June is My Religion

Why I worship every second of the wild, green, unfolding

“I never want to leave home in May and June” I say to George on our morning walk. I repeat this to him every single year, in June.

Lamar Valley, Yellowstone National Park

The kaleidoscopic unfolding of spring and early summer here on the north edge of Yellowstone feels like ecstasy after the long, brown, cold, gray months of winter, which wear on me more than I admit to most people.

Yes, I love winter and I love to ski, the landscapes are quiet and beautiful, and there aren’t many people, but there’s not much color or life. Nobody really talks about how long time stretches between summer and deep winter, especially the endless “shoulder seasons” when the light is flat and the hills are brown, there’s not enough snow to ski and too much snow and mud to hike. It’s a dark time, when the wind chills you to the bone, you mainline Vitamin D just to maintain a sliver of mental sanity, and your muscles grow soft because the warm fire and blankets inside feel much more inviting than venturing out. At least that’s how it feels to me.

So when spring finally comes, unfurling all its different shades of green, I want to roll in the color like my dog Hobbes rolls in the tiny patch of grass in the front yard, eyes closed, grunting, wiggling his body back and forth to rub the grass in real good, in a state of present-moment bliss. I want to wrap the green around me and wear it like a summer skin-tight suit.

Rainbow over Mt. Everts, somewhere near home

I don’t of course, because Yellowstone has teeth, and the grasses are quite sharp, and here near the house there’s cactus lurking amidst the bitterroot and I already know what it feels like to get a spine or two in the ass…

But I get as close as I can. I may not exactly physically lay down and roll my soft body on the ground, but I’ll wander through the sagebrush and the sunshine yellow balsamroot and sit down in the timothy and greet the yarrow, the lupine, the larkspur, the camas. I’ll take off my shoes and socks and wiggle my toes in the tall grasses, letting the ants tickle my shins. I’ll turn my cheek to the morning sun, which shimmers pure and warm through the tender new leaves of the aspen. I’ll take my morning walks with Hobbes along the winding animal paths near our home slowly, like a prayer, not wanting to miss a single becoming.

Arrowleaf balsamroot, Yellowstone’s Northern Range

Nature fills my cup any time of year, but June is like a double shot of espresso, or extra strength vitamin N. It feels as if the whole of the world is radiating life and green through my pores into my very soul. I try not to miss a moment, to be present as much as possible, because in the end I know I can’t bottle it up and save it for later.

Like Yellowstone’s elk and bison in summer, I’ll follow the wave of green up the mountains into higher elevation as lower climes turn to the tawny brown of late summer, coming down when the snows force me back home.

Yellowstone’s Northern Range

Part of my vision for 100 Wild Hours, and things like the sit spot challenge we’re doing this week, is to create more deliberate space for the present. For soaking up as many rich moments as I can. To draw me away from my computer and to-do list and into the “real world”.

Thanks for soaking it in along with me.

What time of year feels this way for you where you live? I’d love to hear about it in the comments.

Jenny