grub: c. 1300, “dig in the ground”, from hypothetical Old English. Transitive sense “dig up by the roots” is from the 1550’s.
I was always a grubby child- covered in dirt or sauce or sudocrem- my mum used to find me slathered head to toe. When she’d ask me why, my answer was ‘because it feels nice’. As a late-diagnosed neurodivergent woman- it makes sensory sense to me now. But I quickly learnt that what felt nice for me, was a pain the ass for other people. Sudocrem is a nightmare to get out. As I grew up, I also grew more and more certain that the grub was within me. Many years were spent scrubbing and polishing for people- If I can be more sweet and less sticky, more shrink and less spill- they will know I am good, not grubby.
I have come to know grubby as the scapegoat for shame. It has taken many forms and has snaked its way into more corners and cupboards of my life than I thought possible. The reasons are endless, the regrets inevitable. Shame has stopped me in my tracks- so often from sharing, from shining, from seeing things clearly. So my intention will always be to dig shame up by the roots. With every day I’m closer to finding the Grace in the grub- closer to embracing the grub itself. With every day I’m closer to the people I love, to togetherness, to play, to meaningful change and to joy.
The words grub and grubby still mean the same on the surface- dirty, mucky, messy. But I feel differently about them. Digging up by the roots is a muddy process. I grow best when I can sit in the mess and get my hands grubby. Whether its clay or paint or pain, I plan to dig in.