Well, folks, it’s been one year since I started this little substack experiment, and I’m happy to report that it’s been worth the effort. I appreciate you taking the time to read, engage, and share—here’s to continuing to explore collisions and how culture and nature intersect.
So, here we are on another summer solstice. The sun came up today like it always does, and as the earliest rays filtered through the curtains above my bed, I woke up and noticed the bird song that always starts around that same time. Creatures of all sorts stir as the light spreads over the earth, and those who have been out all night settle in for a rest. It’s hot this week where I am, and there have been some air quality alerts lately, but this morning was clear. I left the house at 7:15am to make an early appointment in St. Croix Falls, a little hamlet right on the St. Croix River, and since it finished up more quickly than anticipated, I had time to spend near the water before my next commitment.
Usually when I spend time in the woods in St. Croix Falls, I’m running—there are lots of trails to explore, and so often I do this when laced into running shoes. But today I wasn’t in running shoes—I’d left the house with only flip flops on my feet. For a second I scolded myself for not being prepared when a trail running opportunity arose, but then I reoriented and remembered that walking slowly is important too. So I meandered a few miles along the St. Croix as the solstice sun got higher in the sky, taking time to notice the plants on the forest floor spreading out like a mosaic of various hues of green, how the streams bubbled over rocks on their way to the main river channel, how the river water felt on my ankles, and the way calm water ripples in early morning light. All things I wouldn’t have noticed had I been running instead.
This ‘being forced to walk instead of run’ situation reminded me of the following passage in Collisions of Earth and Sky, which I’ll share with you today as an invitation to savor the start of whatever season you’re heading into now.
I didn’t ride very fast, and I stopped a lot: once to let some geese and their goslings cross the road, once to say hi to a neighbor girl who was romping around in her yard, once to look at the reflection of some tamarack trees in the floating bog. Then I went over to one of my favorite trails, one that I usually run, and I walked slowly around a loop that’s dotted with little streams and lots of ups and downs through the woods. Again, I stopped a lot: once to peer at a snail that was crossing the trail, once to look at another perched on a red-capped mushroom, once to wade for a while in the ice-cold creek. Nothing was accomplished other than noticing some details that I usually miss when I go by quickly in a car or running shoes.
Rather, I think what happened—in that act of pedaling slowly down a road close to home and meandering through the woods—is that I started to dabble in what it’s like to collaborate with age instead of denying the fact that time is always passing. I wasn’t defying the truth that slowing down is good (and necessary more than I think it is). I met the events of the day as they unfolded instead of always looking ahead to the next thing. We can’t force ourselves to get older or stay younger; all we can do is let life take us where it will.
May this solstice be one of moving at the speed that gives you what you most need right now, while light lingers just a little bit longer.
Upcoming Events:
Those in the Brookings, South Dakota area, I hope to see you for an evening reading and book signing at McCrory Gardens on Friday evening, July 7th. It’s a delightful time to visit the gardens with so much in full bloom! There will be light refreshments, I’ll read some while you bask in the blooms, and we’ll allow space for questions/discussion. 6:30-8pm
Then the following week, it looks like I will be making a stop in Mankato, as well, at the CuriosiTea House (1745 Commerce Dr. North Mankato, MN) from 6:30-7:30pm. Come join a conversation about Collisions of Earth and Sky and enjoy a cup of tea at a teal table.