So much has changed – and yet nothing has.
Through the spring I watched my grey, seemingly lifeless garden emerge into an abundance of colorful forsythia, violets, lilac, dandelions, buttercups, lilies, foxglove, daisies … and the wildflowers keep coming. In our peaceful little valley we’ve heard and seen plenty of deer, bears, foxes, owls, hawks, and friendly crows who live in the winged pines that surround our home. Life is abundant.
Because I had more time than ever before, I discovered the abundance of time. The more time we have, the more it seems to drop away from something linear and anxious and instead expands like a skinless balloon into fresh air.
I have let go of a lot, and now the entire house feels lighter and more spacious … the less I have the richer I feel.
Out of a very dark winter I was sort of turned inside out so that now with the summer solstice I’m realizing dark is not inside us – it’s outside. And the light is inside us. With every breath I take I breathe in more light, and as I exhale I’m sending it out into that funny expanding balloon that expands into a sort of sheath of darkness that is an aspect of the density and heaviness of being human.
Also, in studying hands more deeply than I ever have before, with the amazing Jena Griffiths, I discovered a composite whorl on my Mount of Moon. Typically a composite whorl looks rather like two hands cupping or a yin-yang symbol. But mine is the opposite: one part of the whorl swims toward the outer edge of my palm and the other plunges down toward my wrist. I’m reminded of the dolphins that played around the boat I stayed on just before the pandemic brought the world to a strange standstill: They leap high into the sparkling sunshine, dripping, magical, playful, smiling and then plunge into the depths of emotion, waves, water, experience, density. And then they emerge again.
It’s all good – it’s all a good way of breathing, living, and loving. Welcome, summer.