Solstice

Solstice. Tipped toward the sun. Our orbit visible in the silent winding of plants, growing long like the days. We’ve been here before. Billions of times actually. Though we may scarcely understand how. Whatever parts of us are rock and fungus. Living. Dying. Balance. Rebalance. Forms begetting new forms.

But this place - this time - is brand new to me.

For much of my 42 years I have felt like my life was leading up to something. I was here to make my mark. Work. Accomplish. Move forward toward some-thing. The center of a story. Embarrassing as that sounds now.

But time doesn’t just move forward anymore. I watch my family. At play, in love, with the sun and the berries. And each other. And I’m struck by what’s plain to see. THIS is it.

…Though it is not what I was expecting. Or ever aiming for. Nor could I have imagined how rich, or complicated it is. To think, it has been there all along and I almost missed it - were it not for this virus. Or the cancer they cut out of my head. Time off from our species and pursuits. Being. Simply. Present.

Now, for the first time, I can feel myself turning away from the light. Being called back toward the earth. And preparing for what’s next. My kinship with the plants is my solstice illumination. My long day leans toward a life that leaves fewer marks. And more time. To revel at the heavenly flame that burns bright before me. Right here. Right now.