Midsummer's balancing act: Art, nature, and the quest for comfort

From vibrant saplings to parched moss, observing the subtle shifts in the natural world as we navigate balancing hope with stark reality.

Greetings from the moss,

Deer for breakfast. Not literally. We dally and delay as we watch first mother, then baby. There is reacquaintance after the night, mutual grooming. Mama has decided that the upper part of our garden, well treed, makes a good crèche. Baby is curious and tries to approach the just-landed woodpigeon who stays always just-out-of-reach. It is a fascinating, privileged insight.

1.

On the hills the bell heather is beginning to flower, and new growth mixes with the charcoal of muirburn. As well as sketching what I see, I let the burnt stems make their own marks.

Later, on the way down…

It is so dry that leaves are already beginning to fall; green gathering in a circle of red sandstone.

Sketching foxgloves, then trying slo-mo to record their movement in the breeze. A bee helicopters in… and out, after refreshment.

2.

The solstice, Saturday, 21 June, 2025. Each year it comes around, and as we mark the point where we tip into increasing darkness, I think: “I am not ready.” I struggle to reconcile the idea that this is midsummer. That season is indelibly etched in my mind as July and August, the legacy of school holidays perhaps. In practice here, by July, there will already be tinges of autumn creeping in to blaeberry, and by August the morning's decorations of dewy webs will signal that summer is ending.

But for now there is birdsong and sunlight, the trace of a breeze. The lingering heat of the previous day certainly lives up to its midsummer billing and I am on my way to look for more colour in the moss. Down the valley over the River Don I can see mist rising into cloud like steam from a train.

The legacy of last year‘s rain lies in the richness of young saplings, small forests of birch and rowan. And yet out of the trees the bog asphodel is tiny, the sphagnum pale, the crowberry burnt. The bog cotton it seems had it good, flowering early and now in fluffy seed. I’m not sure that the moss is happy; while seedlings make hay, regulars are abbreviated. The bog asphodel are perhaps a third of their regular size.

3.

I find myself intrigued by the way that the sun on the barley highlights the contrast in colour and texture between still wrapped stem and expanded leaf: glaucous blue and lime green. And then by the banded arrangement that this and the cow parsley make with the fence wires. These are the things that make for a slow walk.

4.

What will we remember of this summer, twisted hotly, baked dry, assaulted by news that dims the spirit? Perhaps that is what the wind whispers of, for she is again restless. On the hills vapour drifts, the rise and fall of a tide, as I again bring the darkness of graphite to paper.

We are all seekers of light, of beauty, of hope.

And yet…

We walk a wire daily between our aspirations and the ever-pressing reality. Of the personal, of the world, of humanity, of climate, and nature. We lean one way, then try to correct our balance, oversteering to the opposite side.

We take comfort where we can, crumbs of nourishment, a silken thread, a life belt. I can’t help but feel this month ending with a heaviness of heart. Perhaps it is the grey that fringes the hill but fails to bring the sweet relief of rain.

I hope that this week’s accumulations of noticing have brightened your day a little—despite my later musings. I appreciate each and every comment, like and share, and I’m especially grateful to those of you who say ‘thank you’ by way of a small one-off payment.

Until next week,

PostScript

Words and images copyright © Michela Griffith 2025 except where otherwise credited