Late summer has come to the north and I can feel the shift in the seasons. Usually, I would be rejoicing summer’s grip slipping. This summer, I’m bittersweet about it. I am not a summer person. Summer is loud and boisterous, the extravert of seasons. I don’t like heat and humidity.
Summer in Minnesota has been glorious. We’ve had some days with extreme heat, but usually it cools off nicely in the evenings and there is an almost ever present breeze. It is quite common in the mornings and evenings to see Minnesotans running around in shorts and a heavy sweatshirt. The summer north fashion of practicality.
Summer garden in our town.
I bristle when people mention winter. I don’t know why folks farther south feel the need to express the view that Minnesota will become seemingly uninhabitable soon. The funny thing is, Minnesotans aren’t the one talking about winter. They are all out in the sun and enjoying every minute of it. They know full well that winter is coming. I love the present-ness of Minnesotans. Now. Here. This. As a worrier with multiple plans should things go down sideways, this notion is a practice that I’ve tried to adopt my whole life. Just be here. Now
I introduced my husband to lake swimming a few weeks ago and now it has become a favorite activity of ours, especially in the weekday evenings when the swimming beach is less crowded. Our local lake is a little over a mile away, and a walk and swim is a nice evening ritual. My mother would take me wild swimming as a child – lakes, rivers, and streams. The memory of those times has come back full force. I hadn’t been swimming in over twenty years and the last time that I did was in a pool. Not the same at all. Even in the spring fed initial cold of our lake, it is easy to sink into the coolness and watch the world go by all around. We’ve observed herons fly over, the sun sinking low and embraced the peace and center that being in the lake offers. It is a good place to think, to paddle around or to just stand and breathe—noticing the cool wet sand cushioning feet and the water supporting your limbs.
The view from the water.
We closed on our new home in July and have mostly unpacked. My studio is coming along nicely. The looms have been set up and I’m well on the way to having work planned for both. I have a few more storage set up tweaks to do. The space always feels enormous when it is empty, and then the stuff arrives. My new space is a bit smaller than before, but I love having one space for studio and office. I’m glad that I let go of some equipment and supplies before our move. The studio has a lot of storage that has been strategically managed.
Unpacking begins
It feels good to sit at a loom again. I finished weaving my last piece back in January and it feels longer. I’m grateful to have my studio and the ideas are starting to come back to mind. I have a lot of exploring that I want to do. I’ve been making work about maps and finding home. One of the questions that I’m ponder is: Now that I’ve found the place on the map that I feel home, how will this impact my work? We shall see.
The entrance wall to my studio. The quote is the first few lines from Mary Oliver’s poem “The Journey.”