Frieda and I gingerly make our way through the mud from the back door to my studio. Frieda avoids the muddy puddles like a cat. I leave my shoes on the rug just inside my door, but Frieda’s footprints make a path from the door to her bed by the window. I’ve given up trying it keep it clean, this time of year, I could spend my whole day cleaning up muddy footprints. I think about when the Irish and Scottish first settled this area, how they would lay wood planks down to walk on. Or the Corduroy roads they used to make from laying logs next to each other, a bumpy ride, but at least you don’t get stuck in the mud.
Living on an old farm in the country, as opposed to in the suburbs where I grew up, with it’s cement sidewalks, driveways and paths, in many ways evokes another time. A time when the seasons worked their way into your house. I never have the sense that I’m separate from nature here. We are one. So maybe it’s time for me to start welcoming the mud, being happy to see it tracked though the house and studio. After all, mud means spring and soon I’ll be bringing daffodils in the house instead of mud.