In All the Muck and Mud
Sometimes beauty shines a little brighter in the dirt.
“If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.”
-Mary Oliver
A rainstorm had rolled through earlier, leaving behind giant mud puddles pooling in the dusty edges of the unpaved streets and the dips of grass patches in our neighborhood.
One giant puddle at the playground, made worse by a sprinkler still dripping water, pulls my daughter toward it like a magnet. The squelch of sludge under her shoes, she quickly realizes, is so much more fun than the swings and slides. She lifts one foot and then the other and begins a slow march in the middle of the puddle. Soon, she crouches down, digging her fingers into the muck, delighting at the surprise coolness of the mud over her hands and up her arms.
The rainstorm has caused earthworms to rise from the ground, squirming in the puddle. My daughter carefully pulls them out one by one and places them in her palm. She immediately assigns them names: Peanut Butter, Jelly, and Cracker.
I look on amused and horrified, unsure if I should stop her or let her have her fun. No one is at the playground, but I wonder what the neighborhood aunties would think, quick to give their opinion and tut-tut at the dirty child. Everything around us is brown and wet. The clouds hang overhead, not quite dissipating, still full of rain.
The other week, we drove up to the top of the ridges that enclose the city. We parked the car by the gate—a pitiful attempt at stopping people from going here. We got out and shimmied around the the gate, holding hands as we went, toddler on a hip, unsure step after unsure step.
Orange corrugated roofs stretched for miles, and the tendrils of smoke from a dozen chimneys meandered like ghosts above the city. The concrete buildings here are constructed haphazardly. Each one is shoved up next to another, whole floors slapped on top of first levels, making the city seem off-kilter like something isn’t quite right. The trees push out of the ground at odd angles like they haven’t properly taken root.
This city hosts thousands of displaced people who have fled the scourge of wars and persecution. A palpable heaviness always hangs over the streets, as if the sorrow experienced by its unwelcomed inhabitants for the last decade still clings to the buildings and sidewalks.
It threatens to cling to us too.
Here is not where we want to call home, yet, here is where we’ve been for the past nine years.
Moving on from the mud puddle, my daughter caked in dirt up to her elbows, we meander back to our house. We always go the same route when leaving this playground: past the yard with the chickens, turn left and run down the wide, flat gravel road, and say hello to the big sleepy dog, who lies in the middle of the street.
We walk by one house in particular, where an older woman is frequently in her yard, hanging laundry, cutting branches, or sweeping her steps. Because we always walk the same way back home, she has seen us multiple times and bustles out of her yard to tell us hello each time.
She emerges from her garden, the end of her apron folded to her chest. Please, please, take these peppers, she urges us, pinching my daughter’s cheek with her free hand. She unfolds her apron, revealing piles of green peppers, and begins tossing them into the back compartment of the stroller before I can object.
At bedtime, we pull out The Last Stop on Market Street, a children’s book in regular rotation at our house. It’s about a boy, CJ, and his nana who take the bus after church to a soup kitchen. CJ spends most of the book complaining, while his nana offers a different perspective on the things irritating him.
We don’t have easy access to English books here, so the titles we do have are well-loved and well-worn. Having read “Last Stop on Market Street” countless times, my daughter easily recites the lines and finishes the rhymes.
I tuck her in, and the rain outside starts again, pattering against the bedroom window.
Every Friday on my Instagram, I share a series of photos titled “#joycrumbs," a riff on Mary Oliver's poem “Don’t Hesitate.”
A couple of years ago, I found inspiration in the poem's last line: Joy is not made to be a crumb. So at the start of the weekend, I post pictures I’ve taken throughout the week, little things that have caught my attention: the extra-bright moon, a close-up shot of two coffee mugs, a beetle on a leaf, a wildflower growing through a crack—little crumbs of joy tucked into the ordinary.
Taking notice of these pieces of joy has been my life jacket during a long and hard season. It’s a way to keep my head buoyed above the waves.
Make no mistake, though. My life is not all lovely things. Not even close. I have to dig and dig to find them.
Towards the end of Last Stop on Market Street, after many gripes about the rain and not having their own car, CJ and his nana step off the bus. As they walk through the streets, CJ sees the graffiti and dilapidated buildings and asks why the neighborhood is always so dirty. His grandma points to a rainbow arching over the soup kitchen and says, “Sometimes when you’re surrounded by dirt, CJ, you’re a better witness for what’s beautiful.”
The ordinary comfort of chatting back and forth, of a neighbor who knows us and waits for us, and these small stories that make up the fabric of our lives— they’re all a warmth offered to a homesick heart that longs to be anywhere but here.
And, in all the muck and mud, these bits of beauty shine a little brighter.
Related:
’s weekly Everyday Magic on Notes. Each Saturday, her community of readers share little moments from the week that made them smile. It’s such a lovely thread to peruse, taking in photos of pets and flowers and sunsets from around the world.
- I love popping into
- shares similarly in her newsletter, listing the simple things in her everyday life, or as she says, “finding the magic in the mundane and making a beautiful life out of it.”
- Coincidentally, I was in the middle of drafting this essay, when I came across , who wrote a beautiful piece based on Last Stop on Market Street and seeing the beauty in the neighborhood she and her family live in.
So tell me, what are some joy crumbs from your week? What is a little spark of goodness that has caught your eye?
Morning coffee with a loved one, a conversation with a neighbor, a good book, a new recipe? Big or small, let’s wipe off the dirt and be better witnesses to what’s beautiful.
Love this!! “Taking notice of these pieces of joy has been my life jacket during a long and hard season. It’s a way to keep my head buoyed above the waves.” I relate so much!! We are in (dare I say it?) an easier season following a few years of hard. But I did the same, gathered the joy crumbs, even then. And now when it feels so much easier to find joy, I wonder if it hasn’t been because of all the careful watch for the glimpses of light for so long.
Joy crumbs! I love this so much. Currently: Amber Lewis’ newest interior design book, coffee walk+talks with a friend and a recent overnight getaway with my college roommate