antipodal

The great irony of solstice, of course, is that the day we celebrate as the first of summer, the longest of the year, actually marks the beginning of the slow march towards winter and darkness, short days and colder nights. As much as I love and relish the cold seasons, changing leaves, ice and snow, I find this a relief. I look forward to knowing that even though the days are just starting to heat themselves into unbearably hot and soggy states and we have months of oven temperatures yet to bear, the earth, at least, is already beginning to tilt away from the sun just a little bit each day, that relief is out there in the dark spin. Up north, running dogs, I always saw winter solstice as a threat on the horizon. We were at the halfway point, and in a few months time the trails would thaw and melt back into intractable marsh, the dogs would blow their coats and sleds would be tarped over for the long, smoke-tinged summer ahead. Learning to ride the cycles and celebrate both seasonal markers is a state I could do better to embrace. I do love the summer with her sunscreen tinged t-shirts, burnt shoulders and warm cheeks, long sunset evenings and silver-moon starlight nights that you can lay out in.

We head to the north shore of Lake Superior tomorrow for a cooler taste of northern summer near the Canadian border where both the heat and humidity will be mitigated by the latitude and the breeze off the chilly mass of water. I’m taking my new boat and our hammock, books and knitting, firewood and sweaters and cozy wool hats pieced together last fall. We’ll be camped out in a yurt not far from the shore, with oil lamps, a propane camp stove and piles of blankets, miles from the nearest cell signal’s reach. It’s a good marker, I think, both for the ineluctable swing into a new season, anticipated and dreaded, and into a new geography, unasked for but showing her own silver linings on the edges of the clouds.