A Simple Solstice Story
Butterflies play among squash blossoms this first day of summer. Four o’clock means a long time to sunset. The fly on my cotton button-down tells me the day is still young.
An old European grapevine twists around what I’ve named the Cemetery Garden, the highest spot on this land and thirty feet from the front door. A Douglas fir stands at its southeast corner and a young apple, grafted with three varieties, grows near the twisted root of the grapevine. A bird sings life is sweet, life is sweet, truly.
I keep seeing butterflies. Now there are four, and I think of the Matisse-green caterpillar that landed near my elbow yesterday to bring me a message of promise.
I think about last June and how little I knew about suffering and loss then, how much there would be to learn as life shifted into the slow lane where speed bumps and traffic signs confused my direction: Construction Ahead, Yield, Dead End.
But the story does not leave me lost. The story says, Come now, you know what to do. And the story says, Write the rest. So I bring the dogs outside, freshen their water, go back in, pick up my journal and the closest pen. Then I sit down in the camp chair where the caterpillar landed and write at the top of the next blank page, June 21, 2023.
