June arrives untamed.
Beneath the trees, roots stretch and wander in their own directions, growing quietly and stubbornly in their own time. Branches once dotted with spring blossoms are now deepening into countless shades of green, carpeting the horizon in abundance. Tiny daisies and dandelions suddenly appear everywhere, as though the earth itself cannot help but bloom. Peonies and roses burst open into wide, extravagant delights. Meadows spring back to life almost immediately after mowing, scattered once again with wildflowers.
June delights in beauty without apology. It gives the natural world room to grow wild, strong, and fully itself.
It feels much the same here at the Whidbey Institute. Indoors, deep transformational work and joyful play unfold in Thomas Berry Hall as groups gather to learn, connect, heal, and imagine new possibilities. Outdoors, the land itself becomes a kaleidoscope of growth and renewal. Everywhere you look, life is reaching toward itself.
I find comfort in nature’s stubbornness. Growth happens despite uncertainty. Despite difficulty. Despite the world sometimes feeling impossible. The trees continue reaching upward. The roots continue deepening. Flowers continue opening toward the light.
Perhaps that is part of what this season asks of us, too. To allow ourselves space to grow into who we are becoming. To be strong. To be beautiful in our own imperfect and unfolding ways.
How are you growing into this season?
And even if your growth feels quiet, deeply personal, or small enough that no one else can yet see it — how are you leaning toward your own becoming?
And if the answer is simply that you are trying to breathe, that is enough too.
After a rain, I often look at the trees and marvel at how nourished they appear, as though the forest itself has exhaled. Sometimes all we can do is remember to breathe deeply, drink water, rest when we can, and trust that something within us is still growing.
If you need a bit of summer inspiration, I hope you will come walk the trails, wander the labyrinths, or sit quietly on the swing overlooking the West Garden. There is space here to reflect. Space to listen inwardly. Space to lean gently into your own growth edges.
And perhaps most importantly, space to simply breathe.
The Summer Day by Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
