Summer Solstice

I was in a debate recently about the point of art. The suggestion was that we are mere animals on a planet, causing mass destruction that should be exposed, through art, before we all die. My art is more about the tiny moments... the moments when, whether animal or not, destructive or not, we are truly alive, truly present. Both extremes are around us, all the time, every minute. They are two sides to the same coin. In many ways, one could not exist without the other. But as for me, and my moments...

I try to have a party every year on the summer solstice. Not only do I love the light and feel most alive with the summer sun beating down upon me and the days drawing long into the night, but in The Great Gatsby, Daisy makes the comment, "Do you always wait for the longest day of the year and then miss it?"

I want to be sure not to miss it.

This year it fell on Monday. I made strawberry jam in the morning of delicate berries that turned immediately to juice with one small gesture from a masher. The smell of berries and morning sun filled the kitchen until the pint jars sat satisfactorily side by side promising to ward off all threats of winter. We had a small party that night. Friends, fire, solstice lore about feminine energy and fire jumping and honey. I promised Alex he could eek out every hour of day light. We stayed up late- late enough for the fireflies to come out and work their magic. Long enough to create a glass jar filled with wonder and lightening.

I knew my children would wake up cranky beyond belief. I knew getting Alex off to school would be hell. But I didn't care. I heard his shouts from the field as he ran with his butterfly net through the dark. Felt his thrill as he raced toward me, his treasure in his hand until I lifted the foil cap and he released the bug inside the jar. I felt Cate hover closer to the fire as the damp chill of the darkened sky settled. I imagined sun freckled noses and band-aided knees. Watermelon, lemonade, icy plunges in the lake. Long evening watching the stars come out one by one.

Somewhere, in the gulf, oil spills continually, covering wildlife, threatening shorelines. BP's flawed publicity campaign assures us that the amount spilled in one day is equivalent only to what we Americans consume in four minutes. Four minutes. I am sure not one of us can claim innocence. I sit in Otsego County, surrounded by scenery most can only imagine. But there are plans to break into our hills and drill for natural gas, threatening not only the landscape, but our drinking water, our lake. We long to stop it, but everything I am presently touching is made from a petroleum based product, or run from electricity generated from petroleum. How do we begin?

And still the fields light with the magical lightening of mating bugs. The sky burns bright with stars. The moon waxes and wanes. Children laugh at night. They cry in the morning. They finish a year of preschool. They move up to second grade. Training wheels come off of bikes and tiny legs pump and pump to make swings fly higher and higher into the sky. We catch someone's eye for a moment and understand so much without words. We struggle to find words before a moment slips away. Before we catch our breaths, we will celebrate the dark as we celebrated the light.

And the earth spins and spins.