A Rainy Summer Solstice
On An Uneasy Acceptance of Summer as Rest
Summer is a bit of a conundrum for me. In a profession that offers an extended break during this season, I should fully welcome it. But there’s an enormous amount of pressure to Make The Most Of Summer. Hot Girl Summer (and all the offshoots). Song of the Summer. Create-your-own-thing-of-the-summer. It’s also the time when I have time to do things that I can’t always locate energy for during the school year, projects like organizing the pantry or reading more deeply or re-starting the garden (despite it being a terrible time to do that in Central Texas because almost everything besides the okra will die no matter what I do to keep it alive). It’s also the time when I get to see the people I know who work in academic jobs because we’ve basically tripled the amount of possible waking hours for hanging out, and also the people who have the same amount of time but it matches better with my time and/or mental capacity. There are just so many things to do!
Most school-related adults I talk to are in the countdown, GET ME OUTTA HERE mode by late April. But I also had a quieter conversation with colleagues who have been working in education for much longer than I have about the anxious transition into summer. While I look forward to the mental space, getting out of a hyper-social, overstimulating work environment into…not that…feels daunting, both in lead-up and execution. It was deeply comforting to hear people (who I like and respect and who’ve been living this life a long time) say that they, too, struggle with finding the right balance between getting out of work mode into “summer mode,” and with not feeling altogether comfortable with the “time off.”
Because of some pre-planned travel, too many work-related commitments, and a sort of shocking dog emergency, my transitions didn’t go smoothly or as planned. The summer solstice was one of the first days of real nothingness. With the exception of a brief grocery pickup, I spent the day at home, thinking about seasonal transitions and reading Nina MacLauglin’s Summer Solstice: An Essay (I learned from reading her Winter Solstice in March that timing does matter, so read it on the last possible day to prepare). I was struck by this passage (and even more struck to see that one of my favorite authors pulled the exact same passage for her summer solstice missive):
“The wheel of the year is rolling toward the longest day, a breather, a pause. We’re midway between the planting and the harvest, and it’s time for the earth—soil, rain, and sun—to do its work. Can you take a rest? Can you aim yourself toward pleasure? Or are your work and life too intertwined?”
The idea of summer as a time of rest, of the in-between-ness of the season for planting and harvest, struck me as completely novel. Perhaps because I’ve thought of the spring and fall equinoxes as points of “balance,” the summer solstice has never made me think of rest or equilibrium. Mid-seasons (early August, early February) are actually much more intense than their beginnings, which is logical, but hadn’t occurred to me before. Summer solstice has been about USING all of the light, of EXTENDING the light, kicking off the season of Doing All The Things. And yet, when I tried to do things this week, it’s been hard to focus, like all I want to do is mentally nothing. Katherine May wrote about a need for rest in the link above, too, as well as noting that yes, her work and life are too intertwined.
This intertwined-ness is one of the reasons it feels difficult to transition and also difficult to do anything that requires planning or commitment. I scheduled my work world poorly this summer, with too many one- or two-day commitments sprinkled throughout the off-times. This seemed like a good idea in March, but maybe this will finally be the year that I learn that what you need in June is basically impossible to predict in March (and that when in doubt, err on the side of not scheduling things). It is a constant mental battle to determine the proper balance of leisure activities/social time/glorious nothingness with the genuine benefits that unhurried, reflective work planning and space can have all year round. Maybe some day, teachers will have more sufficient contracted time for this kind of work, but this is not that season. So I’m working on not thinking too much about next week’s commitments, one. moment. at. a. time.
In an odd coincidence, it also rained almost all day on the solstice in Central Texas, atypical weather that forced/allowed me to stay home, to read a whole book on the couch, to look at the messy attempt at a garden in my backyard but not really be able to actively work on it. Once the rain did let up (not until after 8:00pm, though it was, as the day would suggest, still light out), we lit a very small fire in our fire pit, hardly the bonfires and celebrations that Diana Helmuth describes in this book, but our little attempt at extending the longest day, of holding on to one more night of letting the light win.
The first day of the warmest season (in the northern hemisphere) is also when the light starts to dwindle again, pointing the course toward winter. This fact is baffling to my brain that wants to have things be pure, linear, direct, uncomplicated. But you can’t have one without the other: the light without the dark, the power without it waning. Nina MacLaughlin describes this, too:
“Darkness unspools so slowly it looks like light. The end unspools so slowly it seems like the start. Winter and summer - flowers and snow, holly and oak - dance with each other as they battle. Each is both at once.”
Perhaps my favorite passage (I ignored my own advice to my students, highlighting about half the book - I recommend reading it in its entirety), though, followed MacLaughlin’s explanation of her body’s preference for the colder months over summer. As someone who used to love summer by default, not being cut out for midwestern winters, I’ve come to love fall’s fruitfulness and winter’s coziness in a milder location. I’ve settled into something of an accepting unease with the oppressive Texas heat, but MacLaughlin’s qualms with summer resonate with the agitation, uncertainty, and restless lethargy that also color the edges of “teacher in the summer” confusion. Near the conclusion of her essay, though, MacLaughlin explained:
“I don’t begrudge the summer lovers, and, over time, have come to better appreciate summer’s moist and verdant charms. Swimming is good. Hot dogs off the grill are good. All the colors of the petals, deep and pale. Riding a bike through the city on a warm night. Slugs leaving slick and shining trails on the sidewalks in the mornings. Open windows. Thunderstorms. It’s nice to live.”
And with a fire in the fire pit, the sky still glowing ever so slightly at 10:00pm, and no alarm in the morning, I’m with her.
What are your summer feelings?
I’d love to hear about your summer rituals, feelings (of any kind) related to summer, and how/if you mark the changing of the seasons.
There’s still time to sign up for tonight’s gentle hatha flow practice at 7:00 CDT. Just CLICK HERE. More information about July’s schedule coming next week.
