I was a child who liked mud puddles. Well, mud, generally–but splashing through mud puddles was an especial pleasure. Barefooted in mid-summer at the beach or in the yard; booted other times of year, because I knew better than to wreck my shoes.
Water sends me back. I’m somewhere between the ages of 3 and 11. I am in one of my happy places. A puddle. A puddle in the rain, perhaps.
Of course people, as early humans existing in the marvelous and dangerous world, would infer that water is holy.
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I felt water’s holiness when I was a child. Though perhaps that was a memory of the baptismal font, with me in my father’s grateful embrace.
Stamping in a puddle is one of the world’s great pleasures. And getting deep into wellington boot sucking mud is another. (Until you fall over,)
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And lose your boot to the mud!
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