The sun arrived early this morning. Or so it seemed. And, might I add, just in time.
Today, without question, marks my favorite day of the year. Every year. The day the sun (sol) stands still (sistit). The solstice. The beginning of summer.
Even those of us in the Northern Hemisphere who didn’t study Latin can appreciate the longest day of the year, the time when the sun reaches the peak of its power, the Earth is green and holds the promise of a bountiful harvest. The snow is gone, the ground thawed, warm skies arousing flowers in their beds like the early morning sun tugging me from mine.
The phenomenon of the solstice is lost on much of the world, swallowed in a seasonal cycle that, in tangible terms, tends to launch early and end late. Marked by Memorial Day, oppressive heat and road rage, the season’s early arrival at lower elevations might account for the pagan reference to the actual opening day as “midsummer,” although after more than a dozen years at 8,000 feet, I’ve come to recognize the seasons in the Colorado high country tend to start right on cue. Golden leaves drop on the first day of autumn, snow falls hard at the onset of winter, chaos reins from the first day of spring and the sun won’t warm our world until the start of summer. Just in time.
Of course, the day has been recognized for centuries with grand tribal gatherings, typically centered around bonfires kindled to help the sun with its task of warming the Earth. A midsummer tree might be decorated to dance around as women bathed in the river in hopes of renewing the flowing water with life-giving rains.
Myself, I’ve got another sort of ritual. It’s called “spring cleaning,” and it doesn’t happen until I’m absolutely certain that summer is good and ready to show itself. Then, and only then, will I put away hats, gloves, goggles, gaiters, skis, snowboards, skins, boots, down jackets, fleece pants, polypropylene and Polartec, exchanging them for T-shirts, Tevas and shorts. OK, and the odd fleece. But that’s it. It’s summer, and it’s supposed to be warm.
There is an ensuing transition in the toy department, where the games of winter are replaced by summer sports. I am not, I confess, much for summer skiing – unless it’s on Lake Powell. Cycling season finally is open on the mountain outside my door, and the flowing streams offer ample opportunity for rafts, kayaks and fly-fishing. If only there were more women bathing in them.
I don’t save my ritual for the actual summer solstice, however. I like to think I’m smarter than that. The idea is to have everything in place for this, the longest day of the year, in order to play longer and harder than any other time. Like those pagans celebrating midsummer with sunrise ceremonies at Stonehenge, I aim for open spaces for a spiritual tuneup that leaves me physically exhausted. A morning ride might lead to an afternoon paddle into an evening fishing float. Afterward, it’s time to seek out the sacred fire and burn the yule wreath once and for all as we exchange songs and stories, dancing to drums around a blazing bonfire. Who knows? We might even wash it all down with a brew or two.
It is said that whatever is dreamed this night will come to pass. When my head finally does hit the pillow, I’m hoping for dreams of the ultimate summer, the season to top all seasons, where the sun is always shining, rivers are always running, flowers are in full bloom and fish are always hungry. But I’m not counting on it. We all know the sun doesn’t really stand still. It just marks the beginning of the season. So get it while it’s hot. Because from here on, the days – like life – just keep getting shorter.
Staff writer Scott Willoughbycan be reached at 303-820-1993
