Summer Psychology
In the summer, when the Earth tilts in affirmation of the sun, everything comes alive. We are no exception. It’s almost cliché to ogle at the summertime and “compare thee to a summer’s day” only because its temporal beauty is so obvious, it leaks into everything. But beyond the obvious—blooming flowers, the Earth’s breath teeming with life, the picturesque sky—there seems to be something about the summer that unleashes something within us. A little voice, usually silent, bellows out from the shallows of our subconscious and says, “Fuck it, I’m going outside.”
And yet, not even once we are outside are we satisfied. No, the sun gives heat and tingles our skin, but even machines grinding away spit out heat. The warmth of summer, its true spirit, only comes when we share that beauty with those around us. That’s a true summer party.
Aslut ran a poll through Instagram asking people, what is it about the summertime that makes you want to go out and have a good time? Some were lighthearted: “Suns out, buns out.” Others tried to capture the feeling itself: “That new-life feeling from Spring’s awakening.” Still others answered more practically: “Just because days are longer.” However different the responses, the thread of unabashed joy in the summer tying everyone together remained the same. We are creatures of the sun. We have always been creatures of the sun, as long as there’s been a “we.”
Our love to celebrate with the sun speaks to something so profound within us, its expression seems only fit for the grandest ideas. Gods of many traditions: Apollo for the Greeks, Ra for the Egyptians, Utu for the Mesopotamians, work as deities for the sun, symbolizing life, fertility, order, and judgment. Stones chiseled by hand, some 10, 20, 30 tons, dragged through the Earth and erected with mathematical precision, all to honor rituals of the sun's movement. Today we call these stones The Pyramids or Stonehenge.
Perhaps the oldest celebrations we know of used the sun as the pinnacle of civilization. The winter and summer solstices mark the shortest and longest days of the year, and for 10,000 years we have shared those days together, joyous and dancing. For the summer solstice, German and Celtic streets would burst with parades and bonfires, as a way to strengthen the sun and ensure a bountiful harvest. What came forth was an underlying message: “Things are great. Let’s keep it going!” When winter came, and the lands were shrouded in darkness, the Roman “Saturnalia” stopped all work and instead made sacrifices, feasted, and exchanged gifts in private. The Scandinavians, who also made sacrifices, burned a yule log as a glowing defiance of the cold. These holidays say, “Things are bleak. Let’s come together and make it better.”
In these times, the summer was belonging; the winter, isolation. The cold was a time to sit and stay warm. If no one was around to harbor warmth, death was even more imminent than usual.
Humans in their infancy—diseased, mostly illiterate, half starving—used the summer to connect and trade goods with others. Market squares were most potent in the summer, so hunger was suspended with cornucopias, sprawling in the village streets with the seeds of life and exotic goods. Theaters and music halls would open, and for a brief window, the arts would feed the souls of the gathered. We’d also use the time to trade ideas, establishing norms and broad social orders. It’s no wonder many gods of the sun were also gods of judgment. No one hides from the light, so trials were held amidst the sun’s gaze, and the guilty hung brightly. Diseases need fresh bodies to spread; what better place than when everyone’s together?
In a sense, summer gatherings and all their activities—celebration, worship, trade, art, laws—created the parts of ourselves that can only be defined through someone else. It’s here that the “I” starts to dissolve so a larger, stranger “we” can take shape.
Why do we feel this affinity to gather and celebrate in the summer? The short answer: because “we” had no choice.
The future has arrived. Most of us now live in a sort of “post-scarcity” world, where the threat of death is postponed, winter is a mild inconvenience, and the gods of harvest have long since withered. Markets never close; in fact, nothing “closes” per se. All things—from food, to ideas, to other people—are within reach, given enough time. Traces of ritualistic gatherings remain still in this secular age. Concerts, raves, and mosh pits offer a voluntary release of self, blending the many into one: waving, writhing, swelling, and shrinking like a human wave. And the purely necessary interactions, the ones needed to keep commerce alive, remain steady.
Yet somewhere along the line, a thought emerged that physical interaction with others, even the act of going outside, was voluntary, an occasional gift to one’s self, if time allows. Fifty-eight percent of Americans are outside for about 30 minutes a day. Ninety percent of our life in total will be inside. Only fourteen percent of Americans say they interact with friends every day, but the psychological evidence of positive, physical social interaction has only pointed one way; it’s a better indicator of happiness than money, status, or even physical well-being.
Here we are: healthier, more mobile, richer, and unbearably lonely. At the same time, there are simply more of us, billions more than ever before, beckoning within arm's reach. What’s happening? In a sense, we’ve gotten too good at talking.
No one needs to be reminded of the ubiquity of texting and social media. No one seriously believes that texting and talking in person are equally satisfying, and that one can replace the other without notice. And yet, here we are. Communication is now synthesized to its essence. What can you get from this interaction? How few words can be used to place an idea from one head to another? What remains now is a social ore, boiled, efficient, pure as opium.
And the results surprise no one:
A third of young adults report feeling lonely every day or several days a week, with nearly half reporting feeling lonely some or all of the time. Despite its ubiquity, even mentioning loneliness has a pathetic air to it. Loneliness, both as pathetic and pathology, feels like a lethal disease that could strike at any moment—because it is. Loneliness can increase the risk of heart disease, depression, dementia, and early death.
Starvation of food has since been replaced with one of touch, of connection, but a necessity for both is clear. Being underfed and undersocialized can both kill; one just happens faster than the other.
Yet the desire remains. The Earth will tilt towards the sun over and over again. Many times, the soft voice speaks, and the ancestral urge will carry itself forward with enough effort. If humans have proven anything, it's that we can live in defiance of environmental conditioning, even ones of our own creation. The snow will melt, and summer will breathe new life again.