I have been in a funk, off and on, for the past couple of decades.

Oh, for a lot of those years I was very busy with the tasks of raising a family, working full time, participating in all the frantic mom stuff that goes along with a brood of three children.

It was twenty years ago that I moved to a very southern, very humid, very sweltering place.

Here is where my unease began, but I didn’t recognize it…until very recently, when it came to me.

I missed being outside.

I am a child of the seventies and eighties. That mystical age where I would eat my cereal at the kitchen table, and then would dash outside to play. I would reappear for lunch, usually something on Wonder bread and accompanied by Kool-Aid, which was reserved for summer only. Then, I was back outside again. We knew it was time to come home when the street lights came on.

We moved every 1-3 years, averaging every 1-2 years, because my dad was a career USAF officer.

All I know is, everywhere we went, I was outside.

My earliest memories are from my toddlerhood. As a three year old in Montana, I remember making snowmen with my big brother. I distinctly recall to this day coming inside before a storm hit, and sitting in my high chair as the rain and hail wreaked havoc outside the window, while the rain seeped in under the kitchen door, onto the yellow linoleum. Later, I saw the tulips, beheaded by the hail.

We lived in Alabama when I was four, when I was in the fourth grade, and when I was in the ninth grade – all of these were one year tours of duty for my father.

At four, I remember exploring the playground outside the preschool I attended. I found a turtle one time, and spent the hour picking it up and placing it somewhere else, only to watch it slowly turn to make its way back to its original hiding place.

In the fourth grade, I rode my bike with my friend all summer, weaving through the streets of our new development neighborhood. The smell of the red clay is always one I associate with summer. On particularly hot days, we would duck under the wild plum tree, listening to the hum of bees as we ate our fill of the juicy, dark fruit. It seemed to me that there was nothing sweeter.

Before the long days of August arrived, we would get tadpoles from the murky puddles left by the tires of the construction equipment. Every morning we would feed the tadpoles dried oatmeal as they wriggled in the plastic shoebox we put them in. We would watch the buds start to develop out of no where on the sides of their bodies, and waited for the legs to grow out, even as the little tails disappeared. Soon they were hopping off to do what toads do – but not before we examined every amazing feature of their perfect little toad bodies, no bigger than the end of our thumbs.

By ninth grade, I was not tolerant of heat, and spent most of my summer indoors, sitting in the window seat and reading.

Fifth and sixth grade were spent in the Midwest. These were the summers of kick the can, and of exploring the creek. We would wade into the ankle deep water, looking for crawdads. One time the creek widened into a chest-deep pool of mossy green water, and as I bobbed up and down, I saw the eyes of a magnificently huge bullfrog stare blandly back at me. I didn’t go back to that spot, afraid of what else may lurk there.

Seventh and eighth grade were the most adventurous, spent in the Philippines. Every chance I had, I was outside. I had perfected riding a 10 speed bicycle, and spent hours going though the neighborhood, using no hands, but only my young body to steer me. In the dry season, I would make leis out of the plumeria trees that were everywhere – pink, white, dark purple, and I would be intoxicated by the heavily perfumed flowers that I draped around my neck.

We went to Grande Island regularly, where there was a coral reef just offshore. I loved to snorkel out to the reef, floating over the world beneath, seeing things I had previously only seen on Jacques Cousteau specials.

In the rainy season, we played in the warm rain, because it was ever present, and we wanted to be outside. When the rain stopped, the earth would let off steam from the heat. We walked carefully, always barefoot, because we knew the snakes came out when it rained.

Riding in banca boats, we set off from shore to isolated islands, exploring what seemed like the ends of the world. We also went to the mountain forests of Baguio, amazed at the difference of our surroundings now – tall evergreens permeated our senses with their spicy needles and towering presence. Most of my memories of the Philippines were times spend outdoors.

My first through third grade, and tenth through twelfth grade, were spent in the shadow of the Wasatch front.

Here is where I found my true love, the mountains. I had been through mountain ranges before, but never lived on the side of the mountain. We lived by the mouth of a canyon, and I learned how to drive along that twisting, narrow path that mirrored the river that had carved the canyon itself.

Here, I loved every bit of being outside. The air up there is different – clearer, cleaner. I would crank open the window every time we went up the canyon, and I smelled as well as felt the temperature change as we ascended.

Many weekends were spent camping in the pop-up camper. Sunburns came as we played thoughtlessly in the woods, or fished in the lake. Nights around the fire , I watched the sparks shoot up toward the sky, unable to match the majestic fir and pine trees that huddled over our camp, keeping out the sounds of civilization far from our secluded camp site. I would lie on the ground and watch the stars, completely overwhelmed with the smallness of my life.

Closer to home, the river was tame and low in the summer, and I would step across it on a path made of smooth river rock. It was enough to sit there and watch the sun dapple and dance on the water as it glided over and under the branches and stones.

My dad had a love for the outdoors, and we vacationed in some great national parks – Arches, Bryce, Canyonlands, Zion. We drove the breathtaking road from southern Utah to the north rim of the Grand Canyon one fall, the golden quaking aspen showing its glory through the deep evergreen groves. The fields were rolling and amber on both sides of us, and the beauty was almost too much to take in.

We also explored Yellowstone, and the Grand Tetons. These were healing and heady times that are etched deeply into the soul of my memories.

Two decades ago, I moved to a place I didn’t want to be. Hot, humid, and sultry doesn’t begin to describe the oppressiveness of summer…and of the weather for more of the year than any other descriptor. I retreated to my house when I was not working. I only went outside on the rare occasions the heat index allowed, and even then, I limited my time outside, to protect my fair skin from the sun.

A few years ago, I began running. I hate the dreadmill, so I went outside, on purpose, more regularly.

I hated it for a while. The oppressive humidity makes my whole body slick with sweat almost immediately and I, used to the dry air of the mountains, resented it. Adding to the misery, great clouds of gnats would appear out of nowhere, and there is no outrunning them once they find you. I’d have to run with my mouth closed tight to keep them from being inhaled, and they stuck to my sweat slick skin from head to toe, as if to spite me

I hated it here.

Then I started to have a realization…

I am here, I live here, and even though I made escapes to cooler and more mountainous climates as often as I could, the majority of time, I was “stuck” here.

I better make the best of it.

I began to look around me as I ran. I began to see things with new eyes.

The abundance of flowers, year round. The bright yellow forsythia of spring, pale in comparison to the chaotic riot of fuchsia azaleas that are everywhere, especially loving the wild oak trees that are native to this part of the state. Wisteria climbs through trees and vacant lots, looking like lavender bunches of grapes, and smelling like the sweetest perfume. Redbud blooms shy and pink, and dogwood trees lay out their fragile white or pink blooms in fragile, horizontal planks.

Summer bring the big, beautiful magnolia blooms, subtle in scent, but stunning in size and beauty. Riotous roses are everywhere, thriving in this climate that I so resist.

The birds – so many birds! Spring is overflowing with bluebirds, house wrens, robins, finches, and delicate, migrating hummingbirds. Overhead, osprey, hawks, and even the occasional bald eagle soar by regularly.

All this in my suburban neighborhood.

Suddenly, I wasn’t just running. I was looking forward to spending time outside, to commune with all the beauty I had run or driven past, in my determination not to bloom where I was planted.

I am a child of the outdoors, and I am finally deeply aware of this.

I must tend to her.