Tending the Nests of Becoming: A Summer Solstice Reflection

June 2025

As the Solstice was nearing, I was sitting with the tension between lightness and grief, between collective sorrow and the quiet beauty of growth. This reflection is my way of listening — to the season, to the body, and to what wants to emerge next.

There are seasons when life calls us inward — into the soil, the dark, the unseen. And then, slowly, something stirs. In this cycle of the year, between the softness of spring’s unfolding and the brightness of summer’s height, we find ourselves at a sacred threshold — one of emergence.

It is not always loud. It is not always quick. But it is always happening. This is the season of fertility and illumination:

Is it perhaps a time to ask, What am I nourishing — gently, patiently, perhaps even secretly?
Or a time to wonder, What light is rising within me, quietly asking to be seen?

And yet, we cannot pretend the world outside is always in bloom. Even as the earth offers its vibrant beauty, we are also living through a time of profound pain. There is grief in the collective — born of war and violence, injustice, and ecological strain. The weight of it can settle deeply into the body and spirit. This ache, too, belongs. It asks not to be dismissed, but to be honoured — with tenderness, courage, and care.

So how do we honour the turning of the earth while staying present to the turning of our hearts? In many traditions, the solstice is not only a celebration of light, but also a pause — a threshold moment to feel, to listen, to gather strength. A time to offer gratitude not in spite of the pain, but alongside it. To remember what truly matters, even — and especially — in times of uncertainty.

This year, perhaps the invitation is not toward outward expansion, but inward nourishment.

We need rest.

We need joy.

Not as distractions — but as radical and sacred responses to modern life.

To rest in a restless world is to say: my body matters. To cultivate joy is to remember: life is still sacred.

Nature offers us its quiet cues: The earth bursts with colour, but only after months of invisible becoming. The sun climbs to its peak, but not without the long, slow arc of ascent.

What if you, too, are in that tender process of becoming? What if the nest you’ve built — through rest, ritual, reflection — is not a place of waiting, but a space of becoming?

May this season meet you gently, with enough warmth to grow, enough stillness to listen, and enough courage to stay awake in love.