Reflections on Light and Dark
A Summer Solstice Musing
It’s super, extra officially summer.
Don’t worry, I won’t be assigning any essays.
And if you’ve been following along, you know I wrote about being more chill and less tech for the summer months.
In this post, I’m going to muse a bit on what this summer means for me, in the hopes it might inspire a bit of seasonal reflection for you, too.
The past two summers have been pretty bananas. Three, if you count a big honkin’ move.
Two summers ago, I was feeling pretty burned out and overwhelmed with work.
Last summer, I was navigating caregiving for two loved ones, one of whom died later in the summer.
This summer, I feel like I have more space around me.
I’ve been taking my own advice in terms of slowing down, lowering the bar of expectations on “productivity,” concentrating on connecting, healing, moving my body, and thinking seasonally.
What does this mean in practice?
I’ve been writing while sitting on the front porch. I’ve been reading more (summer reading recommendations will be out in a few weeks!). I’ve been more intentional about connections with family and friends, with nature, with our cats, with whatever you might call The Great Beyond, that connective fabric we call interdependence, amorphous but still there, that which connects all things and all beings in and of our shared world.
And I’ve been reflecting on the notions of light and dark. I love the dark months for their introspection, for the contrast of snow and bare tree limbs and crisp shadows in the moonlight.
And I’m finding, even with the long summer days, the bright green that surrounds the house, introspection is still plenty available. It just looks different. It’s blooming all around and shrouded in heat, humidity, and brightness.
It’s in the long morning shadows and the late sunsets.
It’s in the thundering rain.
It’s just there. It’s always there. I think, for me, it’s easier to see and feel when it’s dark and cold and I’m cozy inside or strapped into my snowshoes on a trail. But it’s not less there just because the days are long and warm and bright.
I talk to my plant babies in the garden (the beans and peas are winning thus far!).
I like to cook seasonally. Not just in terms of seasonal ingredients but also seasonal vibes.
Last weekend, I made (not too) spicy noodles because summer brings the heat, and strawberry cupcakes for a bit of fun and a seasonal ingredient.
I read somewhere recently that the thing about dualities, like winter and summer and light and dark, is that, if you pull the lens back far enough, you can sometimes see that they are connected. Two parts of the same whole.
I loved summer as a kid.
Summer meant long days at the neighborhood pool, riding bikes, visiting the amusement park, and a general lack of structure and routine.
As I got older, I became less tolerant of the heat and, overall, more introspective. I loved fall for the colors, and, by the time I got to about 40, I was falling head over heels in love with winter.
I’m now at a place where I appreciate each season for what it offers me. All parts of the same whole.
And that’s why so much of this blog has been seasonally-oriented.
We are already part of the natural world. Recognizing those rhythms affirms something deep, historic, origin-al (as in, from our origins), in us.
I don’t have a giant summer adventure to-do list. I’m not sure I ever did, in a formal way.
I can think back to different summers, different phases of my life, where different activities came to the forefront.
Leading kayak trips in NYC, long runs in Berlin in the parks, a summer spent in South Africa performing weekly, a summer writing in LA, so many of my summer stories are grounded in location and defined by activities: singing, writing, kayaking, running.
In that way, this summer is not different. Without the stress of major life move, a toxic workplace, and caregiver exhaustion, this summer I can feel my own roots growing, my own creativity blossoming again.
There are and will be ups and downs, of course. The world, my own grief, these are real things that require attention, care, and advocacy.
And I’ll be working on balancing that with seasonal activities that bring in the light in all kinds of ways: the garden, summer cooking (including a new air fryer so we don’t have to roast in our non-air-conditioned kitchen!), hiking and beach time, hammock lounging, running on the local bike path, and some in-the-house projects best done with the windows wide open and a breeze passing through.
It’s thematic in a sense: bringing in the light, being in the light, illuminating possibilities for myself and others, and living in coherence with the natural world.
It feels calm, connective, and sweet.
We all need all that these days.
Let’s make weird art, cook fun food, grow stuff, sit in the breeze, make coffee drinks, take cold showers, sing into the box fan just to hear that weird vibrating sound.
It’s summer. I’m here for it.
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