Summer Solstice with a Buzz

A Blue Moon, a campervan, and the summer solstice.

I got into the mountains for summer solstice, the longest day of the year, the day when my part of the globe is perpendicular to the sun, exposed for sixteen straight hours. I took my campervan into the Southern Sierra and did some hiking and writing with my dog, Mumford.

The river was flowing heavily from snowmelt, so Mumford got in some good swimming and fetching of ‘the stick.’ I got in a little swimming and fetching, too, when I overthrew the shore.

On the night of the solstice, about 7.30, I settled into my captain’s chair in the van (the driver’s seat rotated around), popped open a Blue Moon beer, added some honeyed lemons I’d made, took a nice long draft, and took in the creeping dusk. The steep, craggy mountain on the left side of my six-foot sliding-door opening was visible in the fading light. The towering pines that lined the creek rose into the darkening sky. The creek rumbled down the ravine from me. Mumford slept and snored at the end of the van. No mosquitoes bothered me. No bugs buzzed in my ear. And no wind stirred.

All was good in the world.

I took another sip and felt a slight buzz. (I redefine lightweight.)

The sky darkened more and the tops of the pines took on a more prominent dark shade, jutting into the sky, almost stylistically, like an oil painting, a little Van Goghish.

I took another sip.

I mulled the tilt of our planet, some 22 degrees, leaning as it does, flat against the sun this time of year in our circle around the sun. I envisioned the other planets, following their own gravitationally-governed rotation, all in submission to giant helium and hydrogen fireball that dominates our solar system.

I took another sip.

I imagined our solar system as a small part of the larger Milky Way, all objects symmetrically revolving as they do.

I took another sip.

I pictured our galaxy’s position in the larger universe, one of billions, each racing away from each other, seeming to create space where there was no space...

I needed another sip.

…how we are but a speck of a speck of a speck in a created theatre of ridiculous proportions.

Now I really needed another sip.

My mind stopped. It returned to my field of vision, the six-foot opening in front of me. The pine tops had lost their definition against the dark sky, the creek seemed to bubble louder in the graying dusk, Mumford still snored, and my enjoyment of the solstice was now complete. My totally unplanned, Blue-Moon-infused, perfectly timed farewell to the longest day was perfect. It included some of my favorite subjects: God, space, and fermentation.

In the days since, I’ve been amused at the assistance of Blue Moon. He helped make it what it was. He quieted my monkey mind. He settled me in. He helped me drift a little and float in space and see things that were in my mind but not in front of me.

Thanks Blue Moon. Fermentation made a difference. The transformation of hops and barley and wheat (in the case of Blue Moon) was the aid.

And it’s night’s like that that make me wonder if God created fermentation for our enjoyment. And maybe even to open the mind, to temper the neurosis, to loosen the grip of self-awareness, and to let us be for a bit, to enjoy, and yes, to marvel.

I think it has a place.

Not to be abused, of course. But in moderation, just like food and pharma and fun.

But abuse aside, I thank God for the gift of fermentation. I thank him for the small respite it gives, the hovering of the spirit, the quieting of the self, the taste of the ephemeral.

For next year’s solstice I may Blue Moon it again. And for my anniversary in a couple months, I might enjoy some fermented grapes with my wife. And at my next personal milestone, maybe my seventieth, I might imbibe with a small group of family and friends, maybe with a fermented mash of grains and water, at least 51% corn, aka bourbon.

And if I do—and if I keep the fire in the fireplace—I think I’ll be richer for it. And maybe even just a tad closer to God.