After a long, tortuous winter, summer is finally upon us. And for Minnesotans, that means one thing: getting outside.
June is National Great Outdoors month. I doubt any of us Minnesotans need to be reminded to enjoy the outdoors. At least, not during these precious few months when the weather is actually tolerable.
It’s during the winter — those dark, frigid months when we huddle under our blankets with our hygge and binge-watch Netflix — that we need such reminders. I’m certainly guilty. This past winter, much as I yearned to relive my own childhood — building snow forts, barreling down the neighborhood sledding hill, tossing snowballs at passing cars, and sculpting snowmen — my littles were too small (at nine months and two years) to participate. So we spent November through April mostly indoors. And we only have so many rooms in the house, which meant many trips to the mall, the library, or Costco just to avoid going stir crazy.
Winter aside, even the summer weather can get people down. There’s always something to complain about: It’s too hot. Too muggy. Too buggy. It might storm. We flee into our air conditioning and, once again, curl up on the couch to binge-watch Netflix.
Most of us parents, however, can’t get away with that. At least not until after the kids are in bed. Like puppies, kids can’t be cooped up inside all day. They need to romp through the yard, throw balls around and climb things. Children have a primal craving to connect with nature — to explore the outdoors with all five senses, to catch frogs and dig holes, to collect stones and pinecones, to walk barefoot in the grass and sink their toes into the earth.
Daily outdoor time is literally and figuratively a breath of fresh air. Not just for them, but for me, too. There’s something soothing — spiritual, even — about the sights, sounds and smells of nature.
And childhood is when that appreciation for nature takes root. Growing up, I spent nearly every summer at my family’s rustic cabin in Northern Minnesota. We didn’t have a TV or, at first, even a telephone. So we practically lived outside. We built forts in the woods, bathed in the lake, slept in a tent on the lakeshore and played epic games of hide-and-seek in the vast state forest behind our cabin. We went on midnight pontoon rides to stargaze and take in the silence. Miles from the nearest town, the only signs of civilization were the soft glows of campfires that dotted the dark shores and the occasional hum of another boat engine. Otherwise, it was just us and the wilderness.
Those summers taught me the value of slowing down. They taught me to appreciate stillness and quiet. And they instilled a deep love of nature that dwells in me today.
It’s difficult, during the rat race of daily life, to get outside as much as we should. All the more so with a smartphone glued to our hands (a temptation — no, an addiction — I’m perpetually working to resist). There are endless excuses on the tips of our tongues.
But summer makes it easier. After all, we only have so many days of nice weather, and they’re far too few.
Despite the love/hate relationship most of us have with our climate here in Minnesota, there’s an undeniable appeal to it. You get sucked (or perhaps suckered) into living here, and eventually, you love it here. Minnesotans are like homing pigeons. No matter how far away we fly, we almost always come back.
I’m living proof. After law school, I was lucky to snag a year-long judicial clerkship in Honolulu, Hawaii. When we moved out there, my husband and I were certain we would stay. (Much to our parents’ chagrin.) After all, who wouldn’t want to live there permanently? The prospect of year-round sun, sand and surf seemed downright heavenly.
But three months in, around Christmas time, I began to have doubts. Seeing inflatable Santas on lush green lawns and Christmas lights strung up in palm trees left me disoriented. (And hearing “Mele Kalikimaka” a dozen times on a daily basis didn’t help.)
My thirst for winter was soon quelled when we returned home for Christmas. But after a week of early January in Minnesota, I was, once again, over it — over the paralyzing, breath-snatching cold. Over scraping ice off the windshield. And definitely over the dry air that left my lips painfully chapped and my skin parched and itchy.
Still, after a few more months of picture-perfect weather day after day in Hawaii, my thoughts kept returning to winter. I missed sweaters and snow boots. I missed the magic of the season’s first snowfalls. I missed the stillness of a snow-covered lake. I obsessively watched winter-themed movies, yearning for the change in the air that comes with fall’s cool breath.
And I realized something: I need seasons. They provide both stability and variability. They mark the progression of the year from frigid beginnings to balmy, carefree summers to the jittery start of a new school year and, finally, to the nostalgia of a white Christmas. Without that slow, steady march toward change, life becomes…well, dull. Even a place as close to paradise as Hawaii, with its sandy beaches, turquoise waters and emerald mountains, got old.
Needless to say, we moved home when my clerkship ended. And it was the perfect time of year – late summer. The State Fair was underway, twilight still lasted until 10, the crickets sang nightly serenades, and mornings were crisp with the hint of fall. I told myself then that I would never again take Minnesota’s climate for granted.
I haven’t quite kept that promise. (It’s hard to keep when the windchill is 50 below zero and I would give my left foot for just a few hours on Waikiki Beach.) Yet, deep down, I know that the key to living — to thriving — in Minnesota is simple: Embrace every season. Look for the beauty in even the worst weather. And, above all, get outside.
