns of red and orange and yellow that looked like freezeframes of fire. I have missed the gorgeousness of Ohio Autumns. And I can't quite figure out what the hoopla is about leaf peeping in New England. It's pretty enough, but there is not as much tree variety there, nor does the Autumn last as long. When I moved to Massachusetts, I was very excited about being in proximity to the "best" Autumn foliage in America. Imagine my surprise when I realized I'd just left the best. Imagine my holy delight at being back.
I grinned a lot.
In the woods, the air was entirely still. The path I made continued in a mostly downhill direction. Occasionally the silence was broken by a bird's call. I could smell the leaves, the wet earth, and from distance, a fire. Enveloped in nature and Autumn, it occurred to me that the comforting elements of the scene--the crisp air, the smell of the leaves and soil, the scent of fire--are aspects of decay and/or destruction! And we find comfort in them, embrace them as symbols of what is many people's favorite season. We snuggle into Autumn, even as we delight in the occasional Indian Summer. Without effort or processing, we entirely integrate the endings as part of the life cycle.
Sometimes, we have melancholy moments, of course. Seeing the pseudo-larches lose their feathery leaves is a little sad. The rapidly dwindling light can make us sluggish and sleepy, despite it's spectacular Autumn goldness. But it's all in proportion. And it's all temporary. We know that the light will return, the warmth and greenness are only months away.
So how is it that we can be so hard to assimilate other kinds of endings in our lives? Does their abstractness make them seem less natural? Do our egos just assume that since the loss is ours that it is different, not part of the natural cycle of life? Do we suppose that the leaves on our trees are meant to be everlasting? Do we cry out with pain as each one detaches? Alternatively, is escapism a way to cheat the natural order by stripping the trees of their leaves mid-season? (OK, it's not a perfect metaphor, but I'm in a hurry. Maybe I'll fix it someday. Consider this simply a rough draft.)
ANYway...
I saw that the ground was getting more boggy and that there were small pools of water up ahead. So, I adjusted my trajectory to take me uphill of the wettest parts. Ha. Apparently gravity was temporarily suspended and the uphill section was considerably wetter than the downhill section. It was also camouflaged with leaves. My foot plunged down into the mud and came up sans shoe. I storked for a bit considering the situation and watching mud glop over the barriers (aka sides) of my shoe to fill the footbed with gentle persistence. In a flash I moved through annoyance at the inconvenience and cleaning task this would provide and into inspiration. Here was an opportunity to do something I generally tend to avoid.
I pushed my socked foot down into the mud. Delightful! Squishy! Not too cold! Lifting my other foot, I discovered that it, too, was stuck and out came another nearly naked appendage. Down into the mud with it, as well. In for a penny, as they say. I squished and squelched and suddenly couldn't believe that I'd not done since childhood. It is a truly glorious feeling! I laughed. I tripped, falling forward onto my knees. As I toppled I anticipated pain. There was none. The mud's texture was such that it felt like falling into feathers. I cackled. It occurred to me that anyone approaching would think me quite mad. I laughed harder. I may even have chortled.
Ultimately, I lifted my shoes from the mud and turned around to head back. Looking down, again, to pick my path. I saw an enormous buzzard feather between the last two sure-footed footprints I'd made before sinking. It hadn't been there on my way into the mud. I know this because I always have to look down when walking rough terrain.
I decided that it was a gift from the buzzard for having opened myself to the importance of decay and the value of experiencing mud. Glory be, amen, and a big old Hallelujah. Life is amazing!
Copyright 2004 Seasmoke All rights reserved
posted by Morgan @ 11:38
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