Amy Lu's View

“It won’t be long before this looks pretty…”

That’s a thought that kept running through my head during my first hiking excursion of the year at Afton State Park. It was early March, and while I was thankful for the unseasonably warm weather (mid-50’s) and sunshine, the scenery wasn’t exactly inspiring. Everything was brown. And muddy. And brown. 

I wasn’t surprised by the lack of picturesque views. I’m hardly a naturalist, but I understand that early March is simply too early to see signs of spring (or at least any signs I would recognize). I wasn’t disappointed and was just happy to be able to hike without worrying about it being too cold or slippery (it IS easy to slip in mud but still not as hazardous as ice). 

I loved the feeling of anticipation as I imagined how the world would soon be transformed by greenness and growth. The transformation spring brings is miraculous, and I think immersing myself in the before of spring will help me better appreciate the after. 

I don’t want to lose the sense of excitement and expectation of thinking “soon this will be pretty”…but is there a way that I can also think this brown muddy mess “IS pretty” or at least “KINDA pretty and/or pretty in its own atypical and unexpected way”?

The still frozen river was pretty by most common standards, especially with the sunlight sparkling on it. But all the dead flattened prairie grass and bare trees? Um, they presented striking and bold vistas? But what about the mud? Yeah, I’m still in the “mud is just mud” phase of my quest to enjoy nature in all its manifestations.

Obviously, I’m not just talking about the literal, actual early March environment in Minnesota. To spell out the metaphor: Can I learn to be more appreciative of experiences, and people, and my life as they are in the present moment, without fixating on what they will or could be? Or lamenting what they used to be and no longer are (I’m talking to you–my crooked fingers and squishy face!). I don’t think I tend to wallow in “the good old days have passed me by” thinking, but it’s still hard sometimes to not indulge in a little “I’m much older than I used to be and therefore essentially diminished” resignation. 

I don’t think I’ll ever fully appreciate the aesthetics of mud and dead grass. But I just found a quote in the picture book “Last Stop on Market Street” by Matt de la Peña that I read at church today (and how cool is the timing of that discovery–synchronicity!) that inspires me: “He wondered how his nana found beauty where he never even thought to look.”

I might not find visual beauty in a brown early Minnesotan spring day (or its metaphorical equivalents), but now I at least try to look for beauty in places that aren’t obviously or typically lovely. That feels like a powerful step that opens up possibility. 

I am going to be careful, though, so that step doesn’t lead to me falling in the mud, even if that would be pretty funny!