The Little Signs of Spring

Last month, I traveled with my three kiddos to visit my parents who retired a few years ago and decided to spend the winter months in a warmer climate. My dad has been a horse lover all his life, and even though he didn’t start roping until he was in his mid-forties, he’s become quite dedicated to the sport. Because of this passion, he and my mom chose a community in Wickenburg, Arizona where they live with their horses close by and have arenas, events, and trails on and near the property.

The kids and I spent five days in the area, and we loved every minute. We played pickleball, hiked the Wild Burro Trail, watched a roping contest won by an 89-year-old man, went on four-wheeler rides, ate really great food, did some bike riding, and took a line dancing class. Let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve watched your 15-year-old linebacker son line dance with a group of sweet, retired women! And of course, what trip to the roping capital of the world would be complete without some horseback riding?

While my two boys don’t really care too much about riding, my daughter is definitely my horse kid; she participates in shows during the summer months and she and I ride together as much as the weather permits in the off-season. My parents only take two horses with them when they go south, so it was impossible to trail ride all together. I know how much my girl loves to ride, especially with her Papa, so I told her before our trip that if I didn’t get to ride, that would be fine, just as long as she got to go as much as she wanted. On one of the last days, however, she declared that it was only fair if I got to go on a ride as well.

I’d never ridden in a desert setting before, so I was surprised that my dad took us on the wash, an empty, sandy riverbed that floods when it rains. When it’s dry like it was that day, it simply looks like a lifeless, barren cut in the desert lined with hearty brush on each side.

Dad and I took off as we dipped our heads under a bridge, let the horses step around large rocks, and dodged a couple on a four-wheeler. Most of the time, my red-roan named Cowboy lagged behind my dad on his buckskin gelding named Jax. The lack of conversation and easy pace allowed me freedom to soak in the surroundings, to appreciate the yucca plants and saguaros randomly interspersed along the rocky cliffs and skeletal scrubland.

Directly next to the wash in several spots were clusters of sharp and menacing bushes with black branches lined with tiny thorns, ominous looking plants that reminded me of Halloween. I wondered if they were out of season and dormant, or if they were dead. But then, as I leaned down to try and get a glance at one from atop the horse, I noticed tiny green buds close the ground at the base of the plant.

What had originally felt dark and sinister suddenly felt more like hope.

March is a tough month for me. Historically, it always has been. I haven’t necessarily been diagnosed with Seasonal Affective Disorder, but I imagine it is common for people who live

in climates with cold winters like I do. Every year around the same time, I long for a break from the bitter, bleak scenery and look forward to spring with its promise of warmth and splashes of color. March, however, feels like a month of false hope. Where I live, we can relish in temperatures in the 80s one day and experience a blizzard the next. This was the exact case this year, in fact. I don’t trust March with its inability to make up its mind. I cherish the days that feel like hope, yet cannot fully hold faith in their staying powers.

We had a mild winter this year, and with the trip to Arizona to break up the inconsistent season in the Midwest, this year felt much better than in the past. But I think that also had something to do with the hope that those little buds instilled in me that day on the trail ride.

Since then, I’ve looked for the little pops of color and brightness in the daily mundane to make everything better:

Warm sunshine coming through my office windows and kissing my arms as I write.

The satisfaction of brushing tufts of winter hair from my horses’ coats while they eat their grain.

Fresh morning dew instead of frost on our greening lawn.

Tiny tulip stems waking up from their beds.

The joy of watching my nieces find neon-colored eggs hidden in plain sight on Easter.

Sprouts of alfalfa springing out of the ground in the fields.

The unspooling red leaves on the bush outside my front door.

None of these are big things on their own, but collectively, they look and feel like hope, a reassurance that better, brighter things will come.

I encourage all of you, my dear readers, to look for the pops of color in the metaphorical desert of winter: in hard moments, throughout tough weeks, during challenging seasons of our lives.

Spring, my friends, is coming.