Seeking stillness in the dance of summer.

returning and reflecting to reframe summer.

Jun 27, 2024

A warm hello to anyone new here, I’m Lyndsay, mother, creative and storyteller with a background in interiors PR. Story & Thread. is a weekly letter exploring the intersection of creativity, mothering and the living world, with a home and a garden at the heart. I am so glad you have found your way here…

“At the still point, there the dance is.”

—T.S. Eliot.

Hello everyone

How is midsummer feeling to you?

I was very lucky to mark the summer solstice drenched in the ‘serene vibrancy’1 of Provençal light (although it actually poured on the day of the solstice, more on that below…).

Whilst I was away, I loved taking time with

Lauren Barber

and the creative hearts that joined us in the (virtual) rose garden for the
Holding Stories
summer gathering, to both tend our creativity and to take a pause. We will be sharing some glimpses into the magic that unfolded there, accompanied by prompts inspired by summer light and rose medicine, do join us by subscribing to
Holding Stories
to receive it all.

This week, I have been weaving together a number of intertwining threads after a week in France (I hope you enjoy the postcards from our trip!), and have realised that each strand is tied together by a desire to reframe certain aspects of this season — by shifting expectations, ‘stretching’ time and calling for moments of sacred, slow and still in the dance of summer…

A return.

Last week I ventured to France to stay with my parents with the little ones in tow. A feeling of familiarity always settles in my body as we come into land at the small Mediterranean airport, a feeling wrapped in the scent of lavender that envelops me as we step off the plane. It is a return, to a soul place that has been woven through my life for the past 25 years or more — from the memory box of family holidays containing stories of us and the friends we have made; to a summer of convalescence after spinal surgery in my late teens; to post-exam celebration trips with treasured friends; and as the setting of our wedding nearly nine years ago. It has always been a place to share with others, and now I get to share it with a new generation of my own family.

Shifting expectations and noticing magic.

The new chapter of sharing this place with my own little family has a new flavour…!

Gone (for now…!) are… moochy meanders through markets and slow coffees under dappled light; wanders through cobbled village streets; horizontal hours reading poolside; relaxed dinners among the twinkling fairy lights and under a crystal canopy of lapis lazuli sky.

Instead, there is the careful catering to the (many!) needs of children aged four and two — the delicate negotiation of every little thing, the precarious holding of emotion when things go wrong (such as bread being cut offensively and bananas being broken…), the anticipation of conflict between two spirited siblings, the sensitivity needed to meet disgruntled young children in the heat, the patience required in the face of defiance (and self-compassion when the patience wears thin)… it is a little less relaxing!

As with everything in this chapter of mothering, going away requires a reevaluation of expectations and a conscious noticing of all of the beauty nestled in amongst the challenges…

…the undivided time with my parents/their grandparents; early evening adventures chasing light, collecting sticks and finding fairies; flying planes and playing games in the garden; joy in the shape of a musée de bonbon; watching butterflies dance among the lavender along the garden path; their first sweet taste of local cherries; silly faces and tight hugs; sharing jus de pommes et croissants; poring over the magic of black and white lives held within an old family photo album; visiting a fountain that is backdrop to many of my own memories…

Marking thresholds and stretching time.

Whilst I was in France, we reached the zenith of the sun at the summer solstice, although the day itself was dark and heavy with pouring rain, (which possibly had an adverse effect on the sanity of my children…!). Despite the challenges, it feels important to notice the passing of time, to engage in these earth-bound thresholds and to become aligned with the rhythms and cycles that surround us, and that are us.

In-keeping with the thought of the solstice as stillness in the sky, I decided to experience the light threaded into the lingering days, rather than the actual solstice moment itself2.

It’s an approach that I find useful within this mothering chapter, when it seems to me that the conjuring of a feeling is more important that the actual ‘thing’ itself. I find this wider lens to be helpful in allowing me a more easeful and expansive perspective — I can immerse myself more fully within an experience and find some space there. It’s an idea I practiced at the contrasting whirlwind of festivities around the winter solstice, resolving that it was about the feeling of the entire season — from the slow build up of magic to the languid in-between days after, rather than placing expectations on just one day or individual events.

And in the general business of mothering too, I find that broadening my perspective to feel into how a week (or more) has panned out is helpful in gaining a more realistic sense of balance and a way to greet the shimmers and glimmers, rather than focusing on the less ideal parts of a single day.

The dance of a summer garden.

Last week I wrote about the profusion of inspiration held within in midsummer days (and nights), but I have also come to realise that very little blooms all summer long…

There is a lull between the flourishes of roses; and as

Sarah Robertson

reminded me yesterday, there is stillness even within the process of blooming itself — flowers like the dahlia, pause and contract slightly with each opening. A summer garden is more of an undulating entity than in a constant state of abundance — it paces itself in a well-rehearsed sequence, as early summer flowers bloom and reach their peak before ‘going over’ with the effort of it all, they allow others to come to the fore.

Even a midsummer garden is not in bloom all of the time.

I have returned home to faded roses with wilting petals like crumpled tissue paper and foxgloves shrivelled in a puddle of spent flowers, toppling over with the weight of their seed heads. And yet, like tokens of our time in France, the lavender and jasmine are bursting with scent, the pelargoniums are unapologetically vibrant and the strawberries that ripened under June’s full strawberry moon are juicy and sweet.

The still point.

I am leaning into midsummer as a rich and beautiful period of time, filled with abundance but remembering that is also a pause — a fertile void. This corner of the calendar inhabits a space between the previous growth seasons, but before the harvest begins (marked by the ancient festival of Lammas at the beginning of August). It is a time to settle in, to immerse ourselves unreservedly in the midsummer magic, to bask in the fullness of ourselves as a mirror to our striking surroundings and to simply be at the still point, where the dance is.

I was reminded of the concept from an ancient Hebrew scripture of ‘Selah’ by Ana and Bridget of

Our Wildflowers

— “the art of pausing to sense the beauty. A pause for contemplation. The pause before the doing, the time to notice”. Selah allows us to remember and embody our innermost essence, to gather ourselves before we continue to find our way along the path of deepest alignment.

I have come to value the pauses that are scattered amongst my daily life when I can return to myself — on the mornings my children go to nursery, when I have invaluable help from grandparents and the snatched moments when everyone is happy doing their own thing (meaning my presence is not needed quite so intensely). At the same time, it is easy to fill these precious pauses with so much, perhaps summer is the time to find sacred stillness when I can.

We can often feel the pull to be out and about making the most of this light-filled time of year, but it is also up to us to seek out the quiet edges and the still points — to leave space for the magic of the dance to find us.

How do you find stillness in summer?

Thank you so much for reading — I hope we can chat more in the comments, or of course feel free to send me an email with your thoughts, I always love to hear from you.