Midsummer Light

The spring came and went without a word from me or an issue of Hearthlight in your inbox. Sometimes there are seasons where tending a fire becomes a wholly personal and private matter. Energy must be spent tending to the heart, and extra work must be set aside.

Having lost friends to both conflict and death, April, May, and June were all in progress, but I was never pleased with what I wrote. You, as my readers, deserve the best of me—not me phoning in the work. I couldn't do that to you. The fire you expect from me simply wasn't there. I was in the dark night of the soul.

Grief has a way of clinging to the walls, staining the carpet, and making a person numb to everything outside of their direct line of sight. Days become measured not by appointments and deadlines, but by seconds ticking by. Creativity is suspended in favor of survival.

The fact is, I had nothing beautiful to offer because I couldn't find the beauty in myself.

I spent my nights in the aftermath of tremendous loss, working through my grief in a series called Write Your Grief—a thirty-day collection of prompts meant to help guide someone through it. I am not finished with the series. I wrote little poems, short pieces of prose, expressed my pain, and leaned into getting as much help as I could.

I am fortunate to have an incredible support system around me. When I could not tend my own fire, I found people willing to poke the embers and keep them smoldering for me. And when I had pockets of normalcy, I could pick up the phone and ask for more support. Over these three months, I discovered the embers were still hot enough to catch again. I simply needed the right kindling.

I found a grief therapist. I found an equine therapist, where my entire job is simply to be present and pet a horse. I stopped speaking to people who no longer serve me. I quit smoking. I found a new CrossFit gym and joined it. Each of these small victories helped keep my spark alive.

Little by little, the warmth of the fire—and the warmth of summer—soaked back into my bones. Before I knew it, I was no longer counting seconds or measuring my life in isolated moments. I could look forward to an event again. None of these things made the grief disappear, but they made it something I could carry.

I'm remembering who I was.

I feel it in my careful workouts, where I don't put too much weight on the bar, I don't reach for the heavy kettlebell, and I don't even try hanging from a rig yet. I'm remembering who I was before grief soaked me to the bone.

I'm not healed, but I am healing.

I am a summer child who belongs in the sun, barefoot in the grass, with the dog. I deserve evenings reading outside while the fireflies come out. I have returned to my handwritten journal, which had been gathering dust since February 20.

I'm so glad you're here with me to rediscover the summer months.

I'm inviting you to sit beside the fire once more and share your stories.

Because the fire is burning again.

It may not be a roaring bonfire, but beneath the midsummer light, there's more than enough warmth to gather around.