Midsummer dawned sunny and hot on Saturday, and I had a plan. Which of course meant, nothing would go as planned.
I took my walk beside the river, the plants growing tall and reaching for my knees after the rains of the previous week. The Saskatoon berries were ripening and I picked as many as I could reach. It was a small harvest, but I'll return tomorrow for some more in the hopes of getting a few jars of jam out of the effort.
I carried on to the west, up the hillside and stopped at the cemetery that houses the ashes of my grandparents. I washed their headstones, and left them the lavender that I had woven into my hair that morning.
I continued on my journey up the mountain, and found that the yarrow was ripe for picking.
A basket full of the healing herb, and dusty and dry myself, I still wasn't ready to go home, so I drove south toward the desert. I stopped at a farm stand to pick up local honey and just-ripe cherries, and paid some silver to a favourite crossroads before moving into the land of sage brush.
I stopped to pick a handful of the fragrant plant and carried on to another cemetery to pay my respects to the goddess, in one of her many forms.
By the time I found myself back at home hanging bundles of yarrow and sage, red cheeks and arms from too much sun, I was exhausted. I had plans to attend an evening circle at the lake as well. But the hours in the sunshine and fresh air had left me weary, and the glass of crabapple wine I was sipping was a terribly good additional excuse not to drive again.
I spoke my gratitudes, petitions and charms that night, and toasted the longest day, and then slipped effortlessly into dreams of plants and mountains and ancestors.
I hope your Midsummer/Solstice was absolutely delightful, and everything you hoped for - even if it didn't go exactly as planned!