For my husband, myself and many of our contemporaries here in this northern New Mexico town - along with people in mountain communities across the northern hemisphere - it's a time of seasonal change that ends with winter and invites in summer. Except there's spring in between, which is both a magical period when buds form and explode into a riot of new leaves or delicate pink and ivory blossoms, grass emerges from ground that already longs for snow or rain, birds chorus in a riot of mate or fight songs, and then there are the maddening spring winds that scour the earth and raise dust clouds up and over and into you.
I wake this morning with grit lodged in the corner of my eyes; yesterday I dared to ride the old dirt road a couple miles east of our house, which has been closed to vehicles to become a trail for pedestrians and mountain bikers. I waited too long to leave the house, meandering from one project to another, so that by the time I peddled from road to roundabout to dirt access to trail it was afternoon and the winds had dropped their playful act and gusted in earnest. The air current wasn't so bad when I rode through the protected juniper and pinon, and much of that "Talpa traverse" follows the natural curve of the earth across the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo, and I had more tailwind riding uphill than otherwise. The sky burned blue overhead, granite sparkled under my tires, and my improved skill set thrilled me when I was able to ride sections of the single track that had in years previous made my stomach turn over with fear.
The return ride, however, proves that the wind dominates the landscape: columns of dust rise high and turn the sky cafe au lait, tumbleweeds skitter across the road, and the decline of the slope is not enough to keep me in a higher gear as I pedal against the buffeting force. I want to hide in the sagebrush, call a cab, will myself arrived - which is what I do. Then I'm grateful to hide from the elements, and so very glad for body and mind that I chose to ride my bike, despite the challenges of the return.
It's essential to stay active when the seasons shift. All those lovely days with no particular commitments, since the next season's work hasn't yet appeared. For me, though, I'm not really much a part of either camp these days - no 9 to 5 job, nominal time spent teaching skiing last winter, about that much time on the river ahead of me - I just work when there's work. It would be easy to slump into the couch, watch TV and movies, grow plump with snacks, forget about biking and devolve into less than slothhood.
Instead, I'm riding my bike, getting on the river when I can, and working to renovate the 1962 Airstream I'm lucky enough to own. We have chosen to stay here in our unique New Mexico town for the summer and beyond, instead of returning to Jackson and diving deep into the frantic schedule that is the reality of the seasonal worker in that resort town. We have started to desire following the seasons without having to move from Airstream to cramped apartment and repeat.
Seasonal shifts and the desire to change the trajectory of our lives, from sort of vagabonds to householders who are capable of both rooting down and being able to spring into experiencing other places without having to start over again and again, without that monthly storage fee as a tether. This transitional period is even more exciting and bigger a shift than usual. We won't get blown off course by the winds, and this off season will be a great period of deepening connection and an opening to expansiveness.
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