e. e. cummings wrote a poem entitled In Just which I tend to think about a lot in spring.  The poem starts, “In Just spring when the world is mud-luscious.”  Mud-luscious.  Is there really any other way to describe things around here this time of year?  Because even though it’s not official “it’s spring when the world is puddle-wonderful.” 

I absolutely loved this time of year when I was a kid.  I’d put on what I call my swamp trompin’ boots and head outside to carve channels and rivers out of melting piles of ice and snow.  I’d divert waterways with sticks and rocks and wade through ankle deep water in the puddle-wonderful place that had once been our yard and was now someplace out of imagination. 

I tried to recapture that feeling several days ago as I chiseled channels through the three or four inches of ice hidden beneath the now steadily melting snow to divert some of the water and accumulating muck away from the sheep shelter and small arena.  Somehow it just wasn’t the same.

What had changed?

Okay, beside the obvious fact that I’m no longer ten years old. 

Is it simply the fact that I’m (theoretically) an adult and carving channels and riverways is now a chore and not an outlet for a child’s wild imagination?  The mud-lusciousness of the sheep yard and alleyway would have kept me entertained for hours as a child.  Now I scowl at it and add to an ever-growing tirade of inventive curses.  Of course, as a child I never had to try and back a 4-wheeler with a trailer down a rutted, slush, mud and ice covered lane so that I didn’t have to carry the two seven gallon water jugs any further than necessary.  Nor did I have to tote 30 pounds of hay across the uneven, slick ground, hoping I don’t trip over a lamb on the way.

We lose so much as we “mature”.  It’s the price of growing up, I suppose.  Some of it is probably good for us to lose.  Some of it, I’m not so sure.  I wonder if I invited my friends over, told them to bring their swamp trompin’ boots and come play in the puddles with me, if they would even remember how and not merely stare at me as if I’ve finally gone round the bend.  In all honesty, I think some of my friends would be all for it.  They’re the ones with either dogs or children.  Dogs and children remind us what it’s like to be uninhibited.  To live for the moment and all those types of things.

Mostly they remind us how to play. 

So I think I may just put on my swamp trompin’ boots and go out to that mud-luscious, puddle-wonderful place that exists in my backyard.  And when Dave gets home from work and asks me, “What are you doing, woman?” I’m going to answer, “I’m playing!”