I leapt out of bed at first light this morning, except it was definitely after because it was already bright, the light back in a sky that it barely ever left. I could hear my chickens in the back field squawking in what sounded like alarm. We had a near miss with a fox yesterday so like a mother with a newborn, I was feeling hyper vigilant. Wrapped in a dressing gown and wearing the first shoes I could find, I quick stepped out into the garden, ready to roar. And it was like stepping out into a fairytale. The whole garden sparkling with sun dappled dew in a quiet that made it feel like time had been suspended. Which in many ways it has, being still solstice days. As I stood a baby fox - the reason for the squawking- crossed my path, sleek and red and beautiful. More brazen than it should have been but fleet footed too; almost before I saw it, it was gone.
Then in the back field a deer, stood as still as the day was, looking at me as I looked at it. And then, in the next glance, a milky cream cat with pale eyes, who sat in the long grass. Sat and just stared. A storytellers script for a summer solstice morning that holds an undeniable mysticism, despite the modern worlds attempts to ignore it. A certain something that can be felt the minute we turn our attention towards it. So much that lies just beneath the surface is uncovered the minute we decide to get attentive.
In a rare confluence of magics, this years solstice also sees a full moon. The strawberry moon. It surprised me last night as I drove back late, after a Solstice gathering, marvelling at the ink blue of the midnight sky that still held so much light. I am not sure I noticed, until this year, the endless twilight of high summer ; all the darker blues fringed with greens and oranges. I have been unintentionally awake for it more this year, driving late to get home from summer gatherings, determined suddenly that I need to wake up in my own bed. It isn’t that I don’t like people. Far from it. This time of year invites the sorts of gatherings I revel in; outdoors, music laden, sun kissed faces sharing in the ritual of summer. We are in the first year of what will be a season of 50ths and so often the parties are with old friends and that ease that comes with having been embryonic together. And I especially love the day after parties; the giddy postmortems that happen when you stay gathered, anecdotes even more amusing because they are doused with sleep deprivation and the remnants of too good cocktails. Whatever the reason, we so often need these temporary communities; the celebrations and the laments that are rendered potent by our sharing them. There’s an energy we get from them that we can’t conjure up solo. But they are not the only way. We can mark anything simply in the deciding to. In both small and solitary ways. You might have gathered for the solstice, you might still be planning to. But you might just as easily decide that its quiet you need for it not to pass you by. An evening in your garden with a blanket and a book. Maybe deadheading roses. Or a late night walk to a high point, watching the sun cross paths with the moon. Or a moment scribbling some longings into a notebook, just in case the crossover of all these pinnacle moments really does carry the possibility that it felt they might, when at 5am this morning my garden became the stage for a small and fantastical story.
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Glad the chickens are still with us, imagine the terror they experience in the night! Today I will be deadheading roses, reliving the wonder of the weekend.