The Spatial Distinction between Mud and Germs

I have the privilege of living in an area full of wonderful wildlife, and am particularly fond of the birds that inhabit my surrounds. One specific feathered friend of mine is the Great White Egret that often flies onto my driveway and wanders around the garden. Visiting a particular region of bushland, I have often observed him standing in the creeks of a muddy river bed, staring tentatively into the water for minutes on end. Without moving a muscle, he waits for newborn fish to feed among the reefs, until snap – he launches his beak into the water and catches a snack.

As humans our reality is far more sterile than animals, due to the process of domestication. Unlike animals, our mud is relationships, and meaning is drawn from the grit of daily existence. In times of hunger we do not reach down into the depths of a river bed searching for sustenance, but ruminate thoughts in the back of our minds. When that proves useless, we focus our attention up towards the heavens, hoping and praying for guidance from above. This is where we break away from our inherent nature – believing that answers appear miraculously through a bright light to shine our way, rather than recognising that darkness is first needed to birth illumination.

I came across a sketch of mine on a scrap of paper detailing an image of a person diving off their bed and into the depths of darkness, connected only by a rope around the ankle. From my poorly scribbled notes, I recognised the person was using their hands as a form of seeing their surrounds clearly, by shining light on everything they came into contact with. Whenever I sketched this, I clearly did not comprehend its true meaning - however I do now, and it is profound. I recently discovered a shameful exploitation of power, witnessing a shocking mistreatment on someone I deeply cared for. In a moment of heartbreak, I confided in a total stranger with influence to uncover my allegations. They were just as shocked with the turn of events from a seemingly upstanding member of their community but recognised the need to investigate based on existing unfounded rumours. I do not know the outcome of my actions for appearances continue to be upheld, but because I had waded into the mud of uncompromising filth, I was able to place faith in the surrounding darkness of debris.

This concept of needing mud for survival is far removed from our modern remedy of domesticity. In rectangular spaces painted with white walls, we exist in the confines of a predictable environment, failing to understand that a lack of chaos causes more harm than good. Practicing simple acts of guarding against contagious germs from the outside world, we protect, cleanse and remove microorganisms, erasing another’s existence as a daily ritual. However, when we eradicate unwanted dirt, we fail to replace these highly concentrated nutrients with a form of compounds essential to building new life. This tragedy increases the chances of falling victim to the countless dangers of survival in the wrong conditions, believing success can grow from an unfertile and unimaginative, fresh start.

I cannot imagine anyone walking through the door of their house at the end of a long day, rubbing their clothes and scent along walls and furnishings in an attempt to paint the memory of their day onto the foundation of their environment. Yet the required remedy of the masses always returns to creative self-expression when all hope seems lost. When one is creating art, they are fusing the roots of their history with the muck of their life experience, depicting a story that reflects this battle of understanding. Creativity and imagination weaves whatever may be lurking beneath the surface by exposing it as a higher purpose. Meaning becomes subjective, and we appreciate different points of view, based on an interpretation of elements. Individuals draw on particular moments, infusing their breath of personal reflection, unafraid to stand in their own patch of mud. Just as soil is permeable, we too are malleable, so why are we so stubborn when it comes to neutralising dirt from our environments?

Seated on the ground as I write this post, I discover fluff, hairs, crumbs and nail clippings stuck to my black shorts. Instead of showering I will wander outside to watch the sunset, knowing that the wind will blow away these uncivilised dead skin cells and scatter the traces of my existence upon the ground.