Arrival of Spring

The snows are melting. In early March, spring revealed itself in an ebullience across the languid mountains that rise into view through my office window. The matted snow was melting; in the day it dissolved to water and, when the temperature dove like penguins back to icy depths, froze again: It looked like the mountains were slowly slipping out of white satin.

So if I don’t write often, it is merely because Mongolia has enraptured me.

But like all fondnesses that don’t spring out of children’s fairytales or romance novels, my fondness for Mongolia is touched with a kind of tellurian (and necessary) ambivalence, an accepted reluctance (and, at times, disappointment and I admit occasionally even revulsion) that makes me deeply appreciate my time here, my service, and incites me to great (if relatively brief) dedication to and love of a country that isn’t wholly my own (then again, are countries every really our own?).

I was unaware how much I longed for this vernal arrival, how much I needed the snows to be gone, the macabre winter to slink away and let the carcasses of creatures claimed by cold  (and accosted by crows and other scavengers) sink into the earth. It is only by contrast, seeing the cows eat newly-found shrubs rather than tossed cardboard, seeing the surviving puppies no longer curling up for warmth against their dead sibling, that I look on spring with relief.

Autumn makes me feel wistful, diaphanous, and delicate, but spring is a roborant; it clears my purpose while tempering my deleterious self-perceptions; it fills me while emptying me. It is a wind blowing through me (at times more corybantically than others). There’s an easy, tempered hope efflorescing before the trees. When I feel a trembling, it doesn’t feel quite as violent as when dying fall leaves trembled with me.

No lush grasses lie in wait beneath the snow; only the sandy dirt. No flower will grow from this soil, whipped by winds and treaded by hungry cows. But something about the grim terrain, the desolate winters, the infertile soil breed people of remarkable good-humor, dedication, and hospitality. They are persevering; regardless of what is or is not accomplished, it’s difficult not to become endeared to them, to root for them, to delight in their joys and despair in their sorrows. Just like in love.

But I know that, like most loves I’ve had in my life, Mongolia won’t be able to contain my restlessness. In 14 months, I will fly away with no plans of returning. But the brevity of my time, and knowing it is brief, makes me value it. Ephemeral things tend to be beautiful--in a heartbreaking sort of way.

I suppose that’s how I feel about Mongolia as she steps into the bluster of spring on the steppe. And like the weather in this tempestuous season, my feelings may change. But for now, I am content to be here, in this moment, feeling like I’m echoing the light across the mountains and the warmth in the winds. The snows in me have melted at last.

Cheers,
Karen