22/06/2022
From last nights newsletter:
"I am overjoyed to be writing to you from the studio, with the door wide open, the sound of the trees blowing in the breeze, the hum of a tractor, lambs having a chatter, and a wood pigeon in full voice. Today is the summer solstice and each year it comes round I am filled with joy and a tinge of sadness in equal measure. Joy, because after a very mixed spring it marks the start of summer, with the longest day of the year. A summer that will stretch through until the Autumn Equinox in September, with a promise of more sunny evenings after work, and late walks for sunset. It holds hope for change, of energy and light. Sadness, because it marks midsummer, where the nights will start to get longer from here on in, meaning we're on the downward slope to winter.
This morning my social feeds were filled with people dipping, walking, and running at sunrise to celebrate the solstice, something I intend to mark myself with a sunset potter up a local hill with a brew. I have noticed that my relationship with the outdoors has changed of late. Not waining, but how I access it has changed. This is something we have both noted. A result of the pandemic perhaps, or maybe just a progression with age.
The outdoors was always an adventure playground, to be scrambled on, swam in, and raced over. Now, more often than not, it's a long slow walk, a float in a lake, or head down in the veg plot that I yearn for.
I think I used to feel that to be 'outdoorsy' you need to be the super fit, super-capable human that treated every excursion as such. Adventures such as this will always be a part of who I am, but the more grounded, mindful, and slow approach will probably be the place I reach for more often.
Have you felt your relationship with nature change?"
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