For days I am slipping in the mud, literally at first as the ground is saturated, and the rain, the melted snow are falling rather relentlessly and I am walking the drains cutting briars for the goats : the soft mud, my wellies get stuck in, and it is difficult to climb out.
Slipping in the mud all day, not falling, nothing dramatic that may get tears of despair, or anger, something tangible to bounce back from, no, just a lack of grip on anything, lacking the ability to see anything to grip. Some days planning while wearing my farming clothes that when I would go into the house I would have one of my short naps on the sofa under the heavy blue Chinese coat. Truth be told I rarely allow myself the lie down, perhaps in the fear that the fragile lust for life allocated for the day that’s in it may not awaken after 13 minutes of sleep. I did try to convince myself that there was something to be said for that squishy state, that if I went with the wobbling for a while I could allow my body to stand up in a newfound position when the ground would decide to feel firmer.
When the light decide to break out and greet me on Wednesday I am grateful to say the least. It is February, still hedgehog-under-moss time of the year, hugging oneself tight in order to be strong in the long run.