Reflections on the Summer Solstice and the abundance that grows from small acts of tending.
The Summer Solstice arrives as a quiet milestone.
For months, the light has been gathering. Minute by minute, day by day, often in ways too subtle to notice. Then suddenly we arrive at the longest day of the year and realize we’ve been moving toward this moment all along.
The same feels true here in the sanctuary.
When the Spring Equinox arrived, much of life was still hidden. Seeds were tucked into cool soil. Garden beds were prepared. The forest was only beginning to awaken. The goats carried new life quietly within them. Spring felt full of possibility, but little evidence.
So much of the season was spent trusting what could not yet be seen.
Then came the slow unfolding.
Tiny green shoots emerged from the earth. The first spring greens filled the garden beds. Flowers began to bloom. The days lengthened. Birds returned to the trees. What began as possibility slowly became presence.
Spring asks for faith.
Summer offers evidence.
Now, as the Solstice approaches, I can feel the shift.
The garden beds that nourished us through spring are being turned over once again. The lettuces and greens that have completed their cycle are gathered and carried to the chickens, who eagerly transform them into baskets of golden-yolked eggs.
Nothing is wasted.
Everything becomes nourishment for something else.
The same rhythm is unfolding in the pasture.
The baby goats who filled the spring with their playful energy have left for their new homes. Their departure always brings a mixture of gratitude and bittersweetness. For a season they are woven into every morning, every chore, every walk through the pasture. Then one day the fields grow quieter.
Yet their leaving marks the beginning of another season.
With the kids settled into their new homes, milking has begun once again. Each morning the milk pail fills with abundance and possibility. Fresh milk for soap. New recipes waiting to be explored. Ideas beginning to take shape.
One cycle completes itself as another begins.
Perhaps that is what I love most about this time of year.
June feels abundant.
Not because abundance suddenly appears, but because I can finally see the accumulation of all the small acts of tending that came before it.
The gardens are producing more than we can eat fresh. Herbs are being gathered and hung to dry. Flowers are finding their way into oils. Jars of tinctures line the shelves. Bundles of herbs wait patiently for their turn to become tea, salve, or soap.
Everywhere I look, the season is offering its gifts.
And each gift tells the story of what came before.
Seeds planted.
Beds prepared.
Rain received.
Weeds pulled.
Flowers gathered.
Goats milked.
The Solstice feels much the same.
It is not the beginning of summer so much as the culmination of a journey that began months ago. A moment to pause and witness what has come into being.
The light has reached its fullness.
The gardens have reached their fullness.
The season has reached its fullness.
Yet even in this moment of abundance, the wheel continues to turn. New crops have been planted for summer harvest. New soaps are beginning to take shape from the milk, herbs, and flowers of the season. The gardens continue to grow. The days, though still long, will slowly begin their return toward autumn.
Nature reminds us that abundance is never still.
It moves.
It transforms.
It becomes.
The greens become eggs.
The milk becomes soap.
The plants become medicine.
And the cycle continues.
For now, though, I am lingering in those early morning hours when the gardens are still cool and the day feels full of possibility, grateful for the abundance that surrounds me and for the countless small moments that brought us here.
The Solstice invites us to do just that—to pause, to notice, and to celebrate the fullness of the season before the wheel turns once more.
May you find a moment to pause and notice what has accumulated in your own season of tending.