noun, sōl·stəs

1. moon-rising in the soul, concurrent with summer solstice
2. state of being overcome with hope and possibility

It was a work night, but I didn’t care. When a beloved friend asks you to campout on a goat farm, you just say yes.

I loaded the Corolla with all the necessities for one night under the stars and headed east, doubtful of Eliza’s claim that such a farm could exist within a stone’s throw of Worcester. Somehow in my mind, the whole of Central Massachusetts equates to Worcester – a city that is not quite Boston and not quite Springfield, just wuss-tah – or more endearingly, the armpit of Massachusetts. It’s an old manufacturing city that after mid-twentieth century decline now bustles now waddles forward with biotech and healthcare enterprises (#Wikipedia). My family has roots in Worcester, but we don’t admit this often – the arrogant western massholes we are.

Despite my ignorant preconceived notions about the middle of the state, I let the GPS guide me there, hoping that I’d reach the mystical farm oasis amidst the Worcesterian sprawl. About an hour or so into the voyage, the road started to wind and roll. The space between houses grew, opening to green and gold fields. Warm afternoon sunlight illuminated the backs of new leaves and cast shadows of trees and fence posts on the roadway ahead. “Oh my god,” I thought, “I’ve entered a vortex.” Conflicting emotions overwhelmed me – this is gorgeous… how could this be Worcester… what if I never see my parents again?

On the verge of tears due to the impossible beauty, I made the final turn onto Diamond Brook Road. Much to my surprise, Central Mass is actually composed of many towns versus the imperial sub-state of Worcester I had understood it to be. The farm lay in the quaint hamlet of Sterling. I didn’t see Eliza’s car, so took my chances parking in front of what looked like a garage, hoping it was the right choice. I had met the master farmer just weeks earlier at Eliza’s wedding, but still felt some awkward nerves as a new guest.

There were a few buildings on the property, but nobody outside, so I took another guess at where humans might be found – making my way up a grassy hill to the long, old farmhouse. I had gambled correctly. Annette, the visibly strong woman who I had met at the wedding, offered warm welcome and introduced me to her friend Katherine, a prominent horticulturalist, who would also be partaking of the summer solstice and strawberry moon celebrations that night. Indeed it was these two natural events that prompted the gathering.

Summer solstice has had a special place in my heart since hiking the Appalachian Trail, where it is better known as “hike naked day”. There are few experiences more freeing, or gross, than stripping down and prancing through the woods long removed from a shower. I was thrilled to be spending the five-year anniversary of that infamous trail day back outside among those with similar appreciation for the wild… but fully clothed.

I poked around the quaint dwelling with low ceilings, wide wooden floorboards, and a massive iron stove, while Annette shared some of its history. The farm had been established in the eighteenth century and held by three families since. It wasn’t until the late nineties that goats became the primary occupants and cheese production commenced. Annette has dedicated her life to husbandry and spoke with wisdom and substance, very quickly winning my respect and admiration.

Eliza and her husband Evan soon arrived and we exchanged helloes and hugs before transferring all the essential barbeque accouterments out to the yard. Tables had been set beside a small pond just a short ways down from the house. A narrow grassy path, about thirty yards long with rock wall on one side and water on the other, led from our dining area to the opening for expansive pastureland behind the house and pond. When I was a kid, I pretended to live in a place like Diamond Brook Farm. In the moment, I accepted the fact that I had probably died somewhere en route from Western Mass and gone to heaven… which, flabbergastingly, is a suburb of Worcester.

The landscape provided a visual feast as we tried to light the antiquated cylindrical barbeque. However, our generous host also laid out a variety of fresh goat cheeses to temper appetites before the main course. Oddly enough, the two farm dogs sought hors’doeuvres as well, and bickered over a small furry critter they’d found. Assuming it was dead, we all grimaced when the lifeless leveret sprang into motion in a last-ditch effort at escape. Annette tried to distract the dogs and eventually interfered removing the maimed creature from the premises, though I’m not sure that the dogs gave up on it. Experiencing some internal turmoil, my parents’ words of solace surfaced – Sometimes this happens in nature. It’s just part of the cycle.

Though the episode captured everyone’s attention for a few moments, we soon got on with the evening – pitching tents by the water and jovially conversing, while Evan strummed his guitar. At the close of dinner, Annette proposed a walk of the property and I jumped to my feet in support. Our group of seven (plus one golden retriever) moseyed down the grass pathway to enter the pasture and immediately ascended a steep hay-covered hill. As we trudged up, the sun sunk down shading all the surrounding land in a dusky periwinkle blue. Upon reaching the rounded summit and staring at the farm below, I felt that I had entered the pages of a favorite childhood picture book. Could there be a more pacific place?

