Tag — summer solstice
*8Things: Celebrate the Sun
Over in our online soulcare community, Flock, we are getting ready to celebrate our most jubilant of High Holy Days, Summer Solstice. (Monday, June 21st) We’re learning the history and crafting made-to-fit celebrations to deepen our connection to the season, and to the Light. One of our members is even celebrating her anniversary on the Solstice. (How beautiful!)
Here are *8Things I do to celebrate this longest stretch of Light. Happy celebrating!
*8Things: Celebrate the Sun
- Listen to Polyphonic Spree’s Light and Day.
- Put a jar of flower on the table.
- Wake with the Light.
- Picnic!
- Join a neighborhood parade.
- Have a bonfire.
- Visit thin spaces.
- Be present to gratefulness.
What could you do to celebrate the Summer Solstice? (And our dear friends Down Under, what are you doing for your Winter Solstice?) Give us your list of *8Things : Celebrate the Sun and inspire us! Grab a button and play along. If you put your list on your blog, give us the permalinkin the Mr. Linky below. Happy Solstice.
A Pura Vida Solstice
Just one of many Solstice celebrations, this one at the house on Rockaway Beach.
Listen to the podcast here:
Subscribe to Magpie Girl podcasts on Zune, or on iTunes, or via RSS.
___________________________
It is not quite 5am and the dark is slowly dimming to reveal pine trees like shadow puppets awaiting the stage. Beyond them the water is still as glass waiting or the faithful northwest kayakers who will slip out at the dawn, leaving a silent wake in their path.
We are finally at my parent’s coastal retreat, Pura Vida, a beautifully appointed home on a tiny island in the Puget Sound. Everyone is asleep, save me, the insomniac with jet lag. But in a place a still and beautiful as this, who can be worried about a few hours of lost slumber? (Beside, the hammock is waiting on the deck below, should sleep come calling in the afternoon.)
The house will not be quiet long as Pura Vida is full of happy grandparents and boisterous children – soon to be joined by more boisterous children and chatty mamas when the cousins arrive. My Irish roots will show big and bold and the gift of gab will be used in full force over the coming weeks as we greet each other in a rush of words and stories. In the happy, overwhelming rush of family reunion, these sleepless quite moments in the early morn will be my hermit-ish ying to the jolly yang of our happy clan. A time to reflect and write, and sooth the frayed edges of a soul worn down by the coldness of life abroad, now stretched to a joyful bursting point by the warmth of familiarity and common bonds.
Already we have be embraced by the loving arms of people we cherish: the Curran-Coolmans who took our battered jet-lagged selves into their home so full of art, and story, and affection; the sweet child-like family at BF Day Elementary who jumped up and down to see us all on the sugar-filled high of the last day of school; the colorful chaotic buzz of the artists prepping for Solstice celebrations, awash in paper mache; the affection of our son-adopted-by-affection who apparently “does not get enough love” (hard to believe given the lovely young woman who rarely leaves his side); and the teary embrace of our dear friends Lynette and Dwight who could not possibly have more generous hearts toward we the ornery wanders.
All of that goodness in the first 48 hours—a restorative tonic for the 18 months spent in a culture which barely says “hello.”
And now, seven glorious weeks on the shores of placid sea, listening to the giggles, finding crabs under rocks, plucking oysters off the rocks for our supper, and wondering again why it was that we ever went away.
Today Brother Sun will shine his goodness down on all of this wonder, creating from his rays the longest, most glorious day of the year. And I will see very dear moment of it, until his Sister the Moon arrives to tucks us in, just so we can rest and begin it all again.
Happy Solstice.
Sacred Life Sunday: Solstice Blessing
Our solstice fire from last summer. Photo by madgiddy.
May light dominate your life in these coming days.
May the moments of darkness be far outnumbered by the presence of light.
When you next gather around the table in your homes may you remember light, and love, and the sun.
May these moments of holy time help us all to remember that the world spins, and the tide turns and the nights grow shorter – and regardless of our will or our work, the gift of Light Returning happens over and over and over again.
May the blessing of light be upon you –
Light without and light within.
May the blessed sunlight shine on you like a great fire,
So that stranger and friend may come and warm themselves at it.
And may light shine out of the two eyes of you,
Like a candle set in the window of a house,
Bidding the wanderer to come in out of the storm.
-a traditional Celtic blessing
The front porch of our Seattle home.
Solstice, Stonehenge, Solitude
a small sketch from my travel journal
It’s the night of Summer solstice. At home in Seattle the sun is at its highest right now, and hopefully the skies are clear to give the locals some much-onged for warmth during this cold Summer on this, their most treasured day. Here in Copenhagen–which is not yet home—the sun is starting to set, though the light has barely ebbed. Well after ten o’clock I can still read easily in the twilight glow that’s stretching over our high city balcony.
