Making mudpies

Love meets the dirt. I am slovenly, yet strangely OCD. When I’m in the zone, I’m messy, Pigpen ain’t got nothing on me. But when I’m in my procrastinator mode, then I’m a clean freak. Sometimes I wonder if I’m on the spectrum. When I was a child, I was mesmerized by mud. I had a small summer mudhole where I patted my feet like a duck. Mud pies were a speciality. I’d haul out my doll  china tea set, and serve fresh baked mud pies with my water tea. Did I attempt to eat them? Probably. I loved their sleek surface, how the clay slip rose to the surface and filled in the grit. Later, when I became a potter, it was like making so many mud pies all over again. I was happiest when I was covered in mud. I was in my element, covered in mud, I was a grubbucket to the core. But that fastidious side could also arise, and then it was about issues of control. I was afraid to let go, I hated the mud baths in Calistoga. I couldn’t wait to get out as soon as possible. I felt so smothered. So much for a Valentine’s gift, it was not romantic at all. I felt like I was being strangled, and it was an apt metaphor for the end of that relationship. I have found that the best way to clean a house was to have a deadline, I am a true procrastinator. Those moments of vacancy. I am always in a state of flux, many half-finished projects rime my room with detritus, a cart of negatives to scan, another cart of sewing projects, mostly mending the past. Stacks of books unread, important papers. A tea cart and snacks, a bowl of favorite rocks, copper canisters, my art supplies and everything all kitted up, fastidiously portable and ready to go. I am still in the go-bag mode, after so many years of living with wildfires. My day pack is a go-bag, my car is a go-bag. I could easily live a week, and teach classes with all the stuff stashed in my car. I am collecting small segments of past lives to fund, in case I lose the rest, a bag lady to the very end.

2/11/22 Mill Valley Library non-fiction workshop with Sarah Broderick