Solstice seed sowing

How to celebrate the solstice when it’s gray. Maybe the sun keeps trying to peek through but the entirety of May has been grey and June gloom lingers. Two years ago on the solstice I was barechested, spine stretched against a log at some obscure lakefront in the Olympic peninsula. The pines as a sanctuary for exposed chests, the sun glimmering off the water’s changing surface. It felt like a peak.

Two weeks ago, sitting in the sun, ass perched on the edge of concrete and soil. Crows changed directions with the wind, their feathers moving quicker than the sound of a snap. I hope the crows are on my side.

I hope the whole universe is on my side today, even though the sun can’t seem to break through the marine layer and I can’t seem to break through my own limitations; my psyche hides it’s secrets so well, even I sometimes have trouble uncovering myself to myself.

That’s okay. I believe there’s many versions of me even within me, and the ambiguity only represents a further fractioning of duality.

Maybe I won’t have a solstice ritual and maybe instead I’ll watch invisible wind shake the needles on Coltor pines. Watch currents shift their surroundings. How can something invisible still be so seen?

The front door slams. Wind.

If I had a candle lit, perhaps the flame would be flickering. But already, the candle that’s always burning within me feels like it’s dancing. Not flickering. But still moving.

If there were a mantra for my solstice, it would still be hidden above the marine layer (things aren’t so visible sometimes being so terrestrial). If there were a mantra for my solstice, it would still be hidden in a layer of my pscyche that’ll rise to the surface, maybe as a flower. Maybe as a rejected seed.

All I can do is sow a seed, and wait. Water it, and wait.