Walking Into Summer: A Solstice Invitation to Savor, Slow Down, and Gather
Sacred practices for those who feel the seasons in their bones.
Originally published by By Jenny and Darcy Fisher, Keepers of the Seasons | Six Twenty
The sunflower doesn't strain to give. The bee doesn't apologize for receiving. They are ceremony in motion - the kind of relationship our souls remember but our minds forgot.
Maybe this is why we stop and stare when we see them together - not because it's pretty, but because it's proof. Proof that reciprocity is still alive. Proof that sweetness exists without agenda. Proof that we too can trust the ancient agreements written in our bones.
"We walk not just into warmth, but into the fullness of life—this is summer's call."
Something in the air shifts when spring finally exhales and summer draws her first deep breath. You can feel it - the way morning light lingers a little longer on your coffee cup, how the earth releases that sweet, warm scent that makes you want to kick off your shoes and remember what grass feels like between your toes.
As spring folds quietly behind us, we arrive at the door of summer—bright, expansive, alive. This turning of the seasons is more than a change in temperature; it's a threshold into deeper presence. Summer invites us to open wide: to light, to laughter, to stillness, and to flavor.
There's something about the way summer arrives that makes even the most hurried among us pause. Maybe it's the way afternoon thunderstorms roll in with such drama, or how fireflies appear just when you'd forgotten they existed. Summer doesn't ask permission - it simply is, fully and completely, and somehow that gives us permission to be fully ourselves too.
The Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year, marks a sacred pause—where sunlight stretches itself over the land in full generosity. For many Indigenous cultures and seasonal walkers, it's a time to offer gratitude for growth, to gather, and to begin harvesting the early abundance of the earth.
When we start paying attention to the plants and seasons right where we live, instead of following recipes from far away places, we discover that the earth beneath our feet has been offering gifts all along. Our ancestors knew that each season carries teachings. Summer teaches us abundance consciousness - not just having more, but feeling more, seeing more, being more present to what's already here.
What Summer Teaches Us
Summer is not a season to rush through. It teaches us:
To sit longer at the table.
To listen closer to the wind.
To walk barefoot and remember the softness of the earth.
To gather, not just food, but people.
To move slow, not because we are tired, but because we are fully alive.
The plants are speaking now. The rivers are singing. And if we listen—really listen—they will remind us who we are.
You know that moment when you're walking and suddenly catch the scent of wild roses on the evening breeze? Or when you're sitting by water and realize you've been unconsciously breathing in rhythm with the current? These aren't coincidences - they're invitations. The earth is always speaking; summer just makes us quiet enough to hear.
For those of us who feel everything deeply, summer can be overwhelming or magical - depending on whether we fight the intensity or dance with it. These practices are for the sensitive souls who know that slowing down isn't laziness - it's survival medicine.
Meals That Gather Us
Mountain medicine laid bare - wild teas, huckleberries, rosehips, sacred ayut, and powdered whitebark pine arranged like prayers on wooden altars. This is what abundance looks like when gathered with ceremony, not shelves but handfuls of green medicine that still remembers the wind.
When you see medicine arranged like this, you're witnessing relationships - each cup holds conversations between human hands and plant teachers, between seasonal patience and ancestral knowing. The earth gave freely, hands received gratefully, now the circle waits to be completed one careful cup at a time.
One of the most nourishing ways to celebrate summer is to gather around meals that carry stories—of land, of foraging, of joy. These aren't just recipes - they're relationship protocols with the living world. Each one teaches us to ask permission, receive gifts, and offer gratitude.
There's something magical about eating food you've gathered yourself - even if it's just mint from a pot on your windowsill. Your hands remember something ancient when they touch living plants. Your body recognizes flavors that grocery stores can't capture. This isn't nostalgia - it's remembering.
When we start paying attention to the plants and seasons right where we live, instead of following recipes from far away places, we discover that the earth beneath our feet has been offering gifts all along. This year, we've already harvested several of these medicines - watching the quick bloom and fall of rose petals in this heat, gathering our cache before they disappear. When the lower elevations release their gifts, we follow the seasons upward into the mountains, where we might find an extra week or two of harvesting if we're lucky. It's also the perfect excuse to scout huckleberry patches and check on other plant allies we'll need to stock up on later.
This is what some folks call bioregional curiosity - and once you start practicing it, you'll never see your neighborhood the same way again.
Here are a few offerings for your table:
Elderberry Blossom Fritters A cherished seasonal treat that teaches patience and presence. There's something almost ceremonial about preparing these - the way you have to move slowly to keep the delicate blossoms intact, how the batter needs to be just thin enough to let their beauty show through. Use fresh elderberry blossoms (leave them on the stem for easy handling), dipped in a light batter made from flour, sparkling water, and a pinch of salt. Gently fry until golden, turning once. These fragrant fritters carry the sweetness of summer in each bite. Foraging tip: Choose blossoms in the morning after dew has dried but before the heat of the day. If elderberry doesn't grow near you, trust what does - squash blossoms or nasturtiums carry their own magic.
