Spring arrives without ceremony. No stark transitions announce its presence—only a gradual softening of the earth and a slow awakening of the soil. This is the time of mud, nature’s messy interlude between seasons. It’s a time of in-between: not-quite-this and not-yet-that.
Night falls, and frost’s delicate fingers reach into the topsoil, expanding it and cracking it open. At dawn, the sun’s tepid warmth prompts retreat and contraction. This nightly dance of freeze and thaw transforms trails into muddy streams, lawns into swamps, and roads into slick channels coated with earth. Spring rains only make things worse—mud clings to tires, cakes on boots, and follows us indoors, leaving tracks on kitchen floors.
Last month, I had a mile-long nature trail cut through the woods surrounding my home. I had imagined spring wanderings, wheels and feet exploring the beloved green thicket. I envisioned summer mountain bike races and autumn strolls through rustling leaves. But now, it’s nothing more than a winding stripe of mud—a gash in the forest floor.
To improve the trail, I’ve turned to frost seeding.
The concept is elegantly simple: scatter small seeds—clover, hardy grasses—along the muddy path. Let the rhythm of freezing and thawing do the work. Tiny fissures open beneath the seeds as the soil freezes and expands each night. When the ground thaws in the morning, these cracks close, drawing the seeds to the perfect depth. There’s no need for plowing or raking; soil and weather become the gardener.
This is how nature has always planted—patiently and unhurriedly. Seeds fall during autumn’s ripening, lie dormant through winter’s chill, and then sink into the softening earth with spring’s arrival, nourished by last year’s decay.
The valley knows this truth: creation flows from dissolution—breaking open the ground beneath our feet, embracing the mess, and sinking into the fertile unknown. The mud teaches patience, showing us the slow, inevitable transformation from what was to what will be.
One Response
Dear Bill,
I opened your blog for the first time this morning and was stopped in my tracks by your journal entry about spring mud. I read it through and couldn’t move past it. It spoke to me about my own in between time that I’ve been wrestling with for quite awhile. I actually used your words for my Lectio Divina practice this morning and will do so with each of your entries. Thank you…..And thank you also for putting your experiences and insights out into the world during these troubling times. We need words of wisdom such as yours to keep us grounded, hopeful, and able to see the everyday miracles happening right before us.
With my deepest gratitude, Anne