Last Friday, I spent several hours on my favorite island, visiting some of my old haunts. It was the first sunny day since we marked Summer Solstice on our calendars.
I sat under a hawthorn tree at the edge of a vast meadow ringed round by evergreens, and gave thanks for this place of sacred solitude. I was utterly alone (no other humans, I mean!) and felt completely safe and cradled by the love of the island. I cloud-gazed. I listened to the song of red-winged blackbirds. I pulled up a clump of wild garlic and deeply inhaled the pungent scent of its bulbs. I noticed the iridescent wings of dragonflies flashing in the light. I felt the sun on my brow and the breeze on my cheeks. I nibbled on a handful of fresh-picked raspberries from a neighbor's garden. I watched a swallowtail butterfly dance up to the tops of tall cedars then circle back down to the meadow again. I gave thanks for this most holy place and time.
This was my Solstice celebration.