Quiet of spring welcome
I love spring. May and June bring back great memories of having finished university for the year, packing up my little yellow Hyundai and driving to the mountains where I would waitress for four months.
Being in the mountains for May and June was delightful because there were very few tourists around at that time. Not that tourists were bad. July and August were like one long two-month party. I’d meet people from all over the world, have beers around the fire with rich kids in the evenings, go cliff-diving on hot days. But May and June, those were quiet, contemplative months.
My first spring in the mountains was a whole new experience for me. There was a real sense of relief of having finished exams and being away from the stress and bustle of classes, catching trains and working part-time at McDonald’s. Suddenly I found myself in the clear, cold and still air, under tall, skinny fir trees. When there are so few people around, you really hear different things. Wind blowing through the tops of the trees, squirrels chattering, creeks, woodpeckers.
After my shift at the restaurant, I’d often throw on a heavy sweater, fill up my coffee mug and walk down to the lake. I’d sit on the bench and from there could see the ancient cemetery on the hill. Loons called from somewhere; that lonesome sound carried across the water from afar. It was just me and that was fine.
Lots of people don’t like being by themselves. But my Mays and Junes in the mountains made me comfortable with it. It was strange and unsettling to begin with, but it was my first experience of true independence. I was in charge of my own groceries and cooking. It was up to me to make sure I had time to do laundry. It was good.
Being alone that way, both physically and emotionally, brought things out. Thoughts, ideas, anxieties, all bubbled quietly to the surface of my conscious mind. Stuff, important stuff, the stuff of “who am I?” came up, gently for the most part.
I feel like I embraced that time in my life. I remember being very conscious of paying attention. I paid attention one evening after taking myself out for dinner and a movie. As I drove home, the sun was setting and it cast a purple-pink glow on the Rockies to the east. I pulled over on the highway so I could take it all in. It was heaven on earth.
Yes, looking back nearly twenty years ago on those quiet but intense days of May and June, I’m grateful. Those feelings of contemplation and being in solitude are ones I welcome every spring.
