On the Longest Day

Yesterday marked the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. A full stretch of light, drawn out like a held breath. It’s a moment that reminds me to pause.

With the sun hanging in the sky just a little longer, it feels like borrowed time. Not for chores. Not for scrolling. But for something quieter. Something that doesn’t always fit into the rushed pace of the rest of the year: reflection. Creation. Writing without a timer ticking.

There’s something ancient about the solstice. Something that asks us to listen rather than speak. To sit in the light and ask ourselves what matters. What we’re chasing. What we’ve outgrown.

I spent part of the day writing. Not anything urgent or polished, just following a thought where it wanted to go. That’s the beauty of a long day: space to wander, on the page and off.

If you're a writer, an artist, a thinker, whatever label fits, you might feel that same pull. To open a notebook, step outside, let the light press in and stay a little longer than usual. You don’t need a finished product. Just a beginning.

The sun will start its slow retreat soon. But today? There’s still time.