Summer – (Dis)Abled Creations

July arrives like a golden wave – fast, full and blinding. Everything blooms – everyone moves, and I… pause.

Personally, I’ve always perferred the colder months. In winter, society seems to move closer to my rhytm; the days are shorter and slower, people operate slower, and general rest is not only expected, but also respected.

Summer on the other hand, tends to surge forward. Everyone seems to be bursting into high-gear; vacations, festivals, sleepless nights – doing more, going faster, chasing light as if its running out (which for those of us in Scandinavia it litterally is come fall).
Additionally, the warmt of summer is pressing, and the air grows thick with newfound humidity. And I, in my invisibly disabled body, feel the gap widen between what the world expects of me, versus what I can offer…

So, as you can probably imagine, I’ve never felt entirely at home in the heat of summer. The sun shines bright, but I crave the shadows. Not out of sadness – but for sanctuary and the need for rest.

Throughout my life, my disability has taugh me many things. Perhaps the deepest of these is this;
Rest is not weakness. Rest is wisdom.

Especially (but not only) in the Western-world, exhaustion is treated like a badge. In such cultures, doing less is seen as a failure. But, for disabled people, doing less is often not a choice – it’s a lifeline! And in a season that celebrates motion, brightness, and constant energy, it can feel like being completely out of synch with society.

To use myself as an example; yesterday I had a lunch with some of the people I go to physiotheraphy with. The buss home takes about 20 minutes, and as I was feeling pretty good, I decided not to call a cab (which takes only 5 minutes, but is extremely expensive). Halfway home I apparantly had a massive seizure on the buss, the first ‘buss seizure’ since moving back here five years ago. I knew this was a possibility, as I’ve been having majour seizures every week for the past two months, but I felt alright and thought I would manage.
Luckily, a very kind gentleman called the ambulance, and I was safely followed home. However, it took me over 30 minutes to fully get back from the seizure, and I slept the entire rest of the day.

I had many plans that I wanted to get done yesterday, but ended up doing none of them. This is not uncommon. For many disabled people, summer becomes a season that exposes difference. Because, while other’s need for rest stems from the nature outside (such as the lack of energy with winter’s lack of sun), disabled people – especially those of us who suffers from fatigue; we experience this all year around, as our lack of energy comes from genetic-, neurologic- or other physical, internal issues.
So when others accelerate during the summer, our limits become more visible. When other’s glow, we might ‘wilt’. This is the reality of having disabilities. And for many of us, resting is a daily necessity.
As disability-advocate As Tricia Hersey of The Nap Ministry says:

«Rest is resistance. Rest is a beautiful interruption to a system that views us as machines.
It’s a divine right. We will rest.»
– Tricia Hersey

Resting interrupts the demand to always be «on», always be producing and always be performing. And that interruption can be healing – not just for the body, but for the soul. So while others sprint intoo summer, I will make a different choice. By slowing down on purpose, claiming stillness – not as defeat, but rather as depth of joy.

Because, joy isn’t always loud, fast, sweaty or crowded. It doesn’t need fireworks or festivals (althought even I can enjoy that at times!). Instead, the depth of summer joy can live in enjoying a slow morning coffee while listening to birds chirping, in reading a book in a quiet, shadowy corner, in picking (and tasting!) ripe forest fruit – or in wearing soft, easy – breezy fabrics while smelling the air. It lives in drinking cold drinks, taking a nap without the fear of wasting time – or very, very carefully taking a swim in the lake.

No matter how small, these moments matter. They might not be what summer ‘should’ look like. But they are what summer looks like too me. And that is enough!

______________

In the North, we know how to rest. We know the hush of snow, the stillness of night that falls early and stays long. In winter, everyone understands fatigue, and there is space for slowness.

But the summer season asks us to shine. And when we cant – when our bodies protests, and protects us – it’s very easy to be left behind.

But, what if we didn’t see our own rest as retreat, but rather as a return –
To breath
To joy
To being, not performing.

“Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.”
– John Lubbock

So this July – in order to create your very own Disabled Summer Story, I invite you to do less – not out of lack, but love.
I invite you to celebrate rest as richness. To notice joy not only as large spectacles, but also as small seeds.

Let your summer be slow. Listen to your body. Let joy come gently. Because, you are not late. You are not lazy. You are simply living at your own pace – and that is beautiful!

And if the world races ahead, let it!
You are not behind.
– You are exactly where you need to be.

– Silje

There is a moment every June where I feel like nature and I are breathing in rhytm. The Scandinavian landscape, once frail and schivering in spring, has grown intoo herself again. If the year were a person, winter would be the elder – slow, still, near the edge of life. Spring, ever chaotic, is the stubbord toddler: one day playful with the sun, the next throwing snow across the floor. But now? Now we stand in the long daylight of early adulthood – midsummer – when the world knows it’s own strength. The air hums with confidence, and everything green has become itself again.

