If we could throw off convention, if we could dismiss the need for schedules and cleanliness, then my child would spend all day outdoors digging holes and making mud houses and capturing little critters that live in the soil and in the water. Lord, why did you not make us farmers? Alas, we don’t have what it takes physically to work on the land and frankly I don’t have what it takes to live far away from neighbors. So here we dwell in the city, suburbia to be specific as we can no longer keep up with an old house. But you know what? Even in this neighborhood of houses that sit side by side and in this area of yards that are so neatly maintained, my child finds what delights her.

Last week this girl was done—DONE!—after a day of obeying a school schedule. She walked out the back door and was gone for almost two hours. I knew where she was the whole time, but you can bet I didn’t let her know I was keeping an eye on her. She sat under some trees, contentedly playing by a little stream of water that serves as a runoff culvert during storms. She had pulled herself out of her funk by digging in the mud and applying it gracefully to her forearms and boots. I can’t pretend I was thrilled with this. All the things that go through a mother’s mind definitely went through mine: Ask first to play in the mud! Don’t track dirt in the house! Now you need a bath! So on and so forth. But goodness, this kid was made for the mud. She was built to dig her fingers into the dirt, to garden, to create, to feel, to play.

If I had a farm, I would give it to her. As it is, I can let her roam and be free when the opportunity arises. And then I can always photograph the results.