I always chuckle inside myself when I tell people my name is Maddy and often receive the response, "Nice to meet you Muddy." I like mud. Sometimes I don't correct them. I like to pretend my name is Muddy.
Mud is a fickle thing.
Or maybe, as a human, my relationship with mud is a fickle thing.
Society accepts playing in mud as an acceptable act for infants and toddies.
Somehow after that comes an awkward space of judgment for this act of enjoying the wet earth.
(( I'm not talking hard core mud activities like biking or mud runs--new month's resolution p.s.--I have a deep respect for such things))
And then all of a sudden the act of slathering muddy muck on your face is considered a luxury in old(ish) age.
Last Friday, a few pals and I (Meesh and Georgey) went on a little mud romp of our own...
running bare foot through the empty campus was priceless...
the deep puddles greeted my happy toes with what I can only describe as "puddle-joy"
When we reached the ultimate mudslides of the lower campus fields, I felt like a deeply dehydrated dog, overwhelmed by the sudden excess of the thing I had for so long been thirsting for.
This was manifested in the excessive giddiness with which I and my dear friends slid and screamed and ran and wrestled and danced and sang and jollied....it was a grand feat.
"Then the Lord God formed the man of dust from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living creature."