My kids invented the mudman (above) when breezes were hot. When they longed for snow and sparkling winter days. They filled an empty flowerbed with water, stirring the dirt inside with a stick until it was nice and gooey. Then they formed the lumpy-looking man.
He doesn't have a scarf or carrot nose or a corn cob pipe. His name isn't Frosty. He's completely unknown, and made of mud. Odd, misshapen, strange and unique.
But the thing about a mudman is that he doesn't have to follow convention. He is what he is. He may never be recognized as great. Most may see him as average at best. But he doesn't mind. He stands there with leaf eyes and billowing torso. As tall as a mudman can stand. He isn't hiding or wishing he was a snowman.
He just is.
Often (especially when plowing through the muck of my novel) I wish and dream of being something or someone else. Someone whose writing comes easier. Or who waxes more poetic. More comedic. More famous. Brilliant. Oh, and beautiful. And organized. AND able to keep her house pretty all the time.
Do I ask too much?
Sometimes I forget to just be.
I used to make mudmen, or as I liked to call them mud goblins. And don't we all forget to just be. Thanks for the reminder.
ReplyDeleteMud goblins? Oooo, I like that!
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