nine dollars

The road up Big Mountain, gated during winter months, offers surprise and delight each spring. Receding snow pulls back inch by inch, revealing moose and deer scat, red rock gravel tumbled down from hillsides, new cracks and frost heaves. A bolt from a snowmobile, a mangled and misshapen glove, a ski pole basket. Familiar landmarks, and the intangible but certain promise of new growth.

While the road is still closed to motor traffic, intrepid cyclists ford fingers of snow and ice to reach bare asphalt and continue their upward journeys. This year the plow came early, shoving aside, during the first week of March, what little snow remained. On a bright April day the road, though free of snow, is not free of gravel and rocks and red dust, nor the rare but deadly shard that pokes up and into unfortunate bicycle tires.

I felt it, argued against it, doubted myself, convinced myself it was true, and finally, braked to a slow stop. The rear tire—of course—the one with the complicated derailleur to navigate as I take the wheel off and endeavor to put it back on. The chain goes under this one—no, over—no, this way around the cassette . . .

Biking Buddy Bob played the hero role, removing my tire, stripping the deflated tube, then checking for the culprit, the minuscule piece of glass, rock, metal I had run over. Nothing. I handed him the new tube, the cartridge in its dispenser. Five minutes, maybe a few more, and we were again pedaling, heading down toward the reservoir, Little Mountain summit, home.

I ride thousands of miles, outside, each year. I bicycle our Wasatch canyons regularly, grunting and sweating as I climb, grinning like a fool as I descend. I clean my chain, wash my bike, re-lube. I keep a spare tube and cartridge and sunscreen in my tiny seat pack. Ten bucks and an expired driver license in my front bento box. And I get a flat tire perhaps two or three times a year. Tube, seven dollars. Cartridge, two dollars.

Each spring I participate in the greening of our world. Trees sprout buds, gray-brown trunks and limbs flecked with pale green hope. Red twig dogwood deepens in color, thickens. The shoots of winter-dormant plants green the hillsides, creeping their way up the canyon, each week another few hundred feet higher. Trees then burst into leaf and blossom, bird’s nests once again veiled by fluttering leaves. I tuck behind Biking Buddy Bob’s wheel and float down the canyon.

I pedal as summer heats the earth, as brilliant yellow arrowleaf balsamroot dies, cracks break apart earth, the creeks quiet and laze downhill. Crisp morning air, hot midday sun, sweat, dirt, grime, brownies at Brighton, a PayDay at the East Canyon Resort store. Sunflowers burst, their heliotropic heads following daylight east to west. When they, too, die, stalks thin and dry, and temperatures drop, the world again changes in front of my wheels, and I pedal up the canyon and skirt lumps of snow pushed against the berm. More layers, toe covers, pink cheeks, the thrill of a hot shower back home. The gate at the base of Big Mountain is once again locked. Snow falls, then melts.

Tube, seven dollars. Cartridge, two.

snow fords

there are those who will cross snow, and those who won't.

and of course, those who will cross snow if it's no more than
10 yards wide
10 feet wide
3 feet wide
a foot

I know of a cycling couple who abide by a rule of never getting off their bikes to walk over snow. never. no matter what.
they'll come back the next day, the next week; they wait for it to melt. they are patient.

I will cross fingers of snow. sometimes really FAT fingers of snow.  maybe six or even ten feet wide.
but there must be a long stretch of clear asphalt visible on the other side.

this winter has given us so little snow that I'm able to ride farther up big mountain than usual for march. the top three miles of the climb twist, bend, and switchback upon themselves. as a result, some stretches melt clear of snow long before others.
yesterday, biking buddy bob and I rode up to the point where snow thoroughly covered the road.
and then we stopped. we knew that the snow before us probably only stretched a hundred yards or so ~ and then the road was probably bare for quite a ways, before it curved back into the shade where snow remained thick upon its surface.
"do you want to walk it?"  he asked.
"no way. you?"
"nope."
we looked up the northern hillside, red rock, almost completely free of snow. the road cuts across, and we watched two cyclists speeding down.
forders.
those who walk their bikes across snow.

