Solstice
Memorial Day was the “unofficial” first day of summer in the US. We drag out the bathing suits and the barbecue grills and the beach chairs. Despite all that, we still have three weeks of spring left on the calendar. Summer doesn’t start until June 21st — solstice.
Solstice comes from the Latin sol (sun) and stitium (stopped). We know now that the sun doesn’t actually stop because the sun doesn’t actually move; the earth revolves around the sun, and it never stops.
Ironically, we lose daylight once summer actually starts. This doesn’t happen quickly; it’s a few seconds at a time. Bit by bit, the hours of light grow shorter, and we revolve toward autumn. If we’re lucky, we have two summers left with our daughter at home. I am keenly aware that we are whirling toward autumn.
I wonder when the solstice happened in our family life. When did we have the peak of our time together? Was it long ago when Emma was a baby and we were her world? Did we start to lose minutes of family daylight as soon as we shared her with daycare workers, preschool teachers, camp counselors, dance instructors, and friends? Have we been moving toward autumn for the past seventeen years?
Two years ago, we spent solstice in Paris. In the 35 years since I last lived there, I had forgotten how far north Paris sits compared to our home in eastern Pennsylvania. It was full daylight past 10:00 PM, and no matter how early I woke, the sun was up before me. I had also forgotten that the French take full advantage of that longest day with the Fête de la Musique. Live performances are everywhere — in the squares, in the arenas, in the bistros, in the streets. Who cares if it’s about to get darker? Today it is light. Today we sing.
Perhaps those long days and sunny evenings were our sun pause, the moment of equilibrium before the time grew shorter. We hadn’t spent that much time alone as a family since the baby days. When I remember Paris, I don’t think about the amount of time Emma spent by herself watching Netflix, or the day she was impossible because she was sick and we didn’t realize it. I remember the sun.
This summer we have different plans. We’re whirling toward autumn. Emma’s first job. My new business. College essays. Dance auditions. Our family trip will not be spent wandering around museums and cafés in Paris; we’ll be looking at colleges instead. We’re driving south. Emma’s first choice for college is southern California. She’ll consider Florida as a fallback position. She is drawn to the sun.
“Live in the moment” has become a cliché that usually makes me roll my eyes. I don’t tell parents of toddlers that they’ll miss these days when they’re over. I don’t miss having a toddler. I have loved every moment of Emma’s growing-up, and I don’t want to slow her down. I want solstice. I want the sun to stop, just for a moment, high the sky, and catch us all in the light.