As someone disabled, I live with a body that listens closely to cycles. I often feel out of step with society, but never with the seasons. And this time – the Summer Solstice (June 20-21 in the Northern Hemisphere) is one of the oldest markers we have. Long before this period was labelled St. John’s Day, after the brutal arrival of christianity in the North, people celebrated the summer solstice for what it is;
the longest day of the year. This is a time of celebration, of fire and flowers, of shared meals and small magic.

In Sweden especially, Midsommar remains deeply rooted in pre-christian traditions: the maypole, the flowers wreaths, the songs – they are less about saints and more about earth, fertility, love, and the turning wheel of the year. And while modern celebrations often include some form of dancing, drinking, and energy many disabled people can’t access, I believe there’s still space in this day for all of us. And we can reclaim it, quietly if needed. Gently, honestly – with rituals that meet us where we are.

«And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer»
– F. Scott Fitzgerald

As solstice celebrations in the North long predates organized religions, bonfires were lit on hills to honour the sun’s height – and was believed to protect against dark forces, and bless the crops. Furthermore, as a liminal time, herbs gathered were considered the strongest, and dreams on this night were believed to fortell the future. With christianity, the celebration was rebranded as the feast of St. John the Baptist (‘Sankt-hans‘ in Norwegian). With this, the celebration shifted its focus, but was never quite able to erase the old rites.

Especially in places like Sweden and rural Norway, the folk-traditions lived on – not (only) as resistance, but as memory and cultural inheritance.

‘Midsommar Maypole’. Image by: Mikael Kristenson @Unsplash

Today, when people dance around the maypole, or decorate with birch and wildflowers, they echo something older than any religion; a gratitude for light and growth, and a shared moment of joy in nature’s fullness.

So what about us disabled people?

Disabled people often live lives with bodies that resist the rhytms of work and linear progress. We move in spirals, not straight lines. We understand that rest is not failure, that some days are simply quieter than others – like nature itself. The solstice, then, becomes a time not just to celebrate brightness, but to acknowledge how precious it is. How fleeting. To mark the pause before the sun begins its slow descent once again.

Personally, I see strengt in this kind of witnessing. In choosing to light a candle rather than join a crowd. In picking flowers slowly, smelling their scent – and locking it as memory. In celebrating not with fireworks, but with breath and presence.
As written in Kristin Lavransdatter by Sigrid Undset, one of my favourite books from my earliest schooling:

«She walked with the summer night wrapped around her shoulders like a warm, breathing shawl, and it seemed to her that all the earth was awake and wispering with life.»

Isn’t that exactly what midsummer is for??

Below I’ve written a few, small adapted rituals that can help you celebrate the solstice in a way that honours your energy, your acess, your needs and your spirit. Feel free to add things – or remove them, as you wish!:

Light a candle (gold, orange or green for the colours of the sun and growth) while setting an intention for the rest of the year. Personally I prefer to mix white, green and pink candles, as these are the colours of most of the trees/ wildflowers outside.
Pick wildflowers (or buy them) if possible, and make a small wreath, bouquet or altar offering (depending what feels right for you). I usually buy flowers, and leave the picking up to the many children in my area. I made an exception when my grandmother was alive, as her garden stood at such a spot that it was flooded with all kinds of wildflowers every year; yellow, pink, blue, purple, white – and so I used to make her a bouquet before my dad would go over with the lawnmover.
Dance in whatever way your body allows. Even if its just gentle swaying, moving your arms, or laying in bed vibing to the music. The clue is to feel the rhytm and the beat of summer.
Journal about what has grown in your life this past 6 months, and what you hope to accomplish next.
Brew a herbal tea using plants associated with midsummer (like chamomille, mint or elderflower).
Lie in the sun (don’t forget sunscreen people!) And bring a blanket, sunglasses and water to protect your skin. If you’re like me, however, and just cannot see the joy in this (being that it’s too warm, too bright and too sticky), I’ll advice sitting in the shadows, beneath some protective trees, with a large hat and a good book.
Watch a bonfire (live or on video) and meditate on what you’d like to release as the light begins to wane.

‘Wreath for Midsommar’ Image by: Fredrik Ohlander @Unsplash

We are told to seize the summer, to shine, to do more – but the solstice is also about the sun turning. Like a brief moment when the world stands still before shifting again. A breath held. A still point.

As disabled people, we can find great power in these quiet turnings – not needing to chase the sun, but to honour that it has come.

And perhaps this is what the old traditions knew: that joy is not just in motion, but in marking the light while we have it. In remembering that fire has always lived beside the shadow, and that both are part of the year, the body and the world.

– Silje