My small summer stories.
noticing, collecting and framing a fragment in time.
Hello, I am so glad you have found your way here… I’m Lyndsay — mother, creative and storyteller with a background in interiors PR.
Step inside Story & Thread., a cosy, layered home where the threads of creativity, interiors and mothering meet. Here, we unearth the stories from the seasons of our lives, with a house & a garden at the heart, and everyday beauty as our guide…
“To say it was a beautiful day would not begin to explain it. It was that day when the end of summer intersects perfectly with the start of fall....”
―Ann Patchett.
Dearest reader
How are you feeling in these final days of summer?
I am hoping for a gentle transition into autumn and more of the warm late summer days that Ann Patchett describes!
Guided by the idea of beauty being something deeper than what we glance at on the surface, I am sharing my small stories of summer.
I have loved compiling them — it has been a gift to pause and look back over a season of writing and living, and to realise that it has been a time filled with so many fragments of wonder wrapped up in the everyday, some new discoveries, and some timely reminders of magic too.
By taking time to notice and observe, we can place reverence on the daily joy that is subtly nestled into our lives, and is more important than we know.
Will you journey through the season of summer with me…?
Join me on a journey through summer-time.
Everything is illuminated.
Summer is about the light. There is a luminescence suffused in summer days that finds us everywhere, even among heavy rainclouds. On the other hand, perhaps it’s when we are in the shade that we notice the season’s magic most clearly. It’s often in the silhouettes around summer happenings that we absorb the warmth, and in the fading remnants of the day that we etch memories that will become the familiar ache for summers’ past.
Taking cues from a summer garden.
Summer is a time of inescapable untamed beauty. Even so, I have come to realise that even a summer garden isn’t always in bloom — it is more of an undulating entity than a constant state of abundance.
A summer lull.
From midsummer, around the solstice until the first harvest at the beginning of August, there is a luscious lull, a time between growth and harvest that is both fallow and full. Fallow in the sense that growth has slowed and there is no need for productivity — it is a time to rest back into the fullness of it all.
Deepening and becoming.
I am finding that beyond the visible emerging and blooming, summer is more about a deepening. It is a time to fill up with our own becoming, guided by the richness of our surroundings, reminding us of what it means to us to seek out a life well-lived.
My summer things.
Summer blooms.
No matter the time of day, a summer garden feels dream-like with hints of mysticism — lush and abundant but wild and free.
climbing roses make their way up the fences and trellises, cascading and pooling their blooms — their scent both sweet and nostalgic in days laden with feeling.
clusters of jasmine stars shimmer with scent.
lulling lavender, vibrant pelargoniums, rosemary and olive trees conjure memories of time spent in France.
cosmos, larkspur, calendula, nigella, corncockle, gypsophila, and sweet peas bloom in my first attempt at spring seed sowing.
crumpled white hibiscus flowers and chalky hydrangea clouds shine luminescent under a waxing grain moon.
sweet peas climb and tumble, their frilly flowers finding their way through the mass of leafy tendrils — each beguiling in their own way with shading as if painted by hand. Gathering small fragrant posies of sweet peas every few days has made it a summer of sweet peas.
A summer of sweet peas.
At home.
A house in summer is both a passage out into the world and our pathway home — it contains our summer stories and is a place of remembering and returning.
pale lemon water light at the edge of our curtains brings an early sense of the day to the walls.
stepping out into the garden to soak in the scent of roses and drink up clouds in my coffee.
cool dew-laced grass underfoot at dawn and the dreamy drift into violet half light as evening falls.
the patina of burnished copper, gold and terracotta brick of neighbouring houses at golden hour.
doors wide open for pottering inside and out, summer is a space that is both and between.
the ceramic tiled floor of our dark, north-facing entrance is a welcome threshold that brings quiet relief and coolness after warm, sticky days out and about.
pages of Twelve Moons: A Year Under a Shared Sky by
catch the summer moonlight.the first school uniform and mastering all manner of plaits and ponytails.
early mornings learning origami and sweet sleepovers with cousins visiting from Japan.
finding homes for our well-loved clothes and much joy in sourcing second-hand.
a new lease of life for a cabinet (and unexpectedly myself) after a process of sanding, priming and painting — prompting me to realise that I can make many of the changes at home I have been waiting for, the bannisters are next…!
