In Light

The Summer Solstice

There are lots of different kinds of light. The solstice began in bright blazing heat, and the light was full and covered everything. 

     There were eleven of us there, a mismatch of souls and characters, each with different laughs and thoughts and visions, just like fingerprints. Together we were something wonderful that we could never be apart. 

Slowly the sun began to travel lower in the sky. The light was different now, it was rich and full and robust and it our eyes like sparks and our hair like fire. When I looked through my camera, I could see the fierceness inside of each of us, a creature brought to life by the setting sun. The sun lit us up from the inside.

   In the field, on the solstice- it is a feeling like no other. Bare feet on rough ground, sweat in every curve and pocket of your skin. The tall grass like a never ending sea of glowing gold. The freedom is like nothing you have ever tasted. I go through a lot of life trapped inside myself but this evening I am free. Imagine the electric buzz of insects in the grass, the way the weeds scratch your legs, the way your laugh is real.

We found a patch in the field where the tall grass was beaten down , we called it our nest. We played guitar and sand "I'll Fly Away." The sun was sinking lower. Now there were shadowy spots, which only enhanced the golden areas of light. We all stood in a circle, in our nest. Feathers, fabric patches, long skirts, no shoes. We put our arms around each other and rocked and swayed. 

We listed what we were thankful for. The ocean. Fireflies. Wildflowers. Friends. I was filled with absolute contentment. It was a softer, calmer time. The fire and passion were replaced with something quieter but just as strong. Thankfulness poured from our lips, the rocking motion of leaning back and forth gave us away to a zone of complete peace and praise.

Then the light was fading. We laughed a lot and it was hard to just be quiet. But we all sat down facing the same direction. The sun was a fiery orange ball. We watched it set. I mean that in the most literal sense. All of our eyes were fixed on that perfect sphere, and it was moving. It slowly moved, and we watched in utter silence as it disappeared below the horizon. When there was only a sliver of orange left, I swear my heart stopped. It was the longest and the briefest moment all at once. And with that the light of that sun for that day was gone. It would never be exactly the same. It was a breathtaking moment, tinged with awe and sadness. There aren't any pictures. It wasn't right. It was meant to be just how it was, a memory, a fading shadow in all of our minds.
Do we remember?

We walked back to the house and ate a lot of food. Black bean salad with corn and peppers and cilantro, pasta with pesto, iced tea in mason jars. We went and got ice cream, blasting country music out the car windows into the humid night.
  By the time we got back, it was really dark. We made our own light. We lit sparklers, which made fierce and bright explosions in the dark. You could write secrets in the air because this kind of light was short lived, a burst of fearless energy before a sudden death. The letters I wrote were gone in an instant, with only the darkness as a witness, and darkness is not one to give away secrets. Through my camera lens, I could see streaks of light, I could freeze the bursts into permanent yet instantaneous shapes.

Down in the heart of the woods, lies the summer house. The wood is old and dusty and it has been there so long that it seems to have become more a part of nature than the construction of man. It holds treasures of the forest- a deer's skull, antique bottles and jars, broken glass, dried flowers. The walls are screened in, so that it feels like you are outside, not inside at all.
   We made it home, we covered the floor with a patchwork of sleeping bags and pillows and blankets, so that the whole floor was claimed by us, in a wild, unorganized, comfortable way. Then, we placed candles all over, on the windowsills around the perimeter of the summer house. We filled jars with the candles, then lit them. A new light was born. It was magical. It was soft and flickering. The candles were steady beacons in the darkness. It felt like the entire woods were thick black, but we were safe in our hollow of blankets and shifting, moving, yellow light.
     We all got in our sleeping bags, a crowded cluster of dirty feet and cool sheets and curled up bodies and soft pillows. The smell was that of damp mossy forest, of sweet clover and of the smoke from the incense we had lit. There was a peace that cannot be found in the everyday, it was unreal in it's beauty and surety. That is why I believe it must be the peace of God, so close yet so mysterious, so calm yet so strong. I wish this could be accessed at other times, but I've come to the conclusion that it just isn't possible and that's okay. Only in the silent depths of the summer woods, on the shortest night and longest day of the year, with abundant candle light, close friends and open hearts, can this peace be experienced. I think it's a peace untouched by human stain, and in that, God gives us a glimpse of heaven.
   We blew out every candle. We played soft music. "Beautiful" by Trampled by Turtles. The only light was that of the fireflies. There were as many as stars, it seemed. They flashed, then went out, flashed then went out, but at such timing that the woods were never completely dark. They were pinpricks of yellow, minuscule rapidfire explosions. That is what I remember falling asleep to. A multitude of positively magical insects, putting on a spectacular show and shedding light onto the silhouettes of trees.
   We woke early, when it was still dark. We slowly roused out tired limbs, struggled to open bleary eyes fogged with such little sleep. Tangled hair, wide yawns, we set out of the summer house into the pale dark woods. There were no words to say. We walked back to the field like a silent parade, wrapped in musty sheets and patchwork quilts as if to lessen the harshness of being awake. We passed the trains, and when I saw the field, my breath caught in my throat. The sun was not up yet, the sky was a dim white, and everything was shrouded in mist. A thin cloud of fog spread from the railroad tracks and into the great expanse of grass and tangled weeds. I had never seen anything like it.
   Queen Anne's lace was unfurling as if from a long sleep. Perfect drops of dew rested on her slender green limbs, like jewels upon a real queen's lace.
   But the sun was still not up, so the waiting began. We sat in a line on the tracks, as if we didn't believe the sun would really come. But soft, quiet, hesitant light was slowly seeping from somewhere.
 

I remember the moment I first saw it. There was nothing, and then it was there. A tiny sliver of quivering orange on the horizon. Our eyes were glued to it then, just on that tiny hint. And it rose.

I
t set everything it touched on fire. It was different than sunset light. This light was brave, it was making an entrance. It spoke of beginnings, not of endings. The mist on the field reflected the color, it turned a shimmering pink. It looked like you could touch it. The sun rose, a great ball int the sky as came just above the horizon. Nothing could keep away from its life, everything was touched.

It left a pathway of orange on the field, a pool of rich color. Drawn by its depth, we trudged through the high grasses, wanting to be in that light. but no matter how far you walked it was always just ahead, and unattainable goal. It is the things that cannot be captured- the lonely cry of a loon on a lake at night, the movement of time, the glowing orange light of a rising sun- that I am always looking for, always trying to hold in my cupped hands. Things that are wild, limitless, quiet, mysterious.
   Even though I know they can't be captured, not in outstretched hands, scribbled words, snapped photographs, or the stroke of a paintbrush, I will never stop trying.