There is a time each day, that I did not always know had a name; the blue hour. When the sun has set, or has yet to rise, when the earth is still, and the pause of what’s happened and what’s to come holds its breath. In that very space a few days ago I woke to a word— ‘solstice’. Some voice outside my chittering mind spoke clearly, found the quiet it needed to speak in that solemn hour. Summer solstice, the longest day, winds into winter, the shortest, and in between those two I have lived, suspended and twisting in the winds of evolution that I asked for and then avoided with equal energy.

And so, blue solstice, the tightening under the hush of the coming of the sun. The ache of what has been traveled. The not quite dark of the waiting for it all.

Those many months and turns of the moon when I spoke out loud my wish to be whole by the age of 50. A deadline that came and went, and now I suspect why. I could not skim this hour, or sleep through it, meditate its passing or wield immunity to its building light.

The path to wholeness was going to be traveled chronologically. Logically. With sighs of selfies and gathered stones of stories of what I learned.

At least that’s what I believed.

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