The hay covering the ground was like summer snow and we had to lift our knees high to press onward. We moved further from the farmhouse, towards the natural forest border, and veered right to continue along the edge of the pasture. Before long, we reached an overgrown trailhead that gave way into the dark and foreboding woods. Annette boldly took the turn. Evan and I – less familiar with the property – exchanged disconcerted glances, but ultimately followed along, hoping not to brush against any poison ivy.

We snaked through the forest in our little hiker train. While I have night-hiked plenty, it has always been by the glow of a headlamp. Several minutes passed before my eyes adjusted to the darkness, and even then plants and trees were just black silhouettes. I relied on the person ahead to give warning of roots and rocks and branches. Overthinking the scenario, my heart beat a little faster. It would be pretty farfetched for our entire crew to go missing, but somehow my mind went there… Seven Lost in Sterling Backyard Walk. I tried to reassure myself by focusing on Annette’s relationship with the land. Calm down Lund, she knows these woods like the back of her hand. After what felt like three days, but was probably closer to fifteen minutes, the trees finally reopened revealing an oblong sliver of deep blue sky. We had survived, and just in time for the main event.

Out of the woods, we sauntered back up the hill, and Eliza quickly drew our attention to the massive luminescent sphere rising behind the scraggly treetops. That night, for the first time in decades, June’s full moon, the strawberry moon, coincided with summer solstice. Conversation promptly ceased. We all stood aghast as new light from the monstrous celestial orb brightened the whole farm. Only exclamations of awe and disbelief broke the silence. I didn’t know how to verbalize the sense of wonder emanating from my core, but everyone else appeared to feel the same.

We remained fixated for several minutes until Annette proposed scotch. With this offer, I instantly realized that she is a soul sister. Or, perhaps more reasonably, someone I look up to immensely. And not only because of the scotch – that was just the damn cherry. It was more because of her strength, wisdom, fierceness, etc. I’m not quick to idolize, but in Annette I saw a sage.

We dropped down off the hill, procured scotch and strawberries from the kitchen, and enjoyed the desserts back out by the pond. Amphibious chirps and groans now dominated the soundscape. In all my wanderings, I’ve never heard bullfrogs express themselves with such determination. Most of us found it comical, except Evan, who was due back to his classroom in eight hours. Since it was in fact a work night, we quickly retired to our tents following the nightcaps. I tossed and turned readjusting to outdoor slumber. The frog articulations were really quite heinous, but eventually tiredness prevailed and I drifted off. It was not a deep or long rest.

At 4 a.m., a new sound roused me. The pond frenzy had ceased and low rumbling thunder took prominence. I peeked out the tiny plastic window at the front of the tent to observe flashes obscured by dense grey clouds, and then laid back listening for what direction the storm would take: further or closer. Distressingly, the light and sound only intensified. I again shot up. The rain came down in a steady crescendo. Just hours ago we had laughed under the clear night sky and now, an abrupt shift of mood. I knew that Eliza and Evan were pitched nearby and that Annette was not much further, but still my anxiety escalated – perhaps because I had been in this place before.

It was my third night out on the AT, alone in the same tent. The thin fabric was all that protected me from the wind, rain, and hail that raged outside for hours. Lightening exploded directly overhead, not much different from the situation developing at Diamond Brook. Completely helpless, I contemplated my mortality like never before – trying to find some peace as an irreligious woman, knowing that a direct strike was not so farfetched.

There’s something about being on the brink of death (or at least feeling you are) that helps to sieve the substantive from the trivial. It is a place for clarity – albeit an extreme one that I’d prefer to avoid as often as possible. It can be easy while racing along, trying to make it from day to day, to fall out of touch with the big questions. The storm at Diamond Brook, like the storm on trail, brought me back to those most critical and raw reflections – how do I want to be in the world, and what will I do with my short time?

I watched the seconds tick with bated breath, mentally volleying between staying in the tent and running for the porch. Finally, just before sunrise, the storm passed and my angst quickly lifted. I emerged from the modest dwelling to find all my camp mates still alive. We laughed in learning that each depended on the others to make the porch-run decision. There wasn’t too much time for banter though, since we all had to get to work.

I backtracked over the same roads I had come in by just little more than twelve hours earlier, trying to process the different chapters of my short stay at the farm. The open fields shrank back down as houses came closer together, until it was city again.

What to make of it all? The discomfort in seeing the rabbit struggle and ensuing awareness that one of our best human qualities is the conscious choice we have to ignore or assuage the pain of others… the dark walk with full trust in friends to help me through… the moon that accentuated the incredible beauty that exists and joy of being alive… juxtaposed with the storm reminding of our fragility and surfacing the hard questions. And the whole series of events unfolding in a place I presumed to be barren of worth, but only through full presence came to understand better. Was it all just happenstance? I want to apply meaning to it in a world that is often devoid of reason.

If nothing else, I know this for certain – that I departed the farm in a far better place than when I arrived, and so, I will continue to accept offers to camp on work nights.