A field of mud, or....
By Miss Woodville -
There is something alluring about winter wheat. When every bush, every tree is naked and grey, when animals curl up in their caves and birds migrate south, when people withdraw into their houses, that of brick and that of mind, fields of green winter wheat stands as a stark contrast. I like winter, I like the hibernating condition of everything, but still, that strong color in the midst of none….
I don’t remember the green winter crop from my childhood, actually a field of mud is always the first thing that comes to mind, when thinking about my roots. It reminds me of how sensorial rather than visual the experience of life is as a child. When a muddy field of course is there for you to sink your boots into until stuck, to squeeze the water out of with your hands, and mould it into anything. Now I squeeze a lot more than water out of that muddy field. As I grow older, the closer my childhood feels, and it becomes more and more evident, what a significant role it plays in my creativity. The way nature and my imagination walked hand in hand back then, is turning ever so true now. So, that field of mud, in reality flat, is in my moulded memory, on a slope, and the surrounding landscape that one in actuality can see, is, in my nowadays much more visual imagination, hidden, and one needs to venture to the the top, to be able to view what’s on the other side. I wonder if it’s a field of winter wheat….