The Nature of Friendship (A Lughnasadh Story)

It is amazing how a deep exhale from the Earth creates an explosion of life and sensory stimulation.

I think about this as I am cutting through the humid air on a warm summer evening, a slight breeze at my back guiding me home. The air is sweet and fills my nose with the nostalgic aromas of summertime: humidity, flowers, the fresh cut grass of the park, grilled meat emanating from homes in the neighborhood, crackling campfires bringing peace in a few backyards, the subtle but ominous scent of a thunderstorm lurking in the distance. 

The scents are coupled by the summertime chorus. Crickets chirp in surround sound, accompanied by the more boisterous cicadas who have made their occasional trip up the trees to mate before returning to another seven years of isolation. In the distance a group of preteen boys whoop up some mischief by the pond, living a free and feral existence that can only occur without the tyranny of a school schedule, and yet is just as (if not more so) educational about how to live a good life. Closer to my ears I hear more boisterous laughter, jokes that can only be told amongst a select few, sarcastic comments aimed in a certain direction but coated with love. I am surrounded by it.

Looking up, the sky is darkening. A magenta sunset is slowly being consumed by twirling, light gray clouds that flash dramatically in the distance. A slight yellow hue remains at their base as they swallow what is left of the sun. Only the residual heat on the pavement below signals the sun’s work and existence that day. For now, though, it is gone, lost behind the horizon in an expansive sea of destructively beautiful cumulonimbus. The tree tops lose their color and gradually fade into silhouettes, with the first eager fireflies popping up in the field to my left. I bring my gaze down to street level and smile as my friends come into view, their laughter too much to ignore any longer. Most of us are on bikes, like the world’s lamest biker gang patrolling the suburban street (and who probably couldn’t stand up to those middle schoolers who have laid claim to the other end of the neighborhood). One friend, Jake, is left without wheels, but is smiling as he strolls behind us and takes clips for the home movie he plans to make about his summer. I look down at my own feet, balanced precariously on top of a scooter purchased just hours ago for five bucks from a thrift store, a mode of transportation I have not ridden since my teeth were forced together with braces and my skin was lost in a sea of overwhelming acne. But muscle memory returns, and I find myself flying down this street on plastic wheels and a thin metal slab, feeling like a kid again.

It is August 1, midsummer, traditionally known in Celtic traditions as Lughnasadh. Today is the midpoint of the summer season, a celebration of the height of life in the Northern Hemisphere. And, beneath the joy, a sober recognition that our half-full glass of summer is continuing to be drained, little by little, with each passing sunset. It is a time to gather together and celebrate the warmth, the light, the animals and plants and trees that are bursting all around us with such majesty. And it is also a reminder to savor these moments, as the chances to lay in the grass and feel the warm summer breeze will become a nice memory stirred up on frozen nights before we know it.

For centuries, Lughnasadh has been celebrated with feasts consisting of foods from the early harvests and feats of athleticism, often accompanied by dancing and dealmaking amongst the community. For this modern celebration I decided to gather our friends for an evening as close to those traditions as I could. A meal of fresh fish, local corn, and fresh picked berries nourished our bodies (as did, admittedly, some scallion pancakes and dumplings from Trader Joe’s topped off with some homemade ice cream). And, after enjoying the meal together around the table, our own feats of athleticism at the local park, such as they were, would be attempted.

Which is why I find myself huffing on a scooter as fast as I can back to the house. We had just ridden down to the park to show off our strength, agility, flexibility, and willingness to be embarrassed. Everything at the park was made for children of the physical kind, not just the mental (like us). We struggled to complete a convoluted “climbing” route on the tiny rock wall, engaged in a pullup competition on the monkey bars, listened as Jake’s skin harshly squeaked down the hot plastic slide (only to be met with a murky puddle of water at the bottom), and swung as high as the swing structure would allow us in order to get a bird’s eye view of the park and the pond beyond us. It was pure joy and freedom.

Then, suddenly, we heard a rumble in the distance. Thunder. Our time was up.