we turned our bikes, and headed to the next canyon over.

grunt. sweat pooling on my forehead, trickling into my right eye, its salt stinging. I blink, close the eyelid for seconds at a time, try to clear the pain. quadriceps shrieking, angry, moments from defiance, a battle in my head. stop--no--another revolution.  stop.  no.  I cannot do this.  my granny gear won't hold, my mind tells my legs, you'll have to push harder.  harder. I ache to stop, I ache, triceps tight and stiffening, a trickle of electricity ripples my torso, sparks, my abdominal muscles shouting through the skin.

sixty feet. battle. wind presses my back and slips past me.  rushing upward. it cools my skin but my forehead still drips into my eye, stabs of pain, needles. I hold my right eye shut and look at the gray hillside, distraction, please.  snow-matted, ugly, bare sticks of trees, scrub oak bumpy and twisted.  thin clouds lighten the sky, fade its color to the palest blue.  twenty feet.  pain both dull and pervasive, and angrily sharp in fiery strips of muscle.  fifteen.  the road flattens in four revolutions, three, two.  five feet.  quads immediately hush, they loosen, quiver in delight.  buds, pale green, smaller than peas, peek, dirt-crusted snow lies at the edge of the road like a remnant of last night's party.  legs turn faster, speed increases, my eye is clear.
four more miles, some easy, some hard.  then the gate. beyond the gate, snow.

snow which I will not ford, but will look at with respect, before I turn my bicycle and my back, and fly all the way back down the canyon to a city that holds no snow, anywhere.

sea legs

I finally have them.
my cycling legs.
it's taken a few months, but they are back.
thank goodness.

every spring, no matter what's taken place over the winter, it's like starting from the beginning.
the first month's rides are almost full of zone 5, my heart pounding like crazy with each little rise and hill.  then it settles a little so that only 80% of the time am I up in zone 5.  then it backs off a little more, and I'm only in zone 5 half the time.
the rest of the time I'm in zone 4B, just a few beats lower than zone 5.
then comes a day when I am more often in 4B than 5:  the scale tips,
alerting me to the fact that one day, soon, I'll have my cycling legs back.

according to most every source, the roots of the phrase "sea legs" come from seafarers being unable to hold on stably while a vessel constantly rollicked on the water, recognizing that they needed to develop their sea legs.  it's believed the phrase first came into use in the early 1700s.

a period of adjustment exists for every sea-goer, allowing them to get used to walking, sitting, and simply being on something that rolls with the motion of the water.  and when the sea-goer spends time on land again, the sea legs gradually disappear, until they return to the vessel and adjust again.

the same thing happens for us cyclists who are unable to ride our real bikes during the winter months... we lose our cycling legs, and have to earn them back.

I think I've finally earned mine back.
I ride up hills and rises and just barely touch zone 5; I feel I'm back in control.
I have my cycling legs back.
thank goodness.

it's a beautiful day

it's my friend holly who first suggested early-morning workouts, and although she followed a schedule of 3-4 times a week, leaving home around 6am, I somehow discovered that what worked best (?) for me was 6 times a week, leaving home around 5.

and it's that beautiful time of the year when it's dark at 5 but lightening by 5:30, with fully bright skies  shortly after 6.  the air is filled with bird chatter, the world is fragrant with green growth, and critters scamper through the underbrush on either side of the road.  yellow daisies have burst forth on hillsides, and it's just a darn amazing time of year for us early rising cyclists and runners.

at the mouth of the canyon I look before and behind me, my eyes searching out other headlights and taillights, and it's a rare morning I see either.  monday morning a cyclist passed me about 5 miles up, but for most of my upward climbs I am alone, absorbing, thinking, glorying in it all.
this morning I passed a cyclist at---interestingly---about that same 5-mile-up spot, and as I pulled alongside him I noticed his graying hair and the upward lift of the corners of his lips.
good morning, I said, smiling.
it's a beautiful day, isn't it?  he said.
oh yeah, I returned, pedaling, grinning.

and therein lies the gist of this post.
I limited myself; he didn't.
I tend to say, it's a beautiful morning, isn't it?
he said, it's a beautiful day.

