Celebration, Apparently

Every year, sometime after the spring equinox — because let's at least let Ostara have its moment — I start imagining summer.

Not planning it exactly. Imagining it. There's a difference.

This year's version wasn't particularly original. It was mostly a rerun of last year's vacation, which set the bar annoyingly high.

An old converted schoolhouse in a beach town.

My two best friends, their daughter (who happens to be Rosalie's best friend), and our families all under one roof.

Artisanal ice cream.

Walks around the property with toddlers riding proudly in a wheelbarrow.

Ambitious plans to play board games in the evening.

Complete failure to actually play those board games.

Spontaneous dance parties.

Someone inevitably ending up at the piano.

The kind of beautifully organized chaos that only exists among people who know and love each other very well.

This year, I had quietly assumed we'd do something equally magical. Instead, I'll be spending part of my summer recovering from surgery in a walking boot. Life remains committed to reminding me that it retains final editing rights.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about how spring wasn't really ours.

The markets were difficult.

The first one barely covered its table fee.

The second one was even quieter.

The third one managed the impressive feat of happening without me, after a date change I never received.

Not exactly the triumphant spring chapter I had imagined.

And yet. The more I sit with it, the more I think spring may have been preparing me for this summer all along. Namely:

Stop forcing.

Summer has a funny reputation.

Every year, we collectively decide that these three months must somehow contain an entire lifetime's worth of joy, memories, adventures, projects and personal growth. We must:

• enjoy every sunny day
• take the trip
• have the experience
• make the memories
• become outdoorsy people
• somehow keep everyone entertained

Preferably while looking effortless.

As a millennial, I also feel contractually obligated to mention that social media doesn't exactly help. The internet would like me to believe that summer is best spent:

• harvesting tomatoes from a garden larger than my condo
• drinking aesthetically pleasing beverages in vintage glassware
• reading twelve books
• hosting dinners lit entirely by string lights

Meanwhile, I am preparing to spend part of mine learning how to elegantly navigate life in a walking boot.

We contain multitudes.

The funny thing is that while all of this has been unfolding, I've been working on next year's Éphéméride. Which means I've spent a lot of time revisiting the summer section. A slightly ridiculous exercise considering I have absolutely no idea what my own summer is going to look like. 

But maybe that's precisely the point.

If there's one thing I've learned through creating Writuals, it's that planning and ritual are not actually the same thing. Planning is deciding what you hope will happen. Ritual is deciding how you'll meet whatever does.

The seasonal reflections in Éphéméride were never designed to help people optimize a season. They're there to help us inhabit it.

To stop.

To contemplate.

To reflect.

To notice.

To embrace the season we're actually living instead of the one we imagined.

And, as is tradition, the questions I write for other people continue to come back and interrogate me personally.

Rude.

But fair.

I think that's why I've always been drawn to paper.

Not because I enjoy organizing things. Although I very much do. Not because I enjoy planners. Although I very much do that too. But because paper gives me a place to return to myself.

A place to collect thoughts.

To notice patterns.

To ask questions.

To celebrate.

A notebook.

A planner.

A workbook.

A notepad.

At their best, they're not productivity tools. They're rituals. Small invitations to pay attention. And paying attention is surprisingly difficult. Especially when life doesn't unfold according to schedule.

This summer, I am officially refusing a few things.

I refuse to feel guilty for recovering.

I refuse to put pressure on Writuals.

I refuse to treat healing like a delay instead of a season.

And I refuse to explain to people why I dislike watermelon. Some things are simply between me and the watermelon. Frankly, I remain suspicious of any food that receives that much unanimous praise without a single piece of constructive criticism.

The summer solstice is almost here. I've always loved a good solstice. Not because it feels like a finish line. But because it feels like a semicolon.

A gathering point.

A celebration.

A reminder to look up.

To appreciate the warmth.

To share a meal.

To sit around a table.

To remember that we are tiny creatures spinning through an impossibly large universe, somehow lucky enough to witness another turning of the wheel.

This year, if I had to choose one intention for the season, it would be celebration.

Not achievement. Not productivity. Celebration.

Of my family.

Of my friends.

Of my daughter, who will spend this summer discovering the world through splash pads, her grandparents' gardens, ants she does not trust, and whatever other wonders capture her attention.

Of this business.

Of this life.

Of this season.

Exactly as it arrives.

When September comes, I don't necessarily want to feel rested. Or productive. Or accomplished. I want to feel content. Not because everything went according to plan. Not because I managed to maximize every sunny day. Not because I extracted every possible experience from the season. I want to feel content because I allowed myself to be. Because I practiced celebration. Because I stopped waiting for circumstances to earn it. Because I gave myself permission to find enoughness in the season I was given.

I think that's what my paper rituals have always been about. Not productivity. Not performance. A return to myself. A place to reflect. To celebrate. To remember that this life, exactly as it is, is already worthy of attention.

Celebration, apparently, is what I'm bringing into this summer.

And honestly?

I think that's enough.

—

With a planner full of questions, a walking boot on the horizon, and absolutely no intention of becoming a watermelon enthusiast,

Sarah
Atelier scriptural Writuals