We are now almost back to the house, my muscles still tired from the pullups and my hands wobbling on unsturdy handlebars as we race home to beat the storm. I look up once again and breathe deeply, taking in all the sights, sounds, and smells at once. This is summer, I think. The freedom, the camaraderie, the silliness, all wrapped into the sight of five grown, responsible adults hysterically riding their “wheels” back to safety before the downpour. At one point Gab suggests I try to hold her handlebars while she pulls my scooter (with me still on it) with her bike. We try briefly and I almost fall immediately. We may be acting like kids, but the urge to avoid a call to my insurance agency triumphs over the impulse to continue this experiment. Still we laugh at the idea before the conversation shifts to whether Troy would be able to eat twelve large diner pancakes in the span of ninety minutes, and that we would pool together two-hundred dollars if he could.

Breathless, we reach our house and fling our wheels onto the lawn. Some of us lay down and feel the Earth beneath our toes. Sarinah starts doing handstands on the grass, which leads to some hilarious attempts from me as I try to master the skill. The breeze picks up, a sign of the rain to come, and everyone stashes their rides, symbols of a childlike joy that still exists within, into their cars, symbols of the adult life which we are required to take part in. Promises of indoor games and homemade ice cream outweigh the possibility of being washed by a warm summer rain.

Before heading inside I look up once more at the dark trees swaying in the increasing wind and take a few deep breaths. In the winter, life retreats under a sheet of cold, snow, and ice. It is as if the Earth is breathing in, preparing to release something beautiful. And it does. Its exhale creates the warmth, the buzzing life, the electricity in the air, that I am feeling right now. More than halfway through this year of slow and strenuous living I am seeing more clearly than ever before. I am, on average, calmer and more measured in my approach to life. But I still struggle. I am feeling the fatigue of another sleepless night, kept awake once again by lifelong anxieties of not doing enough, not being good enough, not making the most out of my opportunities. That opportunities worth pursuing are those tied to more money, or better status, or a higher living standard. And that I am failing in all of those respects. I have been brainwashed to measure what I do, who I am, and what I pursue based on those vapid standards. It is not something I will overcome easily. These are feelings that have haunted me my entire life. And I expect the haunting to continue.

But at this moment, in an end-of-day ecstasy heightened by the sleep deprivation, I realize that I am making the most of it all. That the opportunities that truly matter are not those tied to the status-driven standards we are taught to pursue ruthlessly and relentlessly. When left to my own devices, without the influence of others, I don’t really pine for those things. Instead, I think back to those incredible summers of my youth, independent and free from the watchful eyes of adults. I remember playing in the woods with Troy and Matt, camping five nights a week in the neighborhood, blowing up soda cans in coals, trying (and failing) to cook a frozen turkey over a campfire, laying in fields watching the Milky Way emerge in the dark canvas above, losing sense of my being in the hypnotic dance of a fire, and feeling so present, so joyous, so fully alive on warm, electric summer nights such as these. Nights that are increasingly easy to lose and overlook as time goes by, wrinkles form, and responsibilities pile up. I want them back, desperately. How successful I am at making more of those moments is the standard by which my life should be measured.

Once more I summon the present moment and lose myself in it all. The thunder rumbling to the north, the sky periodically light up, the chorus of insects, the loud laughter echoing through the walls of a home that Gab and I are building together and making our own with precious moments such as these, each one a memory that gets etched into the walls and serves as a reminder of why we put up with all the real-world pressures in the first place. It is so we can come back here for refuge and rekindle the spark of childhood; so we can protect that flame within us with everything that we have; so those beautiful moments of childhood summers don’t get lost in the ether. Instead, they become guideposts for how to live a life that is truly good. One where I do enough fun things with my friends, one where I am a good person that opens my home to love, one that makes the most of this life by continuing to play and be silly and not worry too much about the point of it all. One where I can still roam the neighborhood with a pack of lifelong friends, race home for the thrill of fresh ice cream, and be mature enough to appreciate it all and recognize the importance of experiences such as these above all else.

I breathe out, walk into the garage, and close the door. It is starting to rain now. And I have more memories to make upstairs.