Solstice

I took a long break from macro photography for the past while, and I didn’t realize how much I missed it until recently, when I brought along my macro lens on a hike with my aunt. All the little things started catching my eye again – water droplets on leaves, detailed flowers, intricate spider webs, whimsical mushrooms and curious fungi. It was like coming home after a long journey, or meeting an old friend again.

I don’t have a lot to write about on this summer solstice. But like any transition into another season, there’s an underlying current of intrigue and newness. Summer is star-filled nights and robin calls, purple-black storm clouds and wildflowers, evenings that seem to stretch forever and cricket-frog-songbird choruses.

Nostalgia is often present during the summer: I remember long bike rides during my small-town-childhood days; walking into drifting clouds of lilac and rose and wormwood sage scents; watching as building storm clouds grew nearer and nearer; listening to the enthusiastic cheers from the ladies’ workout club in the tennis courts across from our house that drew out late into the night; does and their fawns trotting across fields; brilliant, bold sunsets painting the sky dozens of colours unnameable to my young self. I remember.

Now, my newer memories of summer are only slightly changed. The tang of wildfire smoke turning mornings hazy and sunshine red; wailing coyote songs heard from far away alongside the lonely lament of a passing midnight train; driving on the highway with the windows down and my hair in my face; crackling thunder shaking me awake from sleep.

Okay, I lied – I guess I did have a fair amount to write about. Spontaneity is summer’s fault, anyway, and it’s intoxicating. Why not live life on the fly? Why not decide things last minute? Why not just see where the road leads?

I suppose summer is all about freedom. And I think that I’m going to go along for the ride.