Jun 8


Photo 36I remember playing in thick, brown, oozy mud when I was little. My sisters and I would take spoons from the kitchen, find big, smooth rocks outside, settle into the mud and make cakes. We’d decorate the dark brown blobs with little red berries from the bushes, or leaves from the trees, maybe even add a sprig of pine in the center or small sticks like candles.

I still love the squish of mud between my fingers and the sound it makes when I pull my foot out and find my shoe left behind.

But that’s what happens in mud.

You’re walking along, maybe even running, but the moment you hit mud you slow down and step careful. You lift your feet up and tip-toe the rest of the way. Maybe you stop and try to step out of the mud onto solid ground. And if you are in a beat-up 1989 Jeep Wrangler you become…stuck.

That’s how I feel sometimes with a story.


I don’t love the squishy feeling or the squelchy sound.

I want to keep moving at the same pace with the same momentum and the same inspiration that I had before. I whine and moan, fidget and fuss, thinking how unproductive I am just standing in the same spot. Not moving. Not making any progress.

Then I have to think about those bright days after a rain, when my sisters and I would be outside with our spoons, our imagination, and some really good mud.

And so with that troublesome page in hand, I settle my behind down in the mud, take a spoon, and make a cake.

2 Responses to “Stuck”

  • Edna says:

    That’s a wonderful analogy, Lindsay! BTW, I, too, was big on mud pie making in my time. Loved the squishiness!
    Kudos on your website–it’s very charming and fun. :-)

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