A snippet of summer at home.
Out and about.
Summer leads me outside, into my summer skin. I want to be out there, in the world — finding familiar stories on the corner of every street, soaking in the overtones of the season and rekindling a sense of inner wildness as I take mothering beyond the confines of home.
making dens and finding fairy dwellings as filigree light forms dance under a canopy of ancient trees in the woods.
dreamy days spent at Kenwood House at the beginning and the end of summer — filled with clouds and blue sky, somersaults and cartwheels, hazy afternoons spent in the lingering light.
midsummer birthday picnics, an evening of dazzling live music, and getting drenched (more than once) at Ally Pally.
both unseasonably cold and stifling hot days of summer spent at the ice cream farm.
living la vie française for a little while — early evening adventures chasing midsummer light; joy in the shape of a musée de bonbon; watching butterflies dance among the lavender along the garden path; the sweet taste of local cherries; sharing jus de pommes et croissants…
beside the seaside — beachy nostalgia and newness in Devon, this time with little ones in tow. An enchanting trip starting with the train journey tracing the Devon coast, through the Dawlish tunnels to emerge alongside the sea; seaside picnics and beach huts; playing in the ‘fairy gardens’ on the seafront: a delicious early dinner of fish and chips on the Downs, overlooking the bay.
heart-filling reunions with close family friends, and university friends who are like family (and introducing the newest generations to the twinkling warmth and fun).
stepping outside of my comfort zone during a rousing, heart-swelling afternoon of white water rafting.
adventuring into town to paint the flooded garden at Tate Modern and to explore the history of childhood (whilst imagining the future) at the Young V&A.
ice cream (what else?!) on the steps of the outdoor cinema, splashing in the fountains and walking the winding wilderness alongside the canal in Kings Cross.
so.many.playgrounds.
a late summer trip to Clifton Nurseries and meandering our way through the storied streets of Notting Hill as an early-birthday treat.
spending slow time in the fading, jewelled days of summer with scissors and a basket in the dahlia cutting patch.
Overlooking Babbacombe Bay, Devon.
Soul stuff.
Seasonal cues act as prompts for my own creative unfolding. The garden in summer reminds me of beauty as a guiding force, of deepening into becoming more, and of the inner call to turn towards the light.
seeking out the hopeful glow of sunrise over the rooftops and the medicinal moonrise beyond the trees.
crafting a morning of flower-inspired meditation, light-filled creative contemplation, rose-infused writing prompts for a summer rose garden gathering with
, and sharing it all with the wonderful participants who met us there.tender art at twilight, picturing the mother with
.drenching myself in the beauty of words and wisdom woven into SoulCircle by
.witnessing my daughter sing her little heart out with the friends she has made over the last few years, at her preschool ‘graduation’.
receiving meaningful and beautiful Mail Art in the post from
.restoring and remembering myself with artist dates — moving and writing within the walls of Chelsea Physic Garden, a both carefully cultivated haven and corner of wild magic, thanks to
and ’s savour session; retracing my familiar footsteps in Soho, happily reacquainting myself with Liberty and finding the perfect coffee and writing spot at The Photographer’s Gallery; discovering the compelling creative relationship between women and their gardens at the Garden Museum; seeking shelter from raindrops within the rooms of botanical art at Saatchi Gallery.writing handwritten wildflower letters and dreaming up plans for Story & Thread. — watch this space for news to come soon…
What are your small summer stories? What did summer mean to you?
Thank you so much for reading — I would love to chat more in the comments about your summer, or of course feel free to send me an email with your thoughts, I always love to hear from you.
Story & Thread. is an entirely reader-supported publication and I really appreciate any time you ‘like’ or choose to share words that you have felt a connection with — it means a lot to know that you are finding something of value here.
If you enjoy reading this newsletter I would be so grateful if you chose to support my writing by becoming a paid subscriber for £3.50 per month, or £35 for a year.
And if you’re not quite done with summer, you can read my recent summer writing here…
Love this, Lyndsay. You have a way of showing me what I haven't stopped to notice. Thank you x
Enjoyed reading this so much. I am missing Summer so much already, and did not want it to end.