01/12/2025
December 1st: The First Day of Summer!
Another beginning.
In Australia, summer doesn’t arrive by European logic - no waiting for the solstice, no astronomical precision. Here, summer simply opens its doors on the 1st of December. The calendar declares it, and that’s that. For someone coming from the northern hemisphere, where December means winter coats, early darkness, and the first snowflakes, this feels almost surreal. It’s as if two versions of the world collide: one where Christmas lights glow in the snow, and another where fans are switched on, cold drinks are poured, and trips to the pool or beach are planned.
I didn’t know this myself until I arrived here. And perhaps in that difference between north and south lies a certain quiet magic.
Because every first day of summer in Australia carries a double story. One personal - held in each of us, shaped by the summers we once knew - and one new, local, southern, written the moment the sun begins to burn early in the morning with that sharp, golden light.
Even the years here feel different. (To be fair, they probably feel different everywhere.) On this day last year, the sky opened and the rain didn’t stop. Today, everything seems calmer, lighter, as if this summer brings a different story. I hope for a better, gentler one. These are the small moments that catch you off guard. You realise time has its own temperament: it doesn’t repeat itself, dislikes routine, refuses to be predictable. One year it forces you under an umbrella; the next it invites you outside to breathe air that smells of eucalyptus and the Pacific.
Maybe that’s why the first day of summer always feels special: you’re not just looking at the sky - you’re looking into yourself.
Because while the calendar shows December, those of us from the north instinctively expect winter, but instead the heat arrives. As if life quietly reminds you that nothing is set in stone, that our inner calendars are habits, not sacred rules. And so today, once again, I realise how much flexibility is a quiet art of living. If you can accept that your December is hot instead of cold, perhaps you can accept other changes too - the important ones, the ones within.
The first day of summer often begins gently. The sound of the air conditioner, the smell of freshly cut grass in the park and in your neighbour’s yard, seagulls circling the shore as if checking who has shown up for the start of the new season. People step out barefoot onto terraces, stand on the grass in front of their homes, and carefully test the air as if to confirm: “Yes, it’s really here.”
And then, somewhere between morning coffee and the afternoon sun, a small shift in mood happens. You start thinking of what’s ahead: maybe a weekend trip, maybe a promise to eat less ice cream this year (or more - why not?), or some small goal that might shape the months to come.
That’s the beauty of beginnings - they carry a story we don’t yet know.
And maybe that’s why summer warms us so easily. With the first day of summer come new expectations. We hope for days that are light, warm but not too hot, simple. We hope the sun will dry out a few worries, awaken that old, strong desire to live fully. Even though we know there will be days of heavy humidity and the aircon running nonstop, still - summer brings something that’s hard to put into words. A mix of freedom, optimism, and the sense that anything is possible.
And as I look at the blue sky above, different from last year’s first of December, it’s easy to see that we are changing too. You only need to look in the mirror each day. Year after year, summer after summer, your life slowly draws itself onto your face. Maybe we’ve grown a little wiser than we were last year, or maybe not. Who knows… “knowledge is fragile,” as the great Croatian poet Dobriša Cesarić said. Maybe we’re a bit more tired, a bit quieter - but still here, still alive. Ready for a new season.
That’s why the first day of summer is always special to me. Not only because of the sun - there’s about as much of it here as on Hvar, on the Adriatic, roughly nine months a year - nor because of the heat, which sometimes there’s too much of. It’s special because it invites me to pause, listen to myself, and open up to change. It whispers, like a wise counsellor: “Here’s another new beginning. Do something beautiful with it.”
I hope I will.
What about you?
