Summer snuck up on me this year … and in this moment, I am grateful for cold, fruity popsicles, sun-screened and sticky skin, and increased opportunities to ride bikes with loved ones. I hope your summer is off to a sweet start and you are spending your time languishing in the sultriness of the season.

 

My uncle passed away in January. I have been moved by the surprising and unexpected ways that grief, awe, humor, humility, and reverence have all shown up as generous companions as I continue to process his death.

 

Although I remember trips to see my uncle when I was younger—fishing in the mugginess of the East Coast summer, betting on horses in Saratoga Springs, tugging at his big bushy beard—it wasn’t until my early 20s that our relationship began to blossom into what it is today.

 

My parents divorced during the final semester of my senior year of college, and my experience of stepping into young adulthood felt groundless. During that time, I started taking solo trips to see my aunt and uncle a few times a year and would coexist with them in the beautiful world they had created together.

 

All of my trips felt enormously reliable, stable, and whole. Their home, a pristinely maintained log cabin, is situated on 100 acres of mostly untouched woods (as pictured above). The long wrap-around deck overlooks a thoughtfully manicured lawn with views of the Adirondacks and hand-built bird boxes that house the nests of new life each spring. Every tree planted on the property was either a gift from or a tribute to someone—a true symbol of what they valued and cared about collecting. As a steward, my uncle prioritized maintaining the land in a way that respected its most natural state: deer roam, birds sing, and seasons pass. With around 30 visits under my belt over the last 18 years, I have seen their land in the fiery flames of fall’s colors, the starkness of winter’s inwardness, the blossom of spring’s promise, and the verdant expression of summer’s freedom.

Spending time on their property and in the company of my uncle and aunt has always been one of the only places where I’ve felt safe enough to remove any masks or effort-ing that life demanded from me and fully fall apart. I knew that I could show up broken and, throughout my stay, be gifted the space to put myself back together.

 

As an elder, my uncle modeled a love filled with non-attachment, no expectations, and non-judgment, which allowed me to re-find my center time and time again. As a human, my uncle taught me so much about life from the accepting, and at times stoic, way that he approached his death. My memories of him, both in health and illness, are filled with countless examples of how to fortify oneself from the inside out to be of sound mind, body, and spirit: slowing down, doing less, communing with nature, using your hands, sitting with discomfort, aligning with your values, honoring ancestral practices, non-judgmentally listening, and connecting in ceremony. Heart practices, not head practices.

Given that we are already halfway through 2024, this year has had its fair share of challenges and heaviness for me and our world. As someone with a rather large capacity and toolbox to work with, I’ve found myself mostly able to roll with the punches of what life has been presenting … beauty and hope always live alongside horror and helplessness. Upon further reflection this spring, I realized that access to my center felt shaky and my spirit felt dim because I hadn’t been tending to the muscles that grow one’s fortitude: silence, breath, ritual, and reflection.

 

The way forward, I believe, lies in reconnecting with these essential practices that bring us back to our core. As we navigate our personal and collective challenges, it's crucial to remember that we can always rekindle our inner light. My uncle's teachings, rooted in freedom and non-attachment, have shown me the importance of maintaining this inner strength in order to embrace life's full spectrum of feelings and experiences.  

 

In honoring his memory, I am reminded that our spiritual fortitude is a muscle that requires consistent care. We must create space for silence, engage in rituals that ground us, and breathe deeply amidst the chaos. By doing so, we not only honor that which is lost, but also nurture the light within ourselves.

 

As we move into the longest day of the year, may you spend time contemplating where your light feels dim and how you can recommit to finding your center. In doing so, you fortify your spirit and cultivate a resilience that can carry you through any storm.

 

With fortitude and deep care,

 

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