he didn't stop at the present moment:  he carried the beauty forward, he projected, he determined, he chose.  his day was beautiful.

and thus I've resolved to start thinking like him.  those incredibly beautiful mornings I'm fortunate enough to participate in are not simply mornings.  they are the beginning of days, and they will no longer be segmented for me.  I will acknowledge them as entire days, carrying the joy and wonder with me, not letting that early morning experience escape, become lost, get left behind as the hours move forward.

it's a beautiful day, isn't it?

patience

it's that time of year again when I need to dig down deep and find, within, some patience.

like most everything in life, cycling is cyclical. (that makes me smile.)
every spring when the weather turns nice we ride, we ride more, we ride longer and longer, we ride harder, and guess what? we get better.

and then the season ends, we back off, we ride less, we ride shorter, we go indoors and do intervals, our total saddle time is cut by up to half.

winter happens,
spring appears,
and the cycling cycle begins again.

last weekend gave us 2 incredible days in the the 70's, and of course, most of us who love to ride hit the road. the cycling cycle has begun again.
which is the reason I need to dig deep and find the patience to let myself build back up to the place I was last fall.

saturday some biking buddies and I rode up to brighton, and it was hard-hard-hard. I was at the top end of my anaerobic zone (okay, ventilary threshold) for a good half of the ride, which means only slightly less than an hour. this is a ridiculous place to spend an hour, and it hurt. but if I'd gone any slower I would've fallen over sideways.


not really, but I was the tail end of the 5 of us, and I didn't like it. I had to at least keep number 4 in sight.


so instead of being frustrated, I need to be patient.
I need to remember that it's only march; I need to remember that the first big climb of the season is always painful, difficult, ridiculously high heart rate the entire time. I need to remember that this is only a phase; I need to remember that this will change.


patience with myself.
faith in myself.
trusting that I will work through this and get better.

there is a time to sow, a time to reap. a time to lay fallow, a time to be fertile. a time to read on the couch, a time to work. a time to spin indoors, a time to remember the delight of outdoors. a time to eat, a time to relax, a time to be grateful, and my favorite,
a time to dance.

spring brings the cycling cycle back to the time for patience, faith, and trust.

because the thing about cycles is that they're cyclical, predictable, faithful, dependable; and if they move quickly enough, they create this really cool thing I call

swooping.


see you out there!

on feeling like a groundhog

I have this recurring experience while riding during the past six weeks or so:
I feel like punxsutawney phil.
without the paparazzi.

it's been gray, cloudy, rainy, snowy, sleety around here, just about everything but sunny. and then every once in a great while, the sun will pop out from behind the clouds and I'll see my shadow.
yes, I see my shadow!
I get all excited--look, sunshine, wow!--and then I think about phil. does this mean six more weeks of gloom? or is spring coming? it's almost june: shouldn't spring be here by now? how does it feel to be phil, does he feel anything like I do when I'm surprised (gratifyingly) by my shadow? does he care whether it's gloomy or sunny?

I saw my shadow again today, quite a few times during my ride. then it disappeared for great lengths of time. I missed it. I'm ready to see it more regularly.
I'm done with the hibernation of winter, I'm ready to ride sleeveless and without toe-covers. I'm ready to have my tan lines pop back out for the season, I'm just plain old ready for it to be warm.
and sunny.
and full of shadows, preferably my own.

it's snowing on my geraniums

just imagine what my geraniums think, and double that.
and that might come close to what I'm thinking as I sit here, inside, on may 17th, and watch it snow.
all over my flowers, my plants, my lawn, my sidewalk, and my streets.
my streets, where my bike wants to ride.

sigh.
the forecast for the week is dreary and gloomy, and it's likely ruby won't be seeing dry pavement much at all.
I keep telling myself how beautiful it is, the snow that sits on all of our mountaintops, and how fabulous it is that we're receiving so much moisture, here in our desert state.
but there's a part of me that's moaning and moping, shivering and grumpily wrapping up in blankets. waiting for the pavement to dry.

