Wednesday, March 9, 2011

The Pull of Gravity

or The Top of the Pass

Just at the halfway point between my home in Albuquerque and my parents' in Denver, Raton Pass snakes its way over the edge of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.  The summit of the pass marks the state line, with New Mexico to the south, Colorado to the north.  As with most mountain passes, while you climb it you can't see much except the pine trees around you and the road winding before you.  You might catch a glimpse of a vista out to the sides now and then, but the road is your only guide to what lies ahead—the ascent is a little too steep for you to see anything else but mountainside.

Raton isn't one of the West's most attractive passes—in fact, as a child I disliked it because it was too "disorganized" (and I don't think I was a particularly well-organized child)—but since moving to New Mexico I've learned to love it.  No matter how many times you've driven it, no matter how well you know what's coming up, the moment when you crest the hill and can see across into Colorado, with the Spanish Peaks towering before you, is one of delightful, breathtaking surprise.  The summit marks such a clear divide—for a moment, in the rear view mirror you can see the high, grassy plains of northeastern New Mexico stretched out behind you, pale golden-green fading into blue at the horizon; in front of you rise the Colorado Rockies with all their buttresses and crenellations.  Then gravity catches you again, and when it pulls you down the Colorado side of the pass, you're in another world.


For some reason, this past year I've become fascinated with cusps—tipping points, verges—those moments of balance, of poise, between one thing and another, when suddenly you reach the top of a pass and can see all around you, when for the space of a breath you feel as if you're free of the pull of gravity.

With the equinox just around the next bend, we'll soon have reached one of the year's most important cusps; we'll be crossing the Great Divide between sleep and wakening, cold and warmth, dark and light.  But in the long, leisurely New Mexico turning of seasons, we have many smaller divides to cross as well, each with its moment of balance, its pause at the crest of the hill.  The crocuses have already passed the summit; the tulips are still in the ascent.  The sand cherries are right on the cusp, poised, taking that deep breath before momentum pulls them forward into a bright, new world.

In the rear view mirror, you can still see winter, fading into the horizon.

12 comments:

  1. Right now my garden in the "awakened" state! It is still going slowly - trees opening one blossom at a time. But soon I will be serving coffee (fertilizer) to speed-up the flow of sap into the new buds. Then I will regret because this garden will turn into a high maintenance monster once again. :)

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  2. The buds are awakening, but slowly here. Nice images you took.

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  3. NM is so lovely and right now in NY I can just see spring on the horizon but winter has not appeared in my rear view mirror yet...too much snow, rain and cold...soon though we will reach the crest and see spring just in front of us...

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  4. Very well said Stacy. I've never thought of Raton in that manner. Beautiful description.

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  5. Dear Stacy, This is yet another exquisitely written post. You take us into a way of seeing and feeling . . . into imagining cusps . . . merging seasons, life and vistas awaiting just beyond a curve. To think of spring's emergence in this way is quite lovely. From your Microcosm of refined thought one can fly into galaxies of imagination. I am honored to have linked to your blog in my just publish post on my photography blog. Your writing takes my breath away . . . greatly inspiring! Thank you. Carol

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  6. Beautiful post. I go through the Raton pass to visit my sisters in Colorado. It's majestic.

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  7. This is what I love about your blog -- the way you can turn a moment into a metaphor and then use that metaphor as an opening to thoughts in all kinds of directions. This post first made me think about similar vistas that I love on favorite trips, then about transitions in the garden, then about the way I'm looking forward to retirement as one of these major transitions. Then I started to think about times when I've anticipated some event as a major transition and it turned out not to be. And other times when I didn't understand a major transition had happened until after the fact. Thanks for writing that is both beautiful and thought-provoking. -Jean

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  8. Helen, it's amazing how short a distance there is between awakening and monster! :) Thanks for visiting and for your comment.

    GWGT, spring is a maddeningly slow time of year even in balmier climates, let alone on the Canadian border! When I lived in the northeast, I felt like March was the true test of character. Thanks re: the images!

    Donna, believe me, NM isn't always lovely. In Albuquerque we've had .11" of moisture so far this year, and the dust is incredible. All that rain and snow will give you GREENERY in short order, and then spring will be so breathtaking you won't even think about looking in the rear-view mirror. Sometimes I miss northeastern springs (once they begin). :)

    Lisa, thanks - and thanks for visiting!

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  9. Carol, I'm so touched by your response - and delighted to think that my posts can give flight to the imagination! Thank you - and thank you for linking here. On every blog you visit, you are always a real giver.

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  10. HolleyGarden, Raton is just The Way to Go, isn't it? My Dad's family is from TX, and we used to go over the pass a couple of times a year to visit them.

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  11. What beautiful description and most beautiful and hopeful photos. You are a wonderful writer. :) I am looking for sings of spring everywhere here. Not many glimpses here just yet.
    Blessings and Peace,
    JL

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  12. Jean, I found myself laughing ruefully at your comment about the things you expect to be a big transition that aren't, and the things that turn out to be huge that you didn't experience that way at the time; I've had that experience myself. Steinbeck says something in "Travels with Charley" about how we don't take a trip, but a trip takes us, and the trip has a mind of its own - a little too true, sometimes (although that's half the fun as well)! Hopefully your retirement will be one of those lovely occasions where expectation and reality line up just right.

    It makes me so glad to hear that you find my posts can be openings to thought - sometimes I worry that they're such "set" pieces that they're kind of stifling. Thank you!

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