Lingering in the Last Light

Lessons from the summer solstice

As the days have gotten longer, it has become rare that I catch the sun setting over Lake Michigan. My son is usually in bed around 8pm when the sun is still high, and since my husband works second shift, I’m unable to sneak out of the house for a sunset dip. Instead, I try to orient myself to the western sky around sunset, sitting on the couch that looks out our bay window or at the table on the front porch to watch the sky turn pink.

On the summer solstice, though, I ignored bedtimes and took myself and my two little ones to a favorite beach. I went with no expectation for how long we would stay but hoped for at least an hour with my toes in the water. Surprisingly, we stayed until after the sunset, my son guiding me slowly up the creek that dumps into Lake Michigan as I held my daughter in my arms. We went at his three-year-old pace, which involved stopping to throw rocks, running down dunes, returning a frisbee to a group of kids. At moments I tried to rush him and wondered how much longer he would be able to cooperate before exhaustion kicked in, but ultimately, we were both where we wanted to be, so I just let us enjoy the late light. I let us linger.

My favorite thing in the world is to linger. To sit around a dinner table as the candles burn down or relax on a beach well after sunset. To stand in the doorway twenty minutes after a goodbye because there is still more to say. I realized recently how difficult it is to linger in the ways I once loved since having children. Dinner parties are cut short for bedtimes; a small hand pulls me away from a conversation because they are eager to go somewhere else. I miss the long meals, the wax on the table hardening as the candles burn out.

Wednesday night, as the sun set on the longest day of the year, my son invited me to linger in his play. Rather than hurrying him along to pack us up, which felt like the more responsible move, I accepted his slow pace. He splashed in the creek as the sun dipped under the horizon, and when we both felt the wind shift and a cool breeze blow after a stretch of hot days, I bundled him up, and we sat together in the afterglow. He pointed out the moon and a planet as the light slipped away. I packed our things slowly, pausing to change the baby’s diaper and to feed her one last time. It was nearly ten o’clock before my tired son finally began to dissolve a bit, tears on his face as exhaustion surfaced. And at that moment, a stranger walked down the beach to offer their assistance, to give me a hand when mine were full.

This is the beauty of lingering. Of letting go of timelines so we can be guided by our own human-ness. The desire to run down a sand dune. The desire to wrap up in a blanket and look at the sky. It opens up the possibility of connection, of emotion, of vulnerability.

I see so many ways that my life has shifted in this season of parenting young children, but for the most part, I realize that what I miss can be experienced in new ways. Yes, I have traded in lounging under the stars until morning, but now I get to linger in the garden with my son as he carefully waters the flowers. I get to linger on walks that could take half the time, but then I might miss the wildlife and the flora. I am not always open to the kind of lingering children invite us into, but I am working to recognize it as the gift that it is. I am working to encourage my children to stay slow, to stay interested in taking their sweet time.

This summer, I want to recognize new ways to soak in the moment. To follow the guidance of my son when he asks to read one more book at bedtime or to stay five more minutes playing in the mud by our back deck. I plan to sit holding the baby while she naps, even though there is plenty else I could try and do. I hope to look back at this season, my first summer as a mother of two, and remember being covered in sand and lake water, my hands full and open to receiving help. Like the last light on these long days, I plan to linger as much as possible.

Swim Club
The lake is still chilly, but warmer days are coming! I have three more dates on the calendar for this year, but I may add more in July/August, so stay tuned. All are welcome, even if you don’t want to get in the water. Bring a coffee or a snack; we’ll visit on the beach for a bit before we plunge!

All swim club meetups will happen at the public beach in Empire, in the north lot by the lighthouse. Note that these dates are subject to change. I will update everyone through Instagram and email updates.

Sunday, July 9 at 8am
Wednesday, August 9 at 8pm
Sunday, September 3 at 8am

Purchase my book “Lake Letters” today!
My self-published collection of poetry and essays is available in my online shop. The perfect companion to summer swims.

Thank you for reading. I hope you are able to find beautiful moments to linger in this week.

Cheers,
Mae