they say life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.
life is snow and sleet when you want to be riding your bike; life is disappointments and heartache when you want to be joyful and easygoing. life is work, chores, seriousness and responsibility; life is hugs and spontaneity and stalwart pansies who peek their heads through blankets of snow.

enjoy the rain, susan, enjoy the respite from pedaling and climbing. enjoy the lush growth and vibrant trees, the smell of wet earth and the mountain peaks outlined in snow.
you will be able to ride your bike when it's time.
tomorrow you can make plans again; today was meant for enjoying fresh, white, clean fat snowflakes sitting, fleetingly, on your crimson geraniums.

like-minded souls

it's possible we say this every april, but here goes anyway:
gosh, it's been a lousy spring.
for bike riding, that is.
apparently it's been great for skiing, and for snowfall, and for drought-resilience.
but pretty lousy for cycling.

what I notice, therefore, is that every time the clouds crack open, the sun shines down, the pavement dries, the snow pulls back away from the bike lanes, the cyclists whip out and head up the hill.
on the crummy days, the 40-degrees-but-I'm-going-to-ride-anyway days, you see cyclists out and about, but you can often count them with just two hands, and they all have the look of someone who is doing what simply must be done.
when small white clouds dance around the sun and the temperature climbs above 50, it takes both hands, both feet, and some remembering to count all the cyclists spinning past.

I am not alone.

how many of us watch the weather, waiting for breaks in the clouds, waiting for temperatures to climb to our minimum-comfort zone, pushing our work and chores around until they fit into our non-riding hours?
this morning dawned wet and gray, but before long the roads began to dry and within hours the sun was beginning to peek through the billowing clouds. it wasn't more than 40 degrees, but I was tempted. an hour, maybe, an hour just here in the neighborhood, no climbing up to the snowline, just a street cruise. however, work kept me pinned, and I let go my fantasy.
had I gone, I would have seen other cyclists.
had the weather been even twenty percent nicer, I would have seen more.
and had it been a gorgeous day, I would have been weaving through them in the bike lanes.

I am not alone.
a little sunshine, a little warmth, and we come crawling out and pedaling up the road, and this very simple thing is why I smile and wave, and feel a sense of camaraderie with every other cyclist out there.
none of us are truly alone, because we all share that little something that calls to us, that pushes us out the door, that fuels us and rewards us and tells us that we are bound to feel better if we just get out on the road and start pedaling.

that 206 mile thing

it's here.
officially, I'm two days late in commenting on it.
I have five more day before I'm too late to sign up.
and I don't really want to talk about it.

maybe that's because it's gray outside, ugly and windy and disheartening to someone (me) who wants it to be gloriously spring. it's hard to dredge up enthusiasm for a twelve-hour bike ride when I only want to be snugly wrapped in a blanket, sitting on my couch, reading a book or perhaps even dozing.

my legs are tired. my hips are in that painful transition back into yoga, where their ridiculously-tight selves are being asked to loosed up and relax. (yes, I could still add more pigeons to my life.) I've squeezed in a few bike rides lately, alternating between toe covers and full booties, braving the temps the other day by wearing capris instead of full tights.
I'm tired of full gloves.
I'm tired of headbands, beanies, and jackets.
I'm tired of goosebumps and shivers and ice cream headaches from the cold.
and I'm really, really tired of gray.

yesterday the sun shone brilliantly for hours. everything seemed possible: I even thought about visiting the lotoja website and signing up. today gloom has resettled itself upon us, and there's no way I'm going to www.lotojaclassic.com.

the grass outside my window is greening up nicely, but it's also bent over sideways, and a few straggling leaves dance past every now and again. bare branches bend and dip, and my terribly brave daffodils bob and dance, their stems more resilient than I can imagine, having survived the blizzard last sunday and continuing to lift their heads skyward.
I should pay attention to those daffodils.
it's not just their heads that lift high, they are lit by a life force that begins in their roots and continues upward, strengthening the stalk and enabling this cheery, faithful, tolerant, irrepressible life form to thrive regardless of what the world throws its way.
take a lesson, susan.

gray comes and goes.
sometimes it lingers longer than I'd like it to. sometimes it colors my world in a way I wish it wouldn't. sometimes it's so thick I forget that there's blue up there, above it, just waiting to have access to my space again.

