Bringing Summer Home
Mucha. 1902. Lithograph on paper. Perfecta bicycles made in England. With her gloriously wind-tossed hair and her casual clothing, this appealing bicyclist engages the viewer directly, wondering perhaps who would like to enjoy a bike ride in her company …
There is something magical about traveling without an agenda.
Not racing from attraction to attraction. Not trying to check destinations off a list. Simply following curiosity wherever it leads.
With Lughnasadh only days away and the Blessing Moon rising full over the eastern sky, Mark and I spent one final day yesterday wandering before preparing to turn toward home. What I thought would simply be another day of exploring became something much more. It became a day of remembering.
Our morning led us to the Washington County Museum of Fine Arts in Hagerstown, tucked quietly beside the lake in City Park. Founded by Anna Brugh Singer and her husband, artist William Henry Singer Jr., the museum was built on the beautiful belief that art should belong to everyone. Since 1931, it has welcomed visitors free of charge, offering beauty as a gift rather than a luxury.
Inside, I met the work of Alphonse Mucha. His name was unfamiliar, but his art was not. His graceful figures and botanical designs felt strangely familiar, as though my soul had known them long before my mind learned his name.
Find signed copies of best selling author Nora Robert’s books at her bookshop.
Isn't that how inspiration often arrives? Not as something entirely new, but as something quietly recognized.
Later, we found ourselves in Boonsboro at Turn the Page Bookstore, owned by bestselling author Nora Roberts. Surrounded by shelves filled with novels written by a self-taught author, I felt something inside me shift.
For years, I've dreamed of writing books of my own. Too often, that dream has been shadowed by questions of whether I'm qualified enough or educated enough to call myself a writer.
Apothecary envy.
Standing there, surrounded by stories born from one woman's willingness to simply keep writing, it felt as though the Universe leaned close and whispered, You don't need permission.
That gentle reminder followed me into Shepherdstown, where we spent one final afternoon wandering streets that feel strangely like home. We visited Tonic Therapeutic Herb and Elixir Bar, where handcrafted teas, roots, mushrooms, and herbs awakened another dream I've quietly carried for years—to study herbal medicine and one day create an apothecary of my own.
One last stop at On the Wings of Dreams, surrounded by crystals, books, candles, and kind conversation, completed the day.
As evening settled over the mountains and we reluctantly returned to camp, I realized my sadness wasn't about leaving a place. It was about leaving behind a way of living that felt deeply familiar. Small towns where bookstores still thrive. Where herbalists know their craft. Where artists create because they must. Where conversations happen naturally. Where beauty isn't hurried. Where life feels measured more by presence than productivity.
Perhaps that is why these travels have spoken to me so deeply.
They reminded me not only of where I want to go. They reminded me of who I want to become.
The Harvest We Carry Home
As this camping week comes to a close, I realize these blogs were never really about camping.
They have been about remembering.
Remembering dreams that become difficult to hear beneath the constant hum of modern life. Remembering that creativity is not frivolous. That beauty nourishes us. That writing is sacred work. That wonder deserves a permanent place in our lives.
The Full Moon doesn't simply illuminate the landscape. It illuminates our hearts, inviting us to ask, What has become clear?
Just days from now, Lughnasadh—the first harvest festival of the Wheel of the Year—asks another beautiful question: What has ripened within me?
Traditionally, Lughnasadh celebrated the first grain harvest, honoring the truth that every harvest begins with a tiny seed lovingly tended through the seasons.
Our dreams grow the very same way. Not overnight. Not all at once. Quietly. Patiently. One page written. One class taken. One brave conversation. One small act of faith after another.
Perhaps that is the harvest I am bringing home.
A renewed commitment to write. A longing for a slower, more intentional life. A deeper desire to study herbal medicine. A vision of an apothecary filled with teas, tinctures, books, candles, herbs, and conversation.
Most of all, the courage to stop apologizing for the life that continues to call my heart.
Nature never rushes her seasons. Spring plants. Summer tends. Autumn harvests. Winter rests. She never worries that she should already be somewhere else.
Perhaps we can trust our own seasons with that same quiet confidence.
Practice: Listening for What Has Ripened
As the Blessing Moon shines overhead and Lughnasadh approaches, give yourself permission to slow down.
Light a candle.
Step outside beneath the moonlight.
Take a quiet walk.
Or simply sit with a cup of tea and listen.
Then journal:
What dream keeps returning, no matter how many times I set it aside?
What part of myself feels most alive right now?
What small seed am I ready to tend in the coming season?
Don't worry about changing your whole life. Simply choose one small step. One page. One class. One conversation. One courageous beginning. Harvests are never gathered all at once.
Carrying the Light Forward
As I get ready to unpack our camping gear and settle back into familiar routines, I realize the greatest souvenirs from this journey aren't tucked into shopping bags. They are the dreams that have been dusted off. The parts of myself that have awakened. The quiet certainty that there is still time to become the person I am meant to be.
Perhaps that is the true purpose of every meaningful journey.
Not simply to discover beautiful places.
But to remember who we are when the noise finally grows quiet enough for our hearts to speak.
As summer slowly begins her golden turn toward autumn, may we carry home more than memories.
May we carry curiosity.
Wonder.
Creativity.
The courage to follow what quietly calls us.
May we honor the seasons unfolding around us and within us, trusting that every dream has its own sacred timing.
Blessed Lughnasadh, friends.
May your harvest—both seen and unseen—be abundant.