Summer Heat as a Teacher of Reflection and Rest

It’s August. It’s hot. Today in Eugene, it’s over 100°F, with a hot wind ripping through the valley. This time of year in the northern hemisphere, most of us seek refuge from the sun. We head north. We drive to the coast. Or we stay inside with the air conditioning on full blast. That’s where I am now – two golden retrievers sprawled at my feet, content in their afternoon nap. 

So what can we take from this moment of August heat, and from the ways we adapt to it? 

When I was a kid, I don’t remember thinking much about the heat at all. We didn’t weigh it as a factor in our day, we just wanted to play. The sun might be blazing, but we were out there, running, riding bikes, sweating through it without hesitation. Now, I feel the heat as a deterrent. I’m more strategic, planning activities for the morning or evening, and avoiding the peak hours when the heavy heat presses down. 

We all know winter’s hibernation, when animals retreat into long sleep to survive the cold. But summer has its own version: estivation. In deserts and tropics, creatures slip away from the heat. Desert snails seal themselves inside their shells. Certain frogs burrow deep underground. For weeks or months, they slow their bodies, conserving energy until the season shifts. This isn’t laziness, it’s millions of years of biological wisdom. A surrender that isn’t giving up, but tuning in. 

Humans don’t estivate in quite the same way, but the instinct is there. Our last two trips to Spain have shown me the depth of this seasonal wisdom. The Mediterranean siesta isn’t just a cultural quirk, it’s a survival strategy born from centuries of listening to the body and working with, not against, the climate. If you have ever been in Southern Spain in the depth of summer, you get it. Streets empty in the sweltering afternoon, only to fill again in the cool of evening. Meals stretch late into the night. Conversations and laughter replace the quiet stillness of midday. It’s a rhythm in harmony with the season.

But this notion of retreating from literal heat carries an obvious metaphor for the heat in our own lives. When things get intense – when emotions, responsibilities, or conflicts “heat up” – we have a choice. We can double down and push harder, or we can recognize the wisdom in slowing down. Pausing. Cooling off before the heat consumes us. 

For me, the push-through instinct usually shows up in the physical realm. If my body is calling for rest, I tend to ignore it. Lately it’s been my back, sending me signals I’d rather not hear. My reflex is to override, to keep going. Rest feels like laziness. But most of the time, that is a mistake. Today, with the heat raging outside, I’m choosing to chill: writing, hydrating, recovering. (Though Griff and I might still sneak in a quick workout before dinner.) 

But here is the crux of it. A conscious retreat during the peak of summer’s heat has more to do with a moment of reflection than it does simply finding a cool place for recovery. What is it that we are doing while we are in siesta-mode? What is it we are doing during a hot afternoon by a cool ocean breeze? We observe and reflect. This is a deep deep skill that is—like many other ancient traditions – slowly fading from human capacity. We are constantly distracted, in motion and our attention is miserably fragmented. Mary Oliver’s famous poem “Summer Day” captures the magic of still reflection and exquisite observation: “I do know how to pay attention…how to be idle and blessed.”

Summer Day

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean-

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

Monday Meditation: On a slow ten-count, think about your relationship to heat and retreat—both literal and metaphorical. Where are you pushing through when you might be better off taking a pause? And when is the heat exactly what you need to forge something new? Sometimes the season is not asking us to push—it’s inviting us to lean toward rest, to trust that pausing to observe and reflect is also a form of growth. I am guessing this is exactly what the retreat to Vancouver is about. Lean in. 

Have a great week brotha!