The earth languishing in axial tilt, monuments glowing, heat and light and the bald face of the sun.
Summer, in all her loose and fragrant glory, arrives at the party.
These days, we eat strawberries in January and work long past dark, but there was a time when we didn’t think of ourselves as separate from nature, or above the influence of the seasons. Our internal lives are supposed to be consistent – we’re convinced we have to be the same person, with the same needs, throughout the cycle of the year. We tell ourselves we’re above the animals, as if indoor plumbing and a few trips to the moon could erase our base nature, the creature part of us that shifts with the seasons.
Midsummer’s eve remind us otherwise.
It’s almost impossible not to feel that symbolic weight, the mystical gravity of this long, long day. Our ancestors felt it, built pyramids and stone circles around it, wrote endless verses about it, threw bacchanals on it. The frenzy of solstice is undeniable, thick with life and magic.