I hate this mud. Since we moved, we are living with a lot more mud ... a feature of living with a lot less poured concrete.
Can it be that having grown up in the city my whole life that I never realized that Late Winter/Early Spring could be called "Mud Season"?
Every time we go outside we get muddy. It's hard to arrive at work spotless, if I have to climb out of my car to open the gate to get off the property. We just weren't prepared for this, so we are tracking mud all over and making more work for me to do keeping the floors clean.
One of the reflections I read this week spoke directly to this (in fact it gave me the term Mud Season), and I thought:
yes, we are not just peacefully sleeping and will awake with lovely flowers in the spring. We are struggling, wallowing, wading through muck, trying to get to spring the hard way. And yet, it is the muck itself that later becomes the fertile source of the flowers, the joy, the hope. How to love the muck now? Or, if I can't love it, how do I accept it? I will struggle. Life will never be an endless summer, so how do I learn to ride gently through Mud Season?