Everything is illuminated.
pausing in the shade to notice the summer light.
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…
“Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine”.”
—Mary Oliver, Among the Trees.
Hello my dear
How are you doing this week… are you settling into June where you are?
My writing schedule has slightly shifted after publishing my ATELIER interview with Susan Earlam and quietly launching with a conversation in the magic dark of the new moon last week. Holding Stories is a new publication dreamed up by and myself — a place for creative expression, seasonal ceremony and storytelling, all shared through our unique lens of intentional PR, soulful branding and sacred space — we would love you to join us there.
This week I am feeling into the sense of June and early summer. There is an underlying urgency to make the most of the light as it rises into fullness, whilst also knowing that the summer lies ahead of us and we have time… In June, the light is everything, though perhaps it’s when we spend time in the shade that we notice it’s magic most clearly…
A summer shift.
I find myself slipping into summer more easily than the often excruciating push and pull of winter to spring. Of course, being in London it is certainly not wall-to-wall sunshine (I have pulled on my denim shirt and wished for my coat in the chill of a breeze in cloud cover, basked in glorious glimpses of sunshine and sought cover from a scattering of raindrops all within a few minutes this weekend), yet still there is an unmistakable light-filled shift that can be felt on my skin and in my bones.
Waking to pale lemon water light when it is still (too) early, and going to bed just as the light turns chalky and begins to fade, the day is infused differently. And whilst the light touches everything, conjuring beauty everywhere we look and drawing us outside, we still need the pauses to notice, the stillness to savour and the shadows to absorb life’s lustre as it unfolds around us.
Summer light.
Summer is about the light — when we can’t rely on the British summer weather, we will always have the light…
The clarity of a clear sky day casting an iridescent spell in the garden; pools of light emerging on the woodland floor from a solar spotlight above the trees; the patina of burnished copper, gold and terracotta brick of neighbouring houses at golden hour — everything is illuminated, as if from within.
Stepping outside.
Among the swathes of grey, I am seeking the light and feeling my body soften into moments of warmth. The light brings me outdoors. There’s a sense of renewal each time I step out into the garden before breakfast, pausing to absorb the nostalgic scent of roses for as long as I can. The light, a projector of daydreams across the garden fence — of hazy days with ice cream in the park, of traipsing through flower fields, of clouds in my coffee…
And when the sun comes out from behind a cloud, I can’t help but put down what I am doing, I want to be out there, in the world — finding familiar stories on the corner of every street, soaking in the overtones of summer and rekindling a sense of inner wildness as I take mothering beyond the confines of home.
Summer stillness.
We are approaching summer solstice or Litha meaning ‘light’ in the Celtic Wheel of the Year, it marks the zenith of the sun — the brightest, lightest and most expansive moment in our calendar. And yet it is also a pause. The world 'solstice' comes from the Latin solstitium meaning 'sun stands still'. After reaching its highest point in the sky, the sun begins to drop each day but the rate of change in daylight is slowest at the solstices and the sun appears to ‘stand still’, lingering before it changes direction.
For a while, we will not feel the slow dwindling of the light, we will continue to be bathed in the vastness of its rays, and perhaps there will be times when the brightness will feel too much and it will call me to shade my eyes — a reminder to find stillness in the quieter corners and edges of summer, where the light is lower and tinged with magic.
Edges and shadows.
The edges of summer exist in the cool dew-laced grass underfoot at dawn and in the dreamy drift into violet half light as evening falls. They lie within the silhouettes of long shadows, in the dance of filigree light forms under a canopy of ancient trees.
Perhaps it is here in the shade that we find the space to notice, in the empty space around summer happenings that we absorb the warmth, and in the fading remnants of the day that we etch memories within us that will become an ache for summers’ past.
This season invites us into wholeness, of light and shade, to meld the contrasts within and around us. There, we can find our fullness which is neither one thing or another but the integration of every precious thing held tightly in each one of our cells. And just like the trees, we are destined to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine1.
Have you noticed how the light falls where you are?
Are you feeling called into the light or do you find comfort in the shade?
Meet us in the rose garden…
The solstice was traditionally a time of wild and free midsummer gatherings to honour the lightest and brightest point of the year.
and I would love to invite you to meet us in the (virtual) rose garden to tend your creative heart, to pause, reflect and set intentions for the months ahead…Full details and booking information is below,
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.
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A beautiful poetic exploration of light. You need to work for farrow and ball @Lyndsay Kaldor
I love that phrase… lemon water dawn… it is a different kind of sunrise isn’t it at this time of year? And I agree… while we can’t guarantee the weather (today a dizzy high of 10 degrees made me wish I was wearing my puffy winter coat again at the park with the girls)… we do have the light and THAT is something to be grateful for. Gorgeous words as always, and I am so excited for our gathering xxx