206 miles isn't really that far, is it? and twelve hours isn't really that long to ride a bike, is it?
nope. not really.
it's all possible.
if those darn daffodils out there can do it, so can I.

fissures

a western meadowlark, yellow chest shining, it's cheerful song dancing across the road.
a prairie falcon, sitting atop a narrow, bare tree, seemingly immobile, perusing its vast, austere estate.
a yellowed, weathered rib cage, likely cervidae, off to the right side of the road, shocking me by its abrupt appearance: how long has this been there?
wind pushing steadily from the south, the west, determined, undeterred from its path.
the reservoir, frozen still but losing its battle with spring, ice pulling back from shorelines, fissures opening across its expanse, surface rough and uneven.
early april in dell canyon, the hillsides having released their snow, the life beneath ground not yet showing itself, not yet sending up shoots and blades of green.
perfect riding weather, temperature in the upper fifties, cool enough to remind me it's still early in the season, warm enough to allow capris and fingerless gloves and a head that's bare under my helmet.
though I love the falcon and the chipper song of the meadowlark, it is the fissures in the frozen lid of the reservoir that capture my interest, my soul. they decorate the top, one here, another there, no rhyme or rhythm to their placements, and the glance into the depths below that they allow is simultaneously flirtatious and dangerously seductive.
a dash of dark amidst the eighteen shades of white that compose the textured glacial surface, each fissure is an opportunity, a space between, a place to initiate change.
leonard cohen would tell us a fissure is where the light comes in; I first see the fissures here as exciting, a sign of progress. I liken this to personal growth: we cannot move forward until a crack appears and we widen it, splitting it apart and letting what's new and fresh, different, better, make itself known.

today I saw the season's first earthworms, plump and curled, brought to the pavement by last night's rain and snow.
the seasons change, often slowly but always, inevitably. ice melts, snow fades, plants send forth new shoots.
fissures happen.
things change.
we grow.
and we eventually find ways to let the light come in.

asking for what you want

a few days ago I was moaning and groaning about the gray clouds, the depressing weather, the seemingly unending season of blah we've been in, well, forever.

I asked for a few things--just a few--like blue skies, like warmth, like green shoots that would blossom into crocuses. or crocus. or croci.

yesterday the temperature rose above sixty degrees, and this morning as I drove off I looked at my side yard and saw that I received exactly what I asked for.

what shall I ask for next?

a new bike? an agent for my book? unlimited super powers? I've always wanted to try being elasti-girl, just for a day . . .

go ride your bike!

the crack

I felt like staying close to home this weekend, not wanting to ride too far south or north, instead just heading directly east up my dependable emigration canyon.

this happens to me often: when it comes time to make a route decision, I consider and reject any route that takes me too far south. for some reason, fifteen miles up emigration feels so much closer to home than fifteen miles toward little cottonwood. it's not: I understand that. but my comfort zone seems to extend much further east than it does south.

so yesterday I rode emigration, then toward east canyon until the dense wall of snow prevented further travel (that would now be 1.3 miles past the gate), then down to mountain dell golf course and the edge of I-80, turning around and coming back up the hill, up little mountain, down emigration, and home. I promised myself a longer ride today.

and then today dawned, and I didn't feel like a longer ride.
so I basically repeated yesterday's ride, just without the big hill down to and back up from mountain dell.
I held the goal of trying to decipher scenic differences between the two days. I had hoped that the road to east canyon would have been clear a little further, what with the mild temperature of yesterday afternoon and this morning, but that changed very little. where I saw the most difference was little dell reservoir.
yesterday it looked significantly frozen, with only the north and west edges showing water where the ice had pulled back. but today I saw more water, and most excitingly, the large crack across the center of reservoir, south to north.
unfortunately, I can't swear that the crack wasn't there yesterday.
perhaps I just didn't notice.
but today it was glaring, gorgeous, powerful, and I thought about being there to witness its development; what a gift that would be.

the reservoir is reclaiming its more active life, the water slowly changing from its sluggish and thickened state to a form of itself we're more familiar with, the kind we love to dangle our hands in and dip our toes in and splash about it. soon the ice will pull back further and further, and the wind will reach between its shelves and tickle the reservoir, calling it back to playfulness.

