They climbed the tree hollering down, “I found one!” The others stood below to catch the toss. Wrinkly, yellow passion fruit landed in the cupped hands. Cracking open they slurped the pink, fleshy insides. I remember when I used to pull life to my face and suck the passion with a childlike hunger.
February bears the nickname Mud Month. How glorious to enjoy the back yard connected to the house. Complete with a sink and spigot the patch of grass and soggy dirt beckoned a frolic. A final fling with friends before school starts next week meant muddy fun.
Digging deep holes with spoons and letting them fill with sludge.
Throwing spades to break up clods and clip through the long blades overgrowing the plot of land.
Water balloons smashed with a plastic cricket bat by squealing children clad in swimming goggles.
The itchy dirt dried on bare kid skin.
A growing teen conscious of the afterwards quietly sets to work the mud back to its origin.
These 29 days officially inaugurated by a loud rumpus in the mud. I watched from the kitchen window, tethered to my grown up world of work and worries. I reassure myself of the goodness in the hardy play they display. Driven by desires, free from the mantle of duty, they simply play. I traded inhibition for ambition long ago. I wonder if I can ever right that wrong. I wonder if I should. I wonder.
At least the wonder still resides. While other adults bury and build and harvest crops in the mud of this month I watch wonderful play. Wonder whirls around with hope like the shady leaves in the passion tree my children climb.
Ambition says grasp.
Inhibition says bask.
Ambition clenches fist and jaw.
Inhibition breathes deep and long.
Inhibition flings arms wide open, face to the sky, toes squishing in the wet earth.