The emerging cornstalks flutter like feathers in the strolling wind as it sometimes streaks with impromptu gusto across the fields. The entire landscape adjacent the river is an image of green and blue, the tall trees in the distance flailing back and forth, exposing their whiteish undergarments as they writhe and rebound beneath the blue sky. The clarity of the air is my background nourishment today as we approach the Summer Solstice this evening.

The 2025 summer solstice falls on Friday, June 20, at 10:42 p.m. ET, according to NASA and the Old Farmer’s Almanac. This marks the longest day of the year in the northern hemisphere, when the Earth’s tilt positions it closest to the Sun.

The word “solstice” comes from the Latin solstitium, meaning “sun stands still,” referring to the moment when the sun’s apparent path pauses before reversing direction, according to Royal Museums Greenwich.

According to the Old Farmer’s Almanac, the summer solstice doesn’t always occur on the same date. It can fall on June 20, 21, or 22, depending on the year. This is because the timing of the solstice isn’t tied to a fixed calendar date. Instead, it’s determined by the exact moment the sun reaches its northernmost point from the celestial equator during Earth’s orbit.

Likewise I am pointing my direction to the most vivid demarcation of my life. Say what you will about the past, present and future, it remains always possible in any circumstance to reiterate  – and in a moment – all that has transpired throughout a lifetime.  The tiny particles from childhood through adolescence to adulthood and retirement are easily captured in a swirling globe of remembrance. The stringency of those neurons instantly cement all that is past. Yet as mournful as one might reasonably become upon venturing into the sometimes murky cloud of the past, my logic predicts instead that I shall only profit from – not mourn – the detail. For it is axiomatic only that the measure of time is but a calculation of the present wherein we haven’t the privilege to exhaust it with futility even if we were so disposed.  Mine is instead an ambition to cultivate and colour the canvas that is before me, to embed it with immediacy and thriving energy that reflects what is at hand and before my eyes and feet as I step into the inexpressible future.

In doing so I throw aside the erstwhile inhibiting accessories of life. Though unpredictable, life like corn has a time of both growth and harvest, fulfilling the return of energy whence wherever it came. It is therefore a flight too rapid and unimaginable to be burdened with the weight of despondency. Fulfillment is as much an evocation as a summer breeze, natural and auspicious.

Embracing the sinews of life is not an obstruction; rather, it is a release. Reflecting – as is my wont – upon the images of the past, those colourful paintings in my memory, abundant with maritime flavour, I am strangely withdrawn from the past and moved to redefine the present not with imagination but reality. The summer breeze blurts onto the balcony, in and through the doorway, wafting alongside me arm as I stare into the distance. Unwittingly it seems I have escaped the conflicting emotions of the past – from love affairs to geographic and professional choices. I have no remorse. Instead I pronounce my options as the expressions they were. I haven’t the strength or capacity to carry unnecessary baggage. Nor shall I allow the harmful habits of the past to detour my ascent.

The formula – and that’s what it is – gets knotted at times by revisitations from and with other people. But they too are on a similar journey. It is not our need to animate that vernacular. Were I to prepare an outline of my life, how would I begin? Is it better to start at the beginning or at the end? And in a world of manifestly diverse enterprises, is it appropriate to designate one or the other? Or – as I prefer to speculate – it is all a matter of interpretation of the identical exploit.

Meanwhile the harnesses of life magically fall from the shoulders to the ground; specialty is a fiction in a universe of serendipity and fortune. Seen from far enough removed we are mere particles of activity, neither intelligible nor singular. It is a lesson in enquiry – a reminder that we needn’t preoccupy ourselves with needless detail – already we have inherited enough within our genes to promote all that is necessary for development. Okay, there is a certain smugness. At the end of my life I am enabled to feel the air and sit in the sun.

The wind continues to blow across the wavering cornstalks.