It’s happening again. Every year, the same. When the sun finally comes, it does so all at once. No creeping edge of gold on the horizon, no gentle knock at the door. Just bam, light in every corner, heat drying the moss, air suddenly full of intention. It’s like someone turned the island inside out and hung it on the line to dry. It’s coming…it’s almost here, that dizzy moment when June folds itself into July and the ferry lines stretch out like a parade. The forest exhales, and so do we, or try to. But it’s a short breath. There’s so much to do!
While visitors unwind, we wind the clock, change sheets, upgrade trails, harvest garlic, juggle propane tanks and part-time jobs. We ferry elders and recycling bins, host unannounced friends-of-friends, tend gardens that bolt too fast in the sun. We navigate the awkward intimacies of island summer life, strangers who feel like friends, friends we barely see, baring skins and souls to sea, sand and sunshine.
There’s beauty in all of it. The island glows, not just the water, the sandstone, the slow golden evenings, but the people too. Eyes shine. Laughter rises in surprising places. People playing music, toddlers dancing barefoot, artists lifting new pieces into the light. Let’s not forget the joy of someone finding this place for the first time, that look of awe as they realize how wild and alive it really can be.
But it’s also true that living here through summer can feel like trying to meditate during a parade. We love the sound, the energy, the motion, but we’re also a little frazzled, trying to keep our center. We forget to go to the beach. We forget to finish our coffee, even what day it is. We say yes to too many things because so much needs doing, and it all disappears so fast.
This summer, though, feels especially full. Maybe it’s just me, or maybe it’s something in the air, but it feels like the island is stretching, opening wider, finding new ways to hold us. One of the brightest new arrivals is the much anticipated new Hornby Island Arts Centre, which will open its doors with quiet ceremony, blessed with sacred ritual (with Elder Barb Whyte on June 24th), art and prideful parties. This is not going to be just a building. It’s to be a gathering place, a hearth for a strange, beautiful family of creatives, dreamers, and curious wanderers. A place where the community can root itself more deeply in imagination, grow more alive and connected.
Among many other exciting events this summer at the Arts Center, the one that most makes me squee is Stephen Fearing coming back in July. It seems he liked it so much when he was here last, he couldn’t stay away! And he’s not just giving a concert (though that alone is worth celebrating), he’s also offering something that feels much more intimate and rare: a songwriting workshop. I’ll be there, you bet, probably a little nervous, definitely inspired. The opportunity to learn from someone like that, in this place I call home, feels like catching lightning in a jar. It’s Stephen Fearing.
We’re beyond lucky to be here! I don’t forget that. Words like ‘privileged’ don’t work. I think of it as blessed. We live in a place people dream about. In summer, those dreams can be loud, crowd the shoreline, leave us feeling like ghosts in our own story. But they’re also beautiful. They remind us what we have. They remind us how to share.
And maybe that’s the trick: not try to hold our breath until September, not to hold off our lives until we have our island to ourselves again. Rather, to find small ways to be here with it all. To keep a part of ourselves turned toward the sun, even while the other part runs errands. To make art in the middle of the swirl. To swim even if it’s only for ten minutes. To meet the moment as both host and guest.
Because in some ways, aren’t we all visitors? Passing through this season, this moment, this life? Tide comes in, tide goes out. We have now, island and sky.
So welcome, summer. Welcome, visitors. Welcome, late nights and tired feet and watermelon and jazz and the buzz of bees in the blackberries. Welcome, joy and mess and beauty and all.
We’re here, ready or not. We’ll find our rhythm, even if it’s a little offbeat. That’s the way music works. Here, summer sings.
That’s me. What do you think? I welcome input: phoenixonhornby@gmail.com
