Summer Solstice

Today is the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. Three years ago on this day, I was on the Isle of Iona, dancing with my wife Sarah at a ceilidh to celebrate the long history of the Iona Village Hall, before it was deconstructed and a new facility built in its place. I was on sabbatical, and that was my final night on the island after three weeks of letting the wildness and beauty of the place sink into my bones.

I remember Sarah getting out of breath after a dance or two, her heart racing unpleasantly, and that she chose to sit out the rest of the dances. I remember hurting my ankle partway through the evening but continuing to dance on it, wanting to savor every last moment of connection. I remember that the sunset still filled the sky as we walked back to our bed and breakfast well after 10 pm. I remember the hours of daylight were so long that I hardly ever saw the moon or the stars while I was there.

I did not know, I could not know, how much change lay ahead of us.

I did not know how rapidly Sarah’s health would decline in those next six months, and then even more in the months that followed. I could not anticipate the endless referrals from specialist to specialist, the failed treatments, the persistent lack of a clear diagnosis. I didn’t know I would be glad to carry a 60-pound wheelchair up and down 14 steps because it was better than carrying my beloved to the car and back.

I did not know she would have to give up the work she loved. I did not know we would have to give up the life we had created for ourselves in Maryland, the home we had made into a sanctuary together, the connections we had cultivated. 

And none of us knew, of course. None of us knew the pandemic was coming. None of us knew the innumerable ways that every aspect of our lives, our communities, our societies, would be disrupted and transformed.

I did not know that I would find myself a resident of these British Isles, a place where I had only ever been a visitor before. 

I did not know how and when we would lose Sarah’s dad, though I certainly knew that the cancer would catch up to him eventually.

I did not know that I would be gifted with the care of his garden—a little piece of paradise on earth—or that I would learn how to catch and harness an alpaca.

I did not know that I would next return to Iona as a New Member of the Iona Community. I did not know that the sudden ubiquity of Zoom would make it possible for me to deepen my relationship with this Community in a way I have longed for since I first set foot in the Abbey 16 years ago.

I did not know that in the course of these three years, I would be forced to rethink everything about my life, my faith, my vocation. Although, “rethink” isn’t even the right word. The journey I am on is so much less about thinking than it is about feeling, exploration, discovery. Even (on my better days) adventure. Even (on my better days) liberation.

This process is ongoing. It is unfolding. In truth, it has only just begun. I do not know who I am becoming, but I hope that she will be the truest, most authentic Diana possible. I do not think I could be satisfied with anything less.