Late March and early April in Vermont is referred to as Mud Season because the winter thaw turns the back roads into soupy mess. This morning as I write this, April sixteenth, I was thirty minutes late for work because I was unexpectedly occupied removing an inch of ice from my windshield, the roads no better. Everyone is done with winter, but Winter is not done with us.
Mud Season is an endearing label, but it's a serious complaint - the ruts that appear in the dirt roads can quite easily cripple the heartiest of cars. Risking them can be an expensive proposition, but for those who live on them, the risk is simply a daily part of life.
And, so, swirling in my anxiety: ruts. Ruts on the road, ruts in my mental patterns. Venturing out the door, mentally, can mean thousands of dollars in delays and repairs. Life is a risky business.
And yet, I entrench in my ruts, and derive some substance (however toxic) from them. Why would I dig down otherwise?
The soap strip frame directly addressing an ongoing discussion I have with a friend who lives miles down a dirt road - and the hidden irony is my internal acceptance of her assertion that the dirt roads are by and large kept in far better condition than the paved roads. The worst roads I encounter, anywhere I've driven, are in the city of Montpelier itself.
And so, another weary time, another weary mind, this is a comic besieged with the same random complaints: bullshit about work policy, bullshit about commuting, bullshit about expectations around work competency. Constant gnawing, spinning wheels, no traction.
The resolution: Stop trying to get somewhere, and look to what's around you, beneath you, for that which sustains.
Late March and early April in Vermont is referred to as Mud Season because the winter thaw turns the back roads into soupy mess. This morning as I write this, April sixteenth, I was thirty minutes late for work because I was unexpectedly occupied removing an inch of ice from my windshield, the roads no better. Everyone is done with winter, but Winter is not done with us.
ReplyDeleteMud Season is an endearing label, but it's a serious complaint - the ruts that appear in the dirt roads can quite easily cripple the heartiest of cars. Risking them can be an expensive proposition, but for those who live on them, the risk is simply a daily part of life.
And, so, swirling in my anxiety: ruts. Ruts on the road, ruts in my mental patterns. Venturing out the door, mentally, can mean thousands of dollars in delays and repairs. Life is a risky business.
And yet, I entrench in my ruts, and derive some substance (however toxic) from them. Why would I dig down otherwise?
The soap strip frame directly addressing an ongoing discussion I have with a friend who lives miles down a dirt road - and the hidden irony is my internal acceptance of her assertion that the dirt roads are by and large kept in far better condition than the paved roads. The worst roads I encounter, anywhere I've driven, are in the city of Montpelier itself.
And so, another weary time, another weary mind, this is a comic besieged with the same random complaints: bullshit about work policy, bullshit about commuting, bullshit about expectations around work competency. Constant gnawing, spinning wheels, no traction.
The resolution: Stop trying to get somewhere, and look to what's around you, beneath you, for that which sustains.
Guy holds a bunch of enokitake.