Muddy Girl Manifesto

I spent most of this Memorial Day weekend outside, like millions of other Americans. I went on a long bike ride, which was glorious. I sat on my porch. I went to a BBQ. I walked to friends' houses instead of driving.

And a realization about myself resulted from these forays in the outdoors: I am a muddy girl.

Allow me to illustrate. The destination of my bike ride was Utah Lake, which is notoriously "gross." The water smells, the mud is a quagmire, and there are a ton of mosquitos. No one swims there. My friend didn't even want to walk close to the shoreline. So I, of course, left him on the bike trail and went to stand on that shoreline and look across the water. We were there, weren't we? No way I was gonna miss out on the view, even if some of the biggest mosquitoes I've ever seen (and let's be clear here, I've lived in the Adirondack Mountains of New York State, so mosquitos are not unfamiliar to me in the least) immediately rose in a billowing cloud above my head.

And on the way back home? I did, indeed, stop along the trail and dip my hands into the Provo River, despite the cold. If I had worn sandals instead of sneakers, I would have waded. It's there, and I'm gonna experience it!

If you've seen me gardening, I was probably out there in my bare feet, gloveless and unheeding of the dirt getting under my nails. Gardening is about digging in with both hands. Dirt washes away.

If it's summer and I'm driving, those windows are all the way down, and so is my hair. I want to feel the wind, and who cares if my hair gets tangled? It can be combed out.

Ceramics class, my freshman year of college, was delightful. I didn't care about getting clay all over me, I just jumped in and had the time of my life, centering the clay and creating. My roommates always made fun of me when I came back from class, wondering aloud if there was any possible way I could have gotten more dirty. I wish that picture of me just after class one evening was accessible...

And oh yeah, doing the dishes is going to result in a little bit of a soaking down my torso and/or legs. And playing with my nieces will result in a spill or two on my clothes. When I go camping, there is no worry about preventing myself from smelling like smoke. I get right up to the fire and let the heat soak in; allow my hair and clothes and body to absorb that wonderful, woodsy smell. I got grass stains on the knee of my pants less than a month ago. Today, my knees collided with the ground while doing the limbo during field day. I probably could have just twisted my head aside and admitted defeat, but I wanted to go all out. Now I have some lovely mud stains to prove that I did, and guess what? That'll wash out, too.

I throw myself in. I'm not afraid of getting dirty; of reveling in the mess that's part of the experience. I like to live a little loud. I'm ok with opening up to and feeling what's happening a little deeper than most people let themselves. I'm not afraid to be uncomfortable. I'm not afraid to be seen unedited. I want to sink my teeth into living. I'm a muddy girl.

I go in, and I get dirty. When it's done, I pull myself out, clean up, and go on living. And you know what? I prefer it that way.