I don’t remember noticing the summer solstice in my years in New York. Summer is summer there. It’s hot, you wear summer clothes, you crank the air conditioning in the bedroom, the weather changes at the end of September and by October it’s all over, with never a thought given to the lengthening of the days, the short nights. But up here in the Northwest we feel the longest day of the year. For a few weeks now I've been aware of the sun--it’s been slamming into the bedroom at 4:00 in the morning. It's been straining for its northernmost point like a dog on a leash.
On the solstice, parties break out. We pile up wood and light fires: The primal pyromania. Perhaps we’re aware of the longest day here because the time between the damp fog of Spring and the damp fog of Fall is so short. Maybe fewer buildings block our long view, or maybe the sky is closer. At this time of year, outside, at night, you'll feel the planet’s silent arcing through space.
Last night I found myself sitting outside at 10:30 in the half-light, listening to music in the guttering glow of candles. Someone picked up a guitar. Harmonies drifted from the tree-shadows. The fiddler, he now steps to the road. Cedars tall and silent behind us, etched black on silver. Blessed is the light of long days.
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