A rootless summer

Migration and dispersed roots as home

Image by Kenrick Mills via Unsplash

Summer goals (after

Christina Golian

)

Watch swifts cry from rooftops
Eat physalis at sunrise
Breathe like wind in trees

Squish toes into muddy lakes
Stain fingers with beetroot
Make hibiscus tea

Write poetry in moonlight
Drink mate y azucar
Laugh until stomach hurts

This was inspired by Christina’s wonderful invitation and beautiful poem ‘Summer Goals’. You can check out Christina’s Substack here:

Chasing Words And Wonder

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I was lucky to attend Timber Festival recently, where I was able to spend time in community with

All The Elements CIC

, ESEA Outdoors UK, Climate Reframe, and many other wonderful grassroots organisations aiming to make the UK outdoors more diverse and inclusive.

It was a space to unfurl, luxuriate in, and reflect on themes that had been preoccupying many of us—financial barriers, reduced land access, global multi-crises, and the things that still give us hope.

During a workshop on celebrating nature poetry, facilitated by Josslyn of Peace of Green CIC, I had the pleasure of listening to a reading of a poem by haiku master Kobayashi Issa:

What a strange thing!
to be alive
beneath cherry blossoms.

In the cherry blossom’s shade
there’s no such thing
as a stranger.

Summer has the power to turn us from strangers into companions—through its overwhelming beauty and demands for presence.

Even weeds become showy and blousy, forcing us to recognise their intrinsic value in the thick heat. Red valerian shouts for our attention in July, flourishing in violet and magenta in the most hostile places.

In Dispersals: On Plants, Borders and Belonging, Jessica J. Lee asks:

‘What would it mean to move and stay rooted—to have roots that can span continents?’

I am still figuring this out.

I keep moving my roots until I find the soil that feels right.

But, these days, I wish I didn’t need soil.

I wish I could grow like Spanish moss: soil-less, suspended in the air, hanging off some gorgeous being, subsisting on the little nourishing particles that brush past me.

In this way, I am living off the morsels of generosity and sweetness offered to me: tiny flakes of hibiscus leaves that stain my lychee tea crimson. Someone’s dog licking my leg. The smell of wilted wild garlic on my walk home.

Summer is to be alive. To no longer be a stranger.

Summer is when my rootless nature is forgiven and has space to breathe.

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What are the small details of summer that make you feel alive? That make you feel like less of a stranger to others?