“Hey Boo Boo, let’s go get us a pic-a-nic basket.” ~ Yogi Bear

Summertime refreshes the soul and clears the mind. As daily peak temperatures grow steadily higher in parallel fashion to the ever-lengthening day, how can we help but find ourselves reinvigorated with a newfound sense of childlike wonder? One cannot deny the feeling of universality associated with such a time, the indications of the cycle that binds together all human beings. Paradoxically, each place still carries its special brand of wonder. Fireflies, sunsets stretching into infinity, and trees greener than the pure eyes of a newborn child mark this particular place and time: Vermont summer. Here the forcefulness of our surroundings  lets us feel Persephone fully settling into her mother’s home so very strongly. Every square inch bursts with energy and life; the very Earth we walk on seems to sizzle like your skin after a long day at your favorite lake. Baked and ready to serve; get ‘em while they’re hot!

And this beauty drags us outside, and our old sun bakes us crisp, and our crispness brings us begging– pleading– yearning for sweet liquid relief, a nice dip in the cool water. This yearning drew my peers and I to a fabulous watering hole, a place unrivaled (if not in beauty) in convenience, for a picnic. We set out after work for the Middlebury Lower Dam Park. On the way, we stop by Shaw’s, one of two fabulous supermarkets in Middlebury (not counting the Natural Foods Co-op). The rows and rows of manufactured, processed foods seem normal, even innocent, for now. It won’t be for another half hour or so — by the time we begin our picnic and drown ourselves in the beauty of the untamed —  that we might come to see their artificial nature for what it truly represents. Against all odds, we manage to mitigate the potential invasion of overly processed foods. A wise woman once said, “Opt for freshness, and everything will work out.” The woman would have been proud of our choices that day had she been there (but she lives in a shack deep in the forest). Combining our funds, we purchase strawberries, hummus, quinoa, watermelon, and chips. From here, we head down the street to the park — into another world.

A small yet nimble older woman welcomes us to this oasis and reminds us that alcohol or glass remain strictly prohibited. Assuring her such items have no use to us in our present circumstance, we ramble down a lovely path towards the designated picnic area. Here we stand isolated. Here we stand free. We hear nothing but the myriad sounds of summer — the birds, crickets, frogs, and streams — whirring around us in harmonious splendor. We feel everything, the heartbeats of our seven billion fellow Earthlings sharing this moment in some way. We breathe in the sound of cosmic unity.

Then, before it even really starts, it’s over. The sun begins to set and the relentless drone of things-to-be-done amplifies in the back of our minds from a quiet whisper to a roaring shout. In this way the picnic stands for summer. Both,  viewed properly, present fleeting moments of unmatched joy and life, energy and vigor. The moment is just beginning, but that doesn’t make its ultimate finality any less inevitable.

You blink. Another sunset glides into oblivion; another season rolls by. The water keeps on rolling.