John Mayer is in town, the poet whose blues have sustained me through these strange and wrenching times. I searched for tickets—begged, borrowed and threatened to steal in two languages—but alas, none were to be found. Instead I’m sneaking smokes and playing all the live songs I could download one after another too loudly through the open windows of the living room. Message in Bottle (which I once heard Sting perform on an awkward date in an enormous arena). My Stupid Mouth (The Blogger’s Lament.) 83 (whimsical. nostalgic.) And finally, Gravity, my touchstone, my anchor.
I have been dreading this day, alone and away from my community on one of our most holy days. Paul is at a work party. One which has a reputation for being a bit of an orgy. One to which spouses are not invited. The girls are asleep after what for me was an exhausting night of homemade pizza, sing-a-long movies, and reading aloud extraordinary long chapters of Harry Potter. The grand finale for mom was one of those long, drawn out bedtimes only clever children can create, and enough dishes to make a restaurateur cry. But now that I’m here, alone with the dog, listening to John and watching the swallows dart after invisible insects; I find that I am actually okay in with this solitude, watching the sun slip into sleep, being grateful for the light.
At Stonehenge this morning the sun crested over softly arching hills, struck the blue-hued Heelstone, and drove its light between the arches of the great trilithon. Hundreds were there in dreadlocks and druid robes, smelling of travel and patchouli, trying to name something unnamable, making it up as they go along. Isn’t that what we all do? Cobble something together from shards of history and intuitive pull? Look for the meeting point between what we know and what we hope to be true?
I was at Stonehenge not long ago, fresh from the opulence of Europe’s finest cathedrals, ready to be unimpressed by a ring of stones surrounded by security fencing. I was surprised to find such holiness there, walking in a round where people have paced for thousands of years; waiting for the shard of light to crack the sky; hoping for a life continued. I followed the tour and when I reached the Heelstone, paused to touch its side. As I felt the warmth of the sarsen stone under my hand, I noticed a young woman walking counter clockwise to the organized tour, her shoes in her hand, her feet on holy ground. Seeing her example, I wanted suddenly to sink to my knees. It was all I could to do still my voice, to not incant ‘Holy, Holy, Holy.’ But I was unaccustomed of being a stranger in a strange land for so many long months, worn down from always sticking out, from always being obvious. I did not have the confidence to kneel in front of so many tourists in windbreakers and cameras. (Who knew the bending of the knee could be an act requiring so much strength?) Iinstead I stayed my hand on the stone, leaned my weight into my palm, and let my soul pour out thanks. Gratitude for the light. Gratitude for continuance. Gratitude for all that we need to go on.
It was not, and this is not, the Solstice I have come to remember. It is not the riotous and ridiculous parade; the familiar and homespun pageant built with our own hands; the silly, colorful crowd of thousands. Instead it is a new lesson in holy moments—stumbled upon alone (yet with casts of thousands now past); a mishmash of vices and virtues, of new songs and old stones. I feel as though I am soaking somehow in this history, in this present, and in the sun—always our promise of a future. I am melted. I am melded, somehow, me in this chair alone. And I think—held in this mystery of solitude amidst the companionship of souls—I think as the sun now fades, “Dayenu, it is enough.”
Solstice Blessing
This is what we read around the table last week at Solstice. I rather like it, if I do say so myself. :
___________________________________________________________________________________
Listen to this post as a podcast.
Listen to the podcast here:
Subscribe to Magpie Girl podcasts on Zune, or on iTunes, or via RSS.
We gather around this table tonight because we have traveled through the grey season to return first to Spring, and now to Summer. We have made it through the storms and the cold, the wetness and the drizzle–and we come now to this the longest day, to this abundance of light. So we stop for a moment to remember our journey, to celebrate this gift, and to give thanks.
At this table we have a great bounty, the labor of many hands and many talents. And we have, as we always do, a loaf of bread and a glass of wine. To some of us these simple foods remind us to be grateful. We see the staples and we think, ‘Ah, we have what we need.” To some of us these symbolic foods remind us of Jesus; they remind us to value what he valued – the sharing of life and provisions, the giving of thanks. For some of us the bits of grain in this loaf and the grapes crushed into this cup remind us that we are all part of one great family, birthed of one mother, living together in unity.
No matter who or what is a part of your story, we all have good reason to be here at this table on Solstice, during this time of light. Tonight we belong together. Tonight there is enough. [Read more →]
Happy Solstice!
!
We’re having supper under the trees tonight to celebrate! It will be light until nearly 10! O hurrah!
If you celebrate try reading Mama God, Papa God: A Caribbean Tale, listening to this, and drinking this.
Much Solstice Love to You
