Midsummer

Dear reader,

I returned from a work trip to Finland just in time to land—almost quite literally—into our midsummer celebration. My husband, ever the calm in the pre-feast chaos, had already taken care of everything. Wanting to contribute something—anything—I quickly put together a small quiz, just enough to feel like I’d taken part in the making of the evening.

This year, I found myself thinking more about what midsummer means to me. I used to carry around a bundle of expectations: remote summer cottages passed down through someone’s extended family, long tables by the sea, flower crowns and perfectly timed golden hour photos.

But lately, I’ve wanted something quieter. This time, we planned a celebration in the park near our home—green and close and just enough, with a few friends, some homemade food, a shared blanket and a dog. A friend of ours cancelled her other plans and joined us on a whim, which felt like its own kind of gift.

It turned into one of those soft Scandinavian evenings where the sky never fully darkens, and time loses its edges. At some point I looked around and felt suddenly full—with food, with light, with the kind of love that lives in true friendships. And I got a little weepy, in that good, midsummer way.