Midsummer Dreams in the Rain

I used to live in an alternate time zone, following the seasons of an opposite world, fervently wishing I were there instead of here. Always feeling inadequate and wrong. It took a long time to realise it was all media and marketing and a ruined culture, and that my heart knew better if only I had the courage to trust it.

But there is the occasional gem among the clutter, and I believe in the essence of Things if not the frippery that pretends to be the real thing while it camouflages the real thing with too much glitter.

I like the idea of Midsummer, the Summer Solstice. Though by the time it happens in the place where it is genuinely celebrated, it is already rainy season easing into typhoon season where I am. I like how it is linked with magic because of Shakespeare’s play, and how it is magic in itself because of its ancient pagan roots. It is said to be the longest day, the longest stretch of light. It is akin to fire.

And fire is something I have always had a difficult relationship with. Metaphorically speaking, of course. In real life, I have a fondness for candle lights (sometimes anointed with wishes or soft curses), burning wax to seal handwritten letters, burning tea lights for aromatherapy, and I love cooking over a fire. Figuratively, however, I am awkward with almost all fire’s meanings and symbolism. Be it rage or love or lust, I fumble and fluster and flail.

Almost two decades ago I used fire to turn tokens of a betrayed friendship into ash. But immediately after I ran to the ocean to drown the immense sorrow of my broken heart that haunted me for seven years.

This year, fire suggested an offering, for a certain kind of peace, for a promise, for a possibility, for a token to mark the clearing and opening of previously impassable roads. The ritual has been brewing for weeks, seeded in half-dreams, slipped between the silences of songs.

I am on the last two days of my art sale. I have already decided that most of the unsold in the 50% off section will be given to fire. This is not out of any anger, or resentment. It is not a sulking or a tanrum. It is for me a lightening, a cleansing, a letting go. More than paint and ink, the papers will carry everything else that I need to release, turn them to smoke. From heavy to weightless, so I can fly higher and farther.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream, William Shakespeare