Midsummer Meanderings
It is midsummer —in my heart, if not by the sun. And as always, it’s hard for me to ‘settle’ in these long-light days, when dawn sneaks into my window around 4:30am, and persists in claiming a part of my conscious-breath well past 8:30pm. It is a beloved time, a time filled with longing, with lassitude, brimming to overflowing with the smell and sight and sound of summer.
Summer is glorious, and it’s hard for me to write in these days - not because I have nothing to say, but because I have so much to say! So much heart, so many words! It is as if the light and heat of this time ignites within me a yearning so deep I cannot fathom where it starts or where it ends. The character of a book I just finished reading stated it so well: “I didn’t know what I would write. Words engulfed me. Torrents and floodwaters. I couldn’t contain them, nor could I release them.” [1]
And so I will share a few heart-meanderings, disparate thoughts that might convey, just perhaps, my soul’s recent journey in these warm hours of summer; a journey that may go nowhere in particular, but one that has marked the length and breadth of these summer days and nights, a refreshing of soul and mind and heart. For isn’t that what summer is best for?
A birthday celebration that marked yet another year of my life, hopefully each moment lived to the full. Experiences of family lived large, as I celebrated with family gathered round in a yearly celebration that numbers nearly 50 years.
Lazy evenings watching the fireflies light up our deep-green canopy of trees. White wine sipped; oysters slurped; the abundance of vegetables as I pore through our weekly CSA offerings, wondering what to do with yet another bunch of kale, two pounds of broccoli, a bunch of garlic scapes (truly, that is a thing!)
Summer concerts on town greens; Broadway shows in summer theaters; lobster rolls dripping with butter on rough-hewn picnic tables overlooking the town marina.
Yes. Midsummer is magical.
We’ve had our grandchildren with us these past three weeks. I’d forgotten just how much heart-space children take up within. Their zest for life, their constant whirling about in joy-filled wonder, their forever relishing in the sheer overflow of life, all reminding me of the incredible gift of childhood shared with grandparents who will take the time to simply be with them:
Watching my 9-year-old grandson literally vibrate with excitement at an indoor amusement park filled with ropes and trampolines and body-challenges that make me dizzy with the sheer energy of the thing;
Teaching my 12-year-old granddaughter how to make strawberry shortcake, watching her beautiful green eyes widen with the juicy delight of her first taste of fresh strawberries, just picked;
Listening to these four wonders greet one another last weekend, their first time together in several months; their cries a rush of joyous giggling as they gathered, straining to be heard above the cacophony of voices eager to outshine the other, a mixed symphony of love-made-loud.
In these summer weeks with our grandchildren, their hearts and faces have drilled-down, deep into our hearts, etching a pattern of summer-love not soon forgotten.
In the late afternoon of July 4th, we took my older granddaughters (they stayed another week beyond the other two) to a local beach club for our annual ‘picnic’ of pizza and swimming in the ocean’s briny tide. I was struck by two things during that late afternoon, a magic, summer-gold time, two observations that were rendered even more poignant in light of our country’s current climate of unrest, disrespect and discord:
An African family gathered in the full late-afternoon sun, brightly colored, overflowing onto two picnic tables; music drumming in tandem to conversations shared in smiling wonder, men dancing with children in joy, sharing the delight of a beautiful late afternoon in a quiet corner of paradise. Passing families smiled hello; and in return, were rewarded with broad white smiles and belly-laughs bursting forth deep from within. The joy was palpable, contagious, inescapable; I was sorely tempted to join one dread-locked older man in his fast-footed dancing - but of course, I didn’t. That’s not me - though I’ve thought of him several times since - that pulsing beat of joy that seemed to pound through his feet onto the green grass.
In another area of the park, in a shaded pine-grove nearer to where we sat, was another family, the women wrapped in muted head scarves, long sleeves, long skirts, dark hair just visible along the line of their foreheads, small brown feet in brightly colored flip flops. They served a full meal from large pots —what looked like rice and meat, with torn flat bread and hands to scoop. There was a young restless boy of about 4, and another older girl with Down’s Syndrome, sitting protected between mother and father. This family was quiet, yet the joy was still evident, but more whispered, calm, serene. The adults kept an eye on both children, letting them roam when they got restless, taking turns going after them from a distance, making sure they were safe, but not interfering with their wandering. Their talking was fast, melodious, constant; their demeanor settled, quiet, sure. I wondered what their story was. There was tragedy and sorrow etched on their faces, no veil able to hide the effects of whatever stories they have lived.
I share these two scenes because I was struck by the deep significance of these two families in the midst of the predominantly white, Western European people who lived in this prosperous Shoreline town. These families painted a stark tableau of what July 4th really stood for - a chance to begin again, a time to regroup, renew and replenish; a place for family to live in relative peace; to worship in, what I fervently hoped, would be a time of respect and honor.
And so summer continues, the real midsummer approaching, but no less precious for the golden days it presents. By the sun, the days have begun to shrink again, by mere seconds now, but ever-more toward another change of season, another cycle of sun and life and love.
May your own summer be filled with experience, with life lived to the fullest, with love overflowing. Sit on your deck or your porch or your front stoop, and absorb the summer sounds. Walk a beach or a wooded path and feel the peace deep in your soul. It will mark the golden midsummer in your heart, a memory to cherish into the gray and white of winter coming.
[1] Sue Monk Kidd; The Book of Longings; Penguin, 2020. P. 21