Some writing of some moments

My fingers were burning from the sudden change from the 35 or so degree clay to the hot shower water. The spray was hardly strong enough to remove the muddy substance from under my nails.

I had been shoveling out the trees along the driveway, buried in clay from the work that Steve did last week in getting the water line run from the town tap 500 ft away. He does the big work and  I am left to clean up the details; its always been that way and it seems to make for a good partnering.

As I was digging in the clay, with my hands, I was milling over in my mind a statement by someone about a mediation kind of group I tried to start at one of the on-line servers. My thoughts went back and forth from the comment to the sensory intensity of the thick, heavy wet coldness, gloves having been rendered useless at that point due to saturation, and un-removable sticky clay on my boots, which now weighed an additional 10 lbs or more and grew each time I stepped.

I stepped, and sunk into the muck to the point where suction was created and my foot lost below.

The boot almost came off as I lifted up my leg.

"I think this is the place that the tractor got stuck last week when I was trying to back drag the mud." I had never seen mud that was like pancake batter in texture. The rains didn't and haven't given us much of a chance to get ahead before another storm blew in. Over there is where the pump is in the ditch, and I've been raking channels to drain what was once my yard; now it's a giant mudhole. Excavators are not easy on the small green blades.

He spoke of meetings, and the fact that the meetup group had not had any meetings.... of course, I would love to go to a meeting; love to go to a place where mature adults could be in each other's presence with the idea that practice of meditation as a path to peace and personal development was a great and important thing to do. Or to talk about a book...

But, that wasn't going to get the roots of these trees uncovered so they don't suffocate under all of this density which might carry the blood of century's dead Redcoats or Roger's Rangers. My thoughts were off on a tangent, racing away from the unrake-able clods.

Roger's Rangers ran through the Lord Howe Valley, across the ridge on the other side of the water, and that is where my really big dreams lie, in that valley which seems to be Creation's own home, so resplendent in sun and mist at any moment of the day, surely people would come  and want to do the work of creating. Maybe they would come in a near future, or a far distant time when the dawning  came that the most rewarding sabbatical was one of a hands on contribution. The great big missionary needs we have in this country certainly would benefit.

My red hands  couldn't handle the cold anymore, I promised to clean out between the saplings and then get on with cleaning up for my job required appointment.  I tried again with the trenching shovel, but it was much faster to just reach in with my hands. My hands didn't need to be knocked clean. I clumped the mud up like snow balls, and tossed it behind me for the tractor to spread, if the sky ever stopped precipitating long enough to let the ground dry up. 

Standing up, my boots slid toward the trench where the black pipe laid, not yet covered as we had been working the end of the road  the neighbors used as a shared driveway. It was not going well, down there, the tandem truck bringing the materiel to stiffen the road had gotten stuck up to its axles, and even road matting under 2 loads of item 4 wasn't making the squishy goo become anything that it formerly resembled. 

We needed to put the waterline in because the house has been on a lake feed since whenever the house was put back here; the town didn't require that subdivisions be concerned about running utilities when the roads were put in, nor about whether municipal water was available. Lessons to be learned.

I was beginning to wish for my house, my real house, not the 600 sq ft summer cabin that we have moved into permanently after seeing my daughter begin to wilt under the burning of the ostrasization at her last school, which is in the town our “real” house was in. Her Asperger Syndrome is just pronounced enough to create unacceptability by many, and at that small school, she had been subject to the cruelty of those girls long enough. Another school and maybe some kids who were also on the spectrum, or who had “stuff” of their own, and maybe she would thrive once again.

That was our thinking, and thus far, proves to be the case. She is very happy to go to school, and has some social relationships. Last week she was student of the week, and is certain to be on the honor roll. A marked difference from last years circumstances.

 I rinsed my hands in a chilly puddle which was lined with colorful leaves and golden pine needles. We have not gotten to the raking. Snow may fly before it gets done. 

But the mud. I suppose the mud is my practice, to deal with the muck and the clay, and not lose my mind. I look forward to the day I don't have to hang insulation, stain siding, or wade through mud and can workout, meditate, write or do yoga. And maybe after I can do those things, I can have a meeting.

If I can find anyone to meet with.