by Carrie Classon
I do a funny thing in the middle of June. I try to celebrate the summer solstice.
I don’t do anything particularly romantic. If you have visions of me leaping over bonfire flames or dancing around a maypole wearing a flower crown or attempting to contact my inner goddess, you would be disappointed.
All I do is try to remember some of what I’ve forgotten.
I’ve always thought the winter solstice was the proper ending to the year, rather than New Year’s Eve. New Year’s Eve is a date on the calendar, and it feels a bit arbitrary. New Year’s Eve has acquired a reputation for being a night when people drink too much and make promises they fully intend to break. None of this sounds like a great way to end a year.
There is nothing arbitrary about the winter solstice. It is the shortest and darkest day of the year, the true beginning and end of a cycle. I do not find it surprising that my ancient ancestors spent as much time as they did precisely calculating when the sun was going to return as they watched it get farther and farther away until, in northern climates, it barely reached the horizon before beginning its descent again. I’d be worried, too.
But there is another day on the other side of the year, when the sun is up longer than any other day, before those days begin to grow shorter. The warmest weather is still ahead, but the days will, imperceptibly at first, shrink. And that is the summer solstice. I think it’s good for me to take notice — even if I don’t dress in flowing robes while doing it.
It’s good to remember that the days are growing shorter. It’s good to remember all the things I said I’d like to do this year and know that the time to do them is half gone. It’s good to appreciate the fact that every day the sun rises in the sky is precious and that things do not always remain as they are.
This all sounds rather highfalutin. What I do in actual practice is this: I take a longer than usual walk and I start a new journal. I start a new journal on each of the solstices. But before I start a new one, I read the previous journal. This is not always entirely pleasant.
“Ooh. Did I really say that?”
I read about all of my intentions: those realized and those abandoned.
“Oops. I completely forgot about that.”
I am struck by how little changes from day to day and how much can be altered in six months’ time. It makes me humble and grateful and embarrassed and pleased all in one sitting. And, at the end of it, I take a long walk. I can usually walk later at night on the summer solstice, and walking in all that extra light is fun.
“OK, so, what’s next?”
Sometimes I come up with a motto for the next six months, which I never remember. Sometimes I come up with a list of lofty goals, which I promptly forget. I know I will forget them. But even if I plan to forget, for one day in the middle of the year, I remember all I have to be thankful for — my frustrations and my triumphs and all the things I was desperately worried about and scarcely remember today.
Once every six months I am reminded of how incredibly short my attention span is — and how many wonderful things I forget.
Till next time,
Carrie
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