I grew up loving the Texas outdoors — especially in summer. It was hot and humid, yes. But it was also languid, beckoning, and magical. The morning dew. The shade of an oak tree at noon. The brilliant night sky. Back then, in an age before air conditioning, one place you didn’t want to be was indoors. My family lived on a dirt street that at the time represented the very outskirts of Houston, a mid-sized city with out-sized ambitions. Beyond my front door stretched the great American frontier. A sea of grasses, shrubs, and groves of trees that tumbled toward the horizon. I thought that I probably could have forged a trail all the way to the Canadian border without encountering another human being. There was no air conditioning; no television, let alone video games. Playing with friends meant being among the elements. Swimming. Playing catch. Swinging from trees. In the very early years, “Cowboys and Indians” was a favorite pastime. Looking back now, I appreciate the racial insensitivity. But we didn’t know better. It was mainly an excuse to run around, chasing each other and our dreams. Now, eight decades later, I still love the Texas countryside. But it has shrunk. Megacities and sweeping suburbs have colonized once-open spaces. Yet it is still immense. Rugged. Bright. And beautiful. So too are the parks of my current home of Austin, Texas. The Colorado River sparkles its meandering path downtown. There are greenery, flowers, and abundant bird life. I love sitting outdoors or choosing a favorite path for a walk. But these days, the outdoors is not safe. Not because of wild animals or even the infamous Lone Star snakes, but because of the heat. Record heat. And it isn’t just Texas, of course. Or North America. The world is broiling. And it is deadly dangerous. It is imperative for my health that I walk regularly — hopefully every day. It is also essential to avoid heatstroke. That means I spend a lot of time on the ramps of the indoor garage at the complex where I live, water bottle in tow. Around and around, down and up I go, getting in my steps surrounded by utilitarian concrete. I’m not proud of it, but I also head to the mall. My embarrassment is somewhat alleviated by knowing I am not alone. I see the other mostly gray-haired “mall rats” doing laps in the air-conditioned expanse. I can tell who is there for the shopping and who is there for the exercise. We wink and nod at each other as we pass. I think of all those who are less fortunate, who don’t have access to air conditioning or family support. I think of those trapped in their homes around the world, particularly the elderly, afraid to venture out into the sun. It is a cruel return of pandemic-like confinement. I worry about those whose work requires them to be outdoors. We will need new labor rules for our new climate reality. And I mourn for the children whose childhoods are now compromised by environmental degradation. A summer indoors is a travesty. But now, for so many, it is a necessity. We are a species that found ways to conquer or at least tame the elements. Our habitat ranges from arctic tundra to tropical rainforests, from sky-high mountains to sparkling seashores. Our ingenuity, inquisitiveness, and idiosyncrasies have been sources of resilience. We will have to call on all of these strengths and others for the new reality we have created. There are no quick fixes. Equity and access to lifesaving shelter and cooling must be a priority, especially for the most vulnerable. But we can’t make everything into a mall, heaven forbid. As our Earth aches and sizzles, we are reminded of the imperative to hold onto the great outdoors and our common humanity. |
