Tuesday, April 22, 2014


The word transition is a verb.

At least it is in my life. Every year, when the shoulder seasons of spring and/or fall arrive, I take the T-word, turn it into its active form, and shift gears. My spring and fall transitions (a noun in this case) surround my dual career paths: freelance writer and ski school supervisor at major resort.

[An aside: doubters might refer to these paths as "starving artist" or "ski bum." No comment.]

Anyway, I am transitioning from being up on the mountain five-plus days a week to being home all seven. It's a time period where I try to organize my winter gear, re-introduce myself to my wife (she keeps asking who was the guy who left before daybreak and came back after nightfall all winter), and write articles. Lots of articles.

And play with 1-year-old Gunnar. Who is working on his transitions too. Like transitioning from lunchtime to playtime. Or from playtime to nap time. These transitions are not easy when you are one -- not easy at all. Sometimes, apparently, you have to cry when you transition. And it doesn't help when many of your transitions come when you need something to function -- like food or rest. Or when [warning for those squeamish in the presence of baby-talk] you're sitting in a load. You might cry too. I am, however, happy to report that Gunnar's transitions are becoming smoother each day.

Is it because he watched my Spring 2014 transition and learned? I'm not sure about that, as I still have two pairs of skis leaning in the corner of the living room, random Stowe apparel and equipment strewn about my car and home, and four deadlines looming. But I'm working on it. And no doubt Gunnar is observing.

Happy Spring and may your transitions be just as smooth as ours (or more so).