Wild Rose Petal, Red Clover & Wild Mint Iced Tea This has been our daily ritual - we've already enjoyed the essence of two or three different mint varieties this season. Each mint speaks differently - some bold and awakening, others gentle and cooling. Your nose will know which one calls to you. Infuse a jar of cool spring water with rose petals (gathered quickly before this heat takes them), red clover, and whatever wild mint speaks to you. Let it sit in the sun for several hours, creating a natural solar tea. Strain and chill. The result is a gentle, heart-opening tea perfect for warm evenings. Adaptation wisdom: Use what grows near you - lemon balm, spearmint, or even pine needles create beautiful variations. The plants want to be part of your summer; they're just waiting for the invitation.
Prickly Pear with Honey & Quinoa Crust If you're blessed with desert medicine, slice tender prickly pear pads (nopalitos) carefully - use tongs and scrape off spines thoroughly. There's an art to working with prickly pear - it teaches you to move with respect, to pay attention. Even the plants that protect themselves want to feed us; they just ask for mindfulness first. Brush with local honey and press into a toasted quinoa or couscous crust. Lightly pan-sauté until caramelized. Serve as a side or sweet-savory snack. For those without prickly pear: try this technique with zucchini, eggplant, or portobello mushrooms - anything that wants to be honored with honey and warmth.
Bonus: Solstice Syrups to Share
Wild Violet Syrup: Delicate, floral, and beautifully violet-tinted - if violets have passed, try lilac or elderflower
Rose-Lavender Syrup: Fragrant, heart-soothing, and softly herbal - gather rose petals at their peak, before they surrender to summer's intensity
These recipes aren't just food—they are stories. Each one connects you to the land, to the season, and to the people you share them with. They teach us that abundance isn't about having everything available year-round, but about receiving what the earth offers in its perfect timing.
The Sacred Act of Slowing Down
This summer, we invite you to practice radical medicine disguised as simple presence. In a world that profits from our disconnection, choosing to listen to plants, move slowly, and gather around meals is revolutionary healing work.
Here's what we've learned: the antidote to overwhelm isn't more productivity - it's more presence. The cure for feeling scattered isn't more organization - it's more grounding. Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is sit still long enough to notice that the world is already singing.
This list isn't pretty suggestions for summer fun. These are prescriptions for nervous systems learning to remember they belong to the earth, not the machine:
Walk beside a river with no destination.
Let your children teach you how to play again.
Harvest slowly and offer a prayer before picking.
Watch bees work a wildflower without disturbing them.
Lay down in the grass and look at the sky until your body softens.
Time is not lost when we do these things—it is restored.
You'll know you're doing it right when time starts feeling different. Not rushed or scarce, but spacious. When you realize you've been sitting by the river for an hour and it felt like ten minutes. When you look up from watching bees and remember there's a whole world that thinks this is "unproductive." That's when you know you're healing.
Summer Solstice Commitment Ceremony
Choose one practice from this list to carry through the season. Write it on paper. Bury it near a plant you love. Let the earth hold your promise to slow down. This isn't lifestyle advice - it's cultural healing work disguised as seasonal living.
Closing Reflection
As we walk into summer, let it be with our whole hearts. Let us welcome the light, not just outside, but within. Let our meals be longer, our laughter louder, our silences deeper.
For us, this season carries even more meaning. The summer solstice is the anniversary of our love—a union rooted in reciprocity, care, and connection to the land. It's also the namesake of our work—Six Twenty, chosen to honor this sacred day where light touches everything. It reminds us that our offerings, our teachings, and our products come from a place of deep intentionality and love.
Some people collect anniversaries. We collect seasons. Each year, the solstice reminds us not just of when we said yes to each other, but why we keep saying yes to this work. When the light stretches longest across the land, we remember that love and earth medicine are not separate things.
And may we always remember: This earth gives. Not just food, but peace. Not just beauty, but belonging.
May every step you take, every breath you draw—be infused with the scents of wild blooms, the softness of warm soil, and the hush of wind through open spaces. May these moments of presence soften you, bringing tenderness, peace, and gratitude.
Someday our children will ask: "What did you do when the world forgot how to breathe?" We will answer: "We taught them to walk beside rivers again. We taught them that plants speak. We taught them that love and land are not separate medicines."
Sacred Invitation
If this medicine found you, you are already part of the healing. Share one wild foraged meal this summer. Teach one person to listen to plants. Walk beside one river with no destination. You are not just reading about connection - you are the connection becoming conscious of itself.
The ancestors are guiding this timing. The plants want this shared. The children yet to come need this remembered.
If this touched something quiet in you—If it reminded you that the earth still sings, that you still belong,
That rest is not weakness, and joy is a kind of ceremony—Then you’re already part of this.
Share this with a friend who feels things deeply.
With a kindred spirit.
With someone still looking for their way back to the light.
