I’m not a Druid. I live in a place where sunscreen is a second skin and squamous cell cancer’s a real killer. This brouhaha is a mystery. To me the summer solstice means my kids won’t go to bed until nine. I understand the idea that there must be significance, magic even, to the day of shortest night. Imbibing in ancient ritual; wishing for a post-modern epiphany. Sun gilded.
After all, they built a mammoth stone ring dedicated to it. Probably saw a little sacrifice there too, human or otherwise.
The day of longest light in the Northern Hemisphere when the earth’s 23.5 degrees turns itself in fealty to our sun. Ample cause for global celebration, I agree. Doyenne yellow-dwarf star, cresting middle age, slowing snacking through a hydrogen core–a Cheetos bag to last her another 4.5 billion years.
Cheers! To the apex of light. Lift high that can of beer. Slather on the damn sunblock.
And though I generally approve of worldwide hedonism, sacrifices have been made. Someone, somewhere lost their life in this solar powered party. Due to Wild Bacchus in Northern countries. Traffic, drownings, domestic violence. CNN’s red ticker knell.
Despite libations, this jewelfire will open her jaws to do violence to summer earth. Stripping up water, ripping through land, torching vegetation. Hot head tossing, to throw off a wild-fire here and there. All the while feeding us. Melting the thin veneer of our power over nature.
Decent enough reason to get sloshed.