Springtime. The very thought of it inspires promise, hope, rebirth...all the things that winter may have left sleeping if not for the equinox. The desire to be outdoors is perfectly timed with longer days and new musicians at Happy Hour on the patio. But this is Phoenix, and at some point in the past it was named the Valley of the Sun for good reason.
This is a reminder that the other sandal will proverbially drop. When it does, and this has little to do with the solstice date on the calendar, the annual apocalypse commonly called summer will take place. It will not be kind, and this unkindness will be shown in ways that nature manifests her indifference to water based creatures - all of us who are one liter low just for having slept through the night.
I have loved the coming of spring. There have been times I've longed for it, and I have spent many years free of concern over a second sandal dropping at all. There were springs when I've lived in places that were too chilly for March sandals anyway.
For instance, one winter I endured the fits and gasps of winter living in an abandoned farmhouse near the Appalachian Trail in Virginia. By definition, this is at some elevation, and also by definition, the abandoned part meant I was heating with downed wood that I chopped myself. These elements will make you wait impatiently for the coming of spring.
It was a long cold season, with my closest human neighbor too far to hear a car horn, but raccoon, fox, and deer were ubiquitous and living right next door in the woods. The latter were in cahoots for the prize that was my dog's bowl of dry food. The bowl was indoors, and the critters were generally outdoors, but this dynamic of need met with denial created a challenge that threaded through our long nights and short days together . Obviously before my arrival there had not been fast food on their side of the county.
I was never sure how they conspired to open the front door, but they often did. It didn't have a functional lock, but there was a doorknob to manage. Nevertheless, there were times I met one species or the other on my wood floor kitchen, much to our shared shock. My task was to quickly move out of the way of the now wide open front door to allow a hasty exit. There were always crumbs of dry dog food left in the wake of these rendez vous.
When late March finally arrived halfway up this mountain, an unexpected crop of wild irises lifted through the thick blanket of brown oak leaves, dried timothy grass, crushed acorns, and thin morning frost. They were purple with deep yellow and thin white edges. There were dozens of them in the meadow that served as my front yard. Each was shorter and stronger, but no less beautiful, than the cultivated ones you see in florist shops. I supposed they were a parting gift from a winter that had not quite made me leave or left me permanently frozen. And they were an early Easter bonnet in a natural world that can be surprisingly delicate and generous at times.
But springtime here in Phoenix, albeit quick and not without the consequence of a trailing apocalyptic summer, has been everything a tourist brochure could fit onto its pages. It's a transcendent time to be outdoors, from daylight until whenever you want to call it a day. My dog Lucy knows the meaning of dog tired. The wheels on my bicycle have made a respectable number of revolutions. I've seen enough NCAA basketball this month to possibly be qualified to substitute for Dick Vitale if he needs a break next week. And importantly, there are empty food containers gathering at friends' houses as deliveries are eaten from my kitchen.
March has been a good time to be between jobs. At this point, however, the balance of that period is tipping toward packing the stethoscope again. It's almost time to get back to work. Remaining flexible, I'm not sure when exactly or where at all, but I do know that it will occur in a foreign land with a new contract soon. After all, springtime is the season of renewal and hope. Add optimism, and it's easy to forget about the other sandal for a while. We call this place home for what it is, a valley tipped toward the sun. For now, the angle is perfect.
This is a reminder that the other sandal will proverbially drop. When it does, and this has little to do with the solstice date on the calendar, the annual apocalypse commonly called summer will take place. It will not be kind, and this unkindness will be shown in ways that nature manifests her indifference to water based creatures - all of us who are one liter low just for having slept through the night.
I have loved the coming of spring. There have been times I've longed for it, and I have spent many years free of concern over a second sandal dropping at all. There were springs when I've lived in places that were too chilly for March sandals anyway.
For instance, one winter I endured the fits and gasps of winter living in an abandoned farmhouse near the Appalachian Trail in Virginia. By definition, this is at some elevation, and also by definition, the abandoned part meant I was heating with downed wood that I chopped myself. These elements will make you wait impatiently for the coming of spring.
It was a long cold season, with my closest human neighbor too far to hear a car horn, but raccoon, fox, and deer were ubiquitous and living right next door in the woods. The latter were in cahoots for the prize that was my dog's bowl of dry food. The bowl was indoors, and the critters were generally outdoors, but this dynamic of need met with denial created a challenge that threaded through our long nights and short days together . Obviously before my arrival there had not been fast food on their side of the county.
I was never sure how they conspired to open the front door, but they often did. It didn't have a functional lock, but there was a doorknob to manage. Nevertheless, there were times I met one species or the other on my wood floor kitchen, much to our shared shock. My task was to quickly move out of the way of the now wide open front door to allow a hasty exit. There were always crumbs of dry dog food left in the wake of these rendez vous.
When late March finally arrived halfway up this mountain, an unexpected crop of wild irises lifted through the thick blanket of brown oak leaves, dried timothy grass, crushed acorns, and thin morning frost. They were purple with deep yellow and thin white edges. There were dozens of them in the meadow that served as my front yard. Each was shorter and stronger, but no less beautiful, than the cultivated ones you see in florist shops. I supposed they were a parting gift from a winter that had not quite made me leave or left me permanently frozen. And they were an early Easter bonnet in a natural world that can be surprisingly delicate and generous at times.
But springtime here in Phoenix, albeit quick and not without the consequence of a trailing apocalyptic summer, has been everything a tourist brochure could fit onto its pages. It's a transcendent time to be outdoors, from daylight until whenever you want to call it a day. My dog Lucy knows the meaning of dog tired. The wheels on my bicycle have made a respectable number of revolutions. I've seen enough NCAA basketball this month to possibly be qualified to substitute for Dick Vitale if he needs a break next week. And importantly, there are empty food containers gathering at friends' houses as deliveries are eaten from my kitchen.
March has been a good time to be between jobs. At this point, however, the balance of that period is tipping toward packing the stethoscope again. It's almost time to get back to work. Remaining flexible, I'm not sure when exactly or where at all, but I do know that it will occur in a foreign land with a new contract soon. After all, springtime is the season of renewal and hope. Add optimism, and it's easy to forget about the other sandal for a while. We call this place home for what it is, a valley tipped toward the sun. For now, the angle is perfect.
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