Abiding in the Fullness

by Vicki Kensinger

[Originally published in the Summer 2026 issue of Mount Gretna Magazine. View the complete issue to experience this story in its original design, along with additional photographs and content.]

Photo by Leeshaun Musick.

Summer in Mount Gretna is a season of abundance. It mirrors the fullness of the earth itself — everything offering itself at once.

The calendar fills. Cottages open. The streets come alive again — around Mount Gretna Playhouse, the Jigger Shop Ice Cream Parlor, the lake, and the Tabernacle. All of it is held beneath the dense canopy of trees, offering their own gifts of coolness and shade.

From the first birdsongs of spring and the rising chorus of katydids and cicadas, to the first fall of acorns, the season swells.

People return like the birds — drawn to what is blossoming here. Theater and lectures, music and art, nature walks and Lebanon Valley Rail Trail rides, the Mount Gretna Outdoor Art Show, and conversations on porches are part of our days.

So much life, so much goodness — almost overflowing.

It is a season of fullness. And yet, abundance — as much a gift as it is — can sometimes feel overwhelming.

I remember my first summers here, feeling as if I had to taste it all — moving from one offering to the next, afraid to miss something. As if the goodness might pass me by, I did not take it all in.

I gorged on the buffet.

Still, something in me felt unsatisfied — not because there wasn’t enough, but because there was too much to hold in that way.

I recently read that nature heals us, in part, because it is softly fascinating. It does not demand our full attention. It holds it gently.

We do not need to study every tree, every branch, and every needle — though each would reