Why Do We Still Look Up?

I have spent a frankly embarrassing amount of time staring at the sky for someone who also has a reputation for tripping over her own feet (or, as my dad likes to say, for having a little black cloud following her around).

I am not speaking metaphorically. A few years ago, I managed to tear a ligament, sprain two ankles and two toes in a series of events that clearly demonstrated that my sense of direction and I have a complicated relationship.

And yet. I've always looked up.

As a child, I could spend hours watching the clouds. Later, the stars.

I've even planned entire portions of trips around dark sky reserves simply because I wanted to see more stars. I enjoy planning my vacations around restaurants just as much as I enjoy planning them around the night sky. Both seem like excellent reasons to cross a country. Special mention goes to Queenstown, New Zealand, which still holds the very prestigious title of most beautiful Milky Way I've ever seen in my life.

Some people collect fridge magnets. I collect memories of the sky.

As the summer solstice approaches, another well-known phenomenon occurs in my household. I begin developing surprisingly strong opinions about topics that concern very few people.

Daylight hours.

Sunsets.

Constellations.

Equinoxes.

Edible flowers. (As I write this, I am still unable to determine which flowers deserve the supreme honour of being imprisoned in the ice cubes of my homemade iced tea. The great issues of our time.)

There was also Rosalie's birthday.

Two years old.

TWO YEARS OLD.

I have spent the last few days looking at a two-year-old and trying to understand how we got from "particularly demanding little potato" or "tiny neckless gentleman" to a small person who negotiates snacks like a seasoned lawyer.

I don't know whether time speeds up when you become a parent or whether you simply become more aware of how fast it's moving. Either way, I don't particularly appreciate the experience.

Her birthday always falls just before the solstice. And every year, the two events become tangled together in my mind.

They give me exactly the same feeling. The feeling of arriving somewhere without noticing the journey pass.

I think that's why I love seasonal markers so much. Not because they're mystical. Not because they're trendy. And certainly not because they solve anything.

I love solstices because they force me to look up. To step outside the small theatre of my everyday life for a few minutes. To notice that another season has arrived. That the world keeps moving. That the sun continues its work. That somewhere, monarch butterflies are migrating, gardens are exploding with greenery, and Canada geese are busy doing goose things without the slightest concern for my to-do lists.

The older I get, the less time feels like a straight line. I experience it more like a wheel. A wheel that keeps turning whether we notice it or not. The return of long evenings. The return of peonies. The return of overly ambitious tomato plants. The return of mosquitoes that absolutely nobody requested. The return of certain questions. The return of certain versions of ourselves.

Some things disappear. Others come back.

While working on the next Éphéméride, I often find myself filling notebooks with celestial references.

Stars.

Moon phases.

Solstice suns.

Ancient maps.

Constellations.

Apparently, I am simply becoming a version of myself that owns more books about almanacs. I've accepted it.

The sky always finds its way into my work. Just as it always finds its way into my life.

This year, the solstice will find me recovering from surgery. No dancing around a bonfire. (Womp womp.)

But perhaps that's not such a bad thing. Because if I'm honest, I've rarely thought so much about time as when my own pace has been abruptly slowed.

The time of the sun.

The time of the moon.

The time of the seasons.

The time it takes to heal.

The time it takes to grow.

The time it takes to become the person you're in the process of becoming.

We spend so much of our lives trying to manage time. Optimize it. Save it. Find more of it. As though it were something we could tuck away in a drawer for later. Then something happens and reminds us that time belongs to no one.

It keeps going. The sun continues its path. The moon continues hers. The seasons keep turning. The tides continue to rise and fall. And we are simply lucky enough to participate in all of it for a little while.

I think about that often when I look at the sky. The way we all meet in the middle of these cycles.

Us.

The trees.

The pollinators.

The rivers.

The geese.

The peonies.

The earth beneath our feet.

The water that moves through us.

The sky above our heads.

We do not live separately from any of it. We are part of the same story. We simply tend to forget that between appointments and loads of laundry. The solstice feels like an excellent opportunity to remember.

So if you'd like to mark the solstice this year, grab a booklet, your Éphéméride, or a notepad.

Look up. Then write.

What deserves to be celebrated even though you completely forgot to celebrate it at the time?

Which small victory got overshadowed by the next thing on your list?

What is growing in your life right now? A friendship? An idea? A project? A child who has suddenly become a tiny person with opinions?

What has been warming your heart lately? And what has been making you want to disappear into the woods until September?

Which flame would you like to keep feeding this summer? And which one might be better left alone before it turns your schedule into a full-blown forest fire?

What are you deeply grateful for today?

Who made your year brighter?

What would you like to celebrate before the days begin quietly growing shorter again?

Make a list of the things you want to remember. The taste of the first ice cream eaten outdoors. An evening that lasted much later than expected. The peonies. A swim. A conversation around a fire. A song that will follow you all summer. Something perfectly ordinary that you already know you'll be nostalgic for three years from now.

Take inventory of your season. After all, the sun reaches its peak before continuing on its journey. Why shouldn't we?

I think we still look up because the sky is one of the last places where time exists without us. Nobody watches a sunset to optimize anything. Nobody stares at the Milky Way to improve next quarter's performance. Nobody marvels at a blooming peony to increase productivity. Thank goodness.

We already have plenty of places in our lives demanding that we produce, perform, accelerate, optimize and monetize. The sky asks for nothing. It is simply there.

Immense. Ancient. Dependable.

And above all, it reminds us that our time is only a small part of a much larger time.

The time of the tides.

The time of the seasons.

The time it takes for a peony to bloom.

The time it takes for a child to go from a particularly demanding little potato to a small person with very strong opinions about snacks.

We spend so much time trying to manage time that we sometimes forget we are living inside it. We don't own it. We inhabit it.

Just as we inhabit this earth. This water. This sky.

We share the same cycles. The same seasons. The same stars. The same returns.

The sun will soon reach its highest point. Then it will begin its slow descent.

The geese will return. The peonies will bloom again. Rosalie will turn three before I'm ready. And I'll probably still be somewhere staring at the clouds while forgetting to watch where I'm walking.

Some things never change.

With a glass of iced tea filled with flower-filled ice cubes,

--

Sarah

Atelier scriptural Writuals