I think I'd just like to camp by the side of the reservoir, watching the ice melt, pulling back its boundaries, freeing the water beneath to once again feel the warmth of the sun. I'd bring a few books, plenty blankets, and a good store of food, of course. a journal, a good pen, sunglasses, and one of my favorite coffee mugs.
I'd sit on my camp chair, perusing the imperceptibly changing scene until suddenly I would realize it was no longer the same, that a transition had been made before my very (seemingly oblivious) eyes.
I'd stay there as long as it took, until the glacier was broken apart into pieces that floated across the surface, bumping into each other and cracking again, slivers dropping away and into the gently moving body of water. wind rippling the surface, sun casting glittery sparkles over the entire space, the reservoir becoming itself once again, the same and yet intensely different.

perhaps I'd bring my bike, to go for the occasional spin, knowing that each time I returned I would come back to the same spot which had irreparably metamorphosed into something different, never to return to exactly what it had been.

the air out there

I love this: early morning in late may or early june, when my sprinklers have completed their sequence and the air sweeps over the wet grass and in through my open windows. I love this.
I know it won't last more than an hour or so, but each time a little gust of wind brings that cool dampness into my home I am filled with joy.
I have my own little oasis, I've created my own special house-cooling system, and I just revel in the unique little part of the world that I get to --- temporarily --- call my own.

sometimes I sit on my back patio on these same mornings, sipping coffee, wrapped in a blanket because it's still so cool as to almost be cold. my patio is tucked in the northwest nook of my L-shaped house, where the shade hovers for most of the morning. the skies are powerfully blue, and I can even see rays of sun shooting from the east, up and over my rooftop. but my spot is crisp and protected, the leaves and small branches on my trees moving gently with little breezes.

I sit and sip, I let myself be a being. I let thoughts drift in and out and make friends with each other. I contemplate as little as possible, knowing that it is this down time, this almost meditative space, that will strengthen my awareness, my resolve, my ability to be who I'm meant to be.

I love this, this window of opportunity, these weeks when the air gives me this incredible gift. my desire is to never forget to take these openings, these incredible moments, and let them refill my soul.

rabbits and pink snow

when I was growing up, my dad liked to drive fast. however, getting pulled over by the police and being given a ticket was not something he liked. this is when I learned about rabbits.
when we'd be driving on the freeway, and another car would zip past us, my dad would say, ah, a rabbit, change lanes and follow that car at a respectful distance, increasing his speed while enlarging the grin on his face.
rabbit, I wondered, what was that all about?
I don't think I ever asked him.

for a while it just rested in my memory banks. then for a long time I twisted it up with the information that rabbits used to be used to confirm a pregnancy. (way back when a woman's urine was injected into a rabbit and then resulting changes in the rabbit's ovaries would tell whether or not a woman was pregnant: the rabbit had to be killed to check the result.) I made it up into the story that the fast car passing us became the rabbit, and he would then be the one to die (get a speeding ticket), saving my dad that heartache.
then there's the hunting analogy: the rabbit runs out in front---they're fast---but they eventually get caught.

or maybe it's simply that rabbits are fast.

I still don't know why my dad called those fast drivers rabbits, but it's certainly stuck with me all these years, and now I apply it to my cycling life.

there are frequently rabbits out there on the road ahead of me. but I don't usually catch them. however, they provide great incentive, especially when they're just enough out of my reach but not too far as to disappear completely from sight.

once another cyclist passed me on a climb, then I passed him as he paused at the top. then he passed me again on a long flat. he referred to the "tortoise and the hare" as he passed me the second time, pulling in front of me and stretching the gap between us to 20 feet or so. at which point he slowed, waiting for me to catch up, then apologized for his possibly-interpreted-as-rude comment. I laughed and told him I can accept reality: I am not a rabbit.

