Nature Blog - Place Entry #6

Friday March 19, 2010 5:30 pm

Hints of spring are starting to appear throughout the valley. The late afternoon sunlight shimmers on the ripples of the lake instead of glinting dully on its frozen gray surface. The snow on the mountains is beginning to show signs of wear, and on Mount Cascade, lines are being drawn down its side, winter tenaciously sticking on the north-facing sides while mud and grass appear on the south.

Spring in Utah is predictable only in its unpredictability. The days shift from freezing temperatures to weather warm enough for flip-flops overnight, sometimes within a few hours. Spring feels like the battleground of winter and summer. During this time, the two seasons fight for the upper hand, neither gaining much ground until eventually there are more days that feel like summer than winter. Until then, we are prepared for rapid changes.

As I drove from spring weather at my house to distinctly winter weather in Provo canyon, I wondered if the earth and plants and rivers and nature itself ever fear the changing of the seasons, if it's both a yearning for and hiding from the moving forward that spring demands. The past few weeks have brought both winter and spring into my life: sorrow and stress, grief and triumph, tension and tears--a lot of tears. The weight of heavy emotions has been mostly lifted, but when I find myself overwhelmed with what is still left and wanting to relieve my burden through crying, I can't. It's like I have cried myself out, used up what seemed like a never-ending water supply. As I drove up the canyon, a few specks of frozen water splat on my windshield, all the energy winter could muster, and I felt like nature was all cried out, too.

The sides of the mountains were covered in what appeared to be purple fur made from thousands of bare branches and trunks. It was a dead scene, snow's leftovers, but the grayish purple hoped for more colors. As I walked along the now-clear-of-snow trail to Bridal Veil Falls, I was surrounded by a brown-gray haze, suddenly punctuated by bright red. I looked more closely and saw red branches growing all along the sibilant river, a harbinger of life, I am sure. High above me on the cliff walls, the "Stairway to Heaven" was half gone, dark stains the only trace of the solid mass of icicles. The waterfalls were roaring strongly, and the curtain of ice on the side had broken apart and melted, freeing the water to flow. Except for a covering of snow at the base of the second waterfall, the rocky descent to the less-frozen pond was unobstructed. Spring has started to reclaim this area, and little by little, winter loosens its grip, however unwillingly. Change is necessary and good, but change also means surrendering what is past and letting go of what has passed.

The day that I found out my cousin had been killed in Afghanistan started out beautiful, sunny, and almost warm. By midday, thick, dark clouds had collected, and within a few hours, the temperature had plummeted and the snow was coming down thick and fast. When the news was confirmed to me through my sister and then my husband, there were two inches of fresh snow on the ground. It felt appropriately morose, but I was also grateful for the blanket of white that muted sounds, emotions, and pain. The hard edges were gone; there was a cushion, reassurance of a softened landing, though the concrete would still be underneath.

The snow was gone the next day, but it returned the following weekend when the funeral was held. As I stood at the grave site surrounded by family, cold rain mingled with tears, and by the time we had said our last goodbye and climbed inside the protective warmth of our cars, there was a layer of pelting snow on the roads that made driving arduous. Again, I was glad of the brief blanket, the blank that I could pour myself into and let the white wipe me away.

But the snow melts, the sun returns, and the battle continues. The seasons pull and tug at each other, pushing forward, pulling back, retreating and charging. Unwilling to let go and yearning to move forward. It just takes time.