The Work Beneath the Mud

by Vicki Kensinger

[Originally published in the Spring 2026 issue of Mount Gretna Magazine. View the full issue to see this story in its designed layout, complete with additional images.]

Spring growth (though not the author's favorite skunk cabbage. Photo by Shannon Fretz Photography.

As winter releases its hold and passes into spring, those of us who have been tucked into the quiet coziness of our cottages here in Mount Gretna are drawn forth by the subtle harbingers of spring: the trilling call of the red-bellied woodpecker echoing through bare branches, the scent of thawing earth, or the first hints of warmth in the air kissing our upturned faces.

Suddenly — almost without notice, unless you know where to look — the land itself responds to the invitation. Along the wetlands that flank our little Conewago Creek, a rich, green carpet of skunk cabbage unfurls where only ice and mud had been a week before.

Wetlands are liminal places, much like the edge of the ocean, a vernal pool, or the meeting place of spruce forest with bog. Neither fully earth nor water, wetlands exist in between, holding fertility and possibility. For eons, these saturated landscapes have been the cradle of new life — places where roots first take hold, where fins become legs, and where something learns to breathe differently.

I am particularly fond of skunk cabbage. I love the way it “grows down” before it grows up. Its contractile roots reach for purchase, anchoring themselves firmly in the soggy soil. When nothing is visible above ground, a vast and intricate system is forming below the surface. I love the way it “pushes up” through still-frozen mud and snow, thawing the earth around it with its own body heat. It finds a way to emerge and thrive even when the world above remains inhospitable.

In this way, skunk cabbage reminds me of the beaver, another wetland inhabitant who reshapes its environment to sustain itself. In creating conditions for its survival, the beaver offers gifts far beyond itself, securing the water table and creating a habitat for countless species.

Skunk cabbage does the same in quieter ways. Its deep roots anchor soil, hold nutrients, shape the earth, and filter water. It offers early-season pollen to awakening pollinators and green nourishment for slugs, snails, turkeys, and deer.

Within a week, the winter-barren earth along the creek transforms into a sweep of broad, vivid, heart-shaped leaves, soaking up the sun before the deciduous canopy above has even awakened. The speed of this change stuns me. One day, the tip of a purplish spathe breaks through the mud; the next, hooded blossoms lure pollinators with their heat and pungent scent. Skunk cabbage emits the unmistakable odor of decay—an aroma drawing carrion-loving insects to its flowers, inviting them into the ancient reciprocity that sustains life on Earth.

There is something about making one’s own heat that reminds me that I, too, carry the capacity to thaw what has frozen in me. When I have spent long winters hunkered down in my own roots, drawing deep into the dark, it is heartening to remember how much of life’s labor takes place unseen. Beneath the surface, the work is often far larger, more intricate, and more enduring than what appears above ground. Sometimes what emerges is drawn forth not by sweetness but by what was pungent and difficult to bear.

Skunk cabbage reminds me that what feels dormant on the surface of my life may be quietly preparing to emerge. The same may be true for all of us.

What is thawing in your life right now? Where might you be invited to trust what has been nurtured within you — your deep roots or your capacity to generate warmth from within — through your own long winters? By being who you are, who might you already be offering the world exactly the gifts it needs?

Vicki Kensinger is a lover of the healing power of the written word and the natural world. Her daily journaling practice takes her into the wild terrain of the inner landscape, while her wilderness excursions carry her deep into the backcountry of Ontario via canoe. Mother of five and Gaga to 10, she lives in Mount Gretna with her husband, Don. She blogs at EmmaatLast.wordpress.com and AnAlgonquinAffair.wordpress.com.