Muddy Boots and Rented Grass
It was only in the past few years that I experienced my first ACTUAL mud season. Growing up in the Rocky Mountains we called "mud season" the time of year after the ski resorts closed and the tourists went home. However Colorado's arid climate, even when snow is melting, doesn't hold a candle compared to the amount of mud produced in the temperate rainforest that is Western North Carolina. Mud season here lasts most of the winter since nearly all the trees and plants are deciduous and go bare for the winter. Until there is enough foliage to cover the ground, each rain storm can turn innocent dirt into a massive, sludgy mud pit.
When we first moved to Asheville, I didn't see the impacts of mud season, because we lived in an adorable downtown apartment and were surrounded by concrete. (Lucky Asheville bastards!)
Then when we moved to our first little farm east of Asheville, I got my feet wet (literally) with farming and discovered that mud season is a force to be reckoned with. But the only people who get the pleasure of experiencing unrelenting mud swallowing you up with every step, are those who spend their days in wild, unpaved places. I am, of course, thankful for the daily gift I have of spending many of my hours outdoors!
Anyway, in my classic over-thinking brain, I can't help but notice and reflect on how mud season is a long season of waiting. Waiting for spring. Waiting for warmer temps. Waiting for a shocking green color to once again suffocate the landscape in a declaration of life.
I imagine most of us can relate to seasons of waiting. Waiting for retirement, waiting to find love, waiting to find a job that feels purposeful, etc.
Farming is a constant game of waiting. Planting seeds and then waiting for them to grow. Raising chicks, and waiting for them to be ready to harvest. Working really hard, and waiting to make money (lol).
Waiting to find our own “forever farm” is the nagging desire that follows me around like a mosquito, reminding me how fragile our relationship to farming is without owning our own land. I am quite content where we are now, and am in no rush to pick up and leave, but of course I still dream about the day when I’ll wake up and look outside at our own land. Lately, I've been reminding myself that most periods of waiting will eventually recede.
Similarly, the hopeful news about mud season is that it is, finally, almost over. This past week many of the trees have begun to bloom on our street. Soon, spring will burst forth and we will have respite from mud season just long enough to forget its brutality.
Sending you all every ounce of patience I can spare as you likely navigate seasons of waiting.
Cheers,
D
Asheville skyline from our favorite spot last Spring!