but I had a rabbit this morning, and he made me work. at the mouth of the canyon I saw a cyclist just rounding a bend ahead of me, far enough away that I could only make out a shape with a red light on the back. as there aren't many cyclists out in the early dark, I was intrigued. I kept thinking he would eventually pull so far ahead that I'd lose sight, but as the curves of the road straightened I would almost always see him up there, teasing me with a quick glimpse before he began rounding the next curve. yes, for the last two miles he pulled enough ahead that I could no longer see him.
until I was 25 yards from the top, and he was heading down on the other side of the road.
bill, I said to him, as he crossed to my side to say good morning.
yep, my rabbit was a known entity, and he finished my climb with me then pulled me back down to the awakening city.

we parted at the canyon mouth, and I continued on my homeward path, letting the wind push around me. it was coming down from the east, and as I approached a particular cross street I saw a flurry of little beings dancing like mad as they hopped across the road. as I neared they became more distinct and I saw that thousands of tiny pink petals were being whipped from their beautiful, blossoming pink tree homes and send to the ground, across the street, to find new homes within blades of grass, or upon piles of their own pink forerunning rabbits in the gutters.
snow, I thought to myself, pink snow.

pink snow and rabbits. what a delightful start to a day.

spring

happy spring! as it is visiting us with one of its many and varied manifestations . . .

today we have experienced so many different versions of "snow" that I've lost track. I have seen everything from powerfully heavy snowflakes as large as my thumb to light-as-air flakes that looked and acted like fireflies, spending more time and energy in a sideways motion than that in a downward trajectory.
I walked in the snow carrying an umbrella to keep from becoming drenched, and I walked without, bareheaded, letting the tiny and infrequent flakes flutter around me.
as I type, I am looking out my window, watching big, fat flakes float thickly downward in a constant pattern that, were the ground still frozen, would result in inches piling upon inches of prior flakes. however, the earthen temperature being what it is, the ground is fighting back, struggling to keep its claim of springtime, and the grass welcomes its little white coating while still poking its evergreen self skyward, above any kind of blanketing that might want to be happening.
and even as I type, the flakes have shifted once more, now a little more sparse, a little smaller in stature, a little less resolute.
yes, spring.
I feel something in the air.
something different, something hopeful, something that acknowledges life's blips and bumps, yet tells us to keep moving forward, to not get stuck behind what is really but a extra bit of asphalt clumped in a little ridge.

this morning I did my best headstand ever. it lasted so long and was so steady that I know, I know deep down inside, that I am making progress. today I still used the wall to steady myself when needed, but there will come a time when I don't need that security.
there will come a day when I will stand on my own little head, and know that I got there with a bit of direction and encouragement from miguel, but mostly by myself, through determination and practice and progress and commitment.

it's snowing today, and it's beautiful. it's the kind of snow that makes you want to stand out under a wide open sky, tilt your head up, close your eyes, and stick out your tongue to catch as many flakes as possible and count them as first they jar your tongue with cold, then quickly melt and tease your tongue with their moisture.

someday maybe I will go outside on a spring day like this, plant my head on the ground, pull up into my headstand, and then stick my tongue out and catch snowflakes on the bottom of my tongue, just to see if I can.

vernal desires

a list of things I'd like to do this spring:

really pay attention to the deciduous trees, watching buds unfurl and leaves journey from childhood to maturity.

go on walks on warm evenings when our city is moving through those magical twilight hours.

sleep out under the stars, cuddled in as many blankets as I need.

ride my bike up millcreek canyon, past the locked gate, as far as I can on the unplowed road until the snow completely blocks my path.

m a y b e go on a mountain bike ride on the bonneville trail on the northeast ridge of our valley, looking down over the city and breathing in gratitude and peace.

be patient.

ride my bike in moab before the heat takes over for the summer.

eat more fresh vegetables, as they (hopefully) start looking happier in the grocery store.

enjoy my children, taking deep breaths and utilizing my patience as they move through the challenges that spring tends to bring.

ride my bike up emigration and watch little dell reservoir go through the thawing process, bit by bit, until the last vestiges of ice linger only in the deep pockets of shoreline.

breathe deeply, regularly, often, and thank the universe for all the beautiful things it's bringing my way.