Spring is winding down here in the Twin Cities. Memorial Day weekend has arrived, marking the unofficial start of summer. And it did so with a bang. Barbecues, boats, bugs, and fireworks echoing through my ‘hood.
Still, even as I pulled on shorts for the first time, I wasn’t quite ready to let go of spring. So I drove north for a second helping.
Minnesota borders the great inland sea of Lake Superior, and one of its most beloved escapes lies along the North Shore. There, a string of dramatic waterfalls funnels the waters of our 10,000 lakes through steep volcanic cliffs.
I chose a medium-sized hike, up and over ancient rhyolite ridges shaped by glaciers where I was rewarded by sweeping views of the Lake. The serviceberry were at peak bloom, casting a soft white fuzz and the forest floor was carpeted with trillium. Overhead, warblers flitted and chirped in the high branches that were just beginning to leaf out.
It felt like I had stepped back in time. Not through any extraordinary effort. After all, how many of us have flown to the southern hemisphere mid-winter and been startled by sun and heat? But a simple few-hour drive had brought me back to that exquisite seasonal tipping point, when gray woods begin to blush green again.
Spring is one of life’s most vivid reminders of change, that inevitable cycle we all move through. The Greek philosopher Heraclitus, writing in the 6th century BCE, grasped this truth best while immersed in nature.
He said,
“No (wo)man ever steps in the same river twice. For it’s not the same river, and (s)he’s not the same (wo)man.
True. The world is never static, and neither are we. Yet within that truth lies strength. Spring reminds us that change, however uncomfortable, is also full of promise.
Migratory birds don’t resist change; they ride it north to bring new life into the world. And while we humans often resist the unfamiliar, stepping outside our routines can open us to new perspectives, greater opportunities, even personal renewal.
About halfway through my hike I climbed a steep, rocky slope to bald patch of crackled rock. From there, the view opened up of two lakes joined like an off-kilter hourglass and cradled in crumbling cliffs. It felt, for a moment, like I had outpaced the calendar, cheating change and slipping back into the heady beginnings of the season.
Then the gnats descended.
“Change is inevitable,” they seemed to buzz. “And eventually, you’re going to have to do something about it.”
Which I did, by wiping the dirt off my rear end and moving on.
