Mud Seasons

I’ve learned that as much as we seek to avoid the bad things in our lives, the mud in our lives, we need that mud for what grows from it. Every time mud gets thrown into our lives it is a kind of a death, with new life, a resurrection waiting on the other side. As I smear the landscape painting of my finger painting youth masterpiece, the great brown lower half across the bottom portion of the paper is sprinkled on top with pushed on thumb prints tiny, bright yellow flowers. The whole painting suggest I created it out of a great thought process, for mud makes flowers, but at greater thought I devise these paintings as a child learning as I come back to each year out of necessity to learn more. No mud, no flowers. Makes sense really. As I enter my mud seasons, my dark times. I’ve grown to ask, what death is this? Or what is it in me that needs to die this time? Out of these deaths, what resurrection will come? I only hope to be here, as resurrections occur in such regularity that there is a continuous row of paintings with green smears on the bottom, flowers reaching to the yellow sky. Stacks of sparkled happiness laid out as far as I can see. Walks of pure light ahead of me, a museum of love, surrounding an entrance- way to hope. Answers come to where we may land, questions unanswered will not let me rest. I wake at night, realizing all the years that have passed. Wondering why still I am here patrolling my thoughts upright and aware. Roads unseen are being repaved by friends gone to higher hills. I wake in the night and look forward to what the morning will bring. We do what we can, we blanket others with smears of paint, we brush loads full of love, we stretch out arms of hugs, like blank canvases of our youth. We paint through the mud years… We clean our brushes, and start a new masterpiece each morn…
-f.messina 11.16.17 (blanket Orlando eve)

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