My sister always said there is a great liberty in getting muddy, a shedding of the norms, an embracing of childhood spirit. As empowering as getting dressed up is, dressing down is the escape from wanting to, to de-mask, to be as-is and original. I've never seen her happier than being mud-splattered, her office-woman and the club-dancer modes switched off.
The mud afterwards was as icing upon a birthday cake, though after the exertion I was possibly more crumbly than sweet.
There is a special part of yourself that comes out when you are running through icy mud for a goal, a warrior that needs a chance to develop, and getting that muddy in the winter runs was just the ticket.
Man, it was, well, refreshing. Let's call it that. After the run we were more earth than human. Getting muddy is one thing... we became mud.
By the time I reached the finish I wasn't sure if there was more earth beneath my cleats or coating my skin. Getting muddy was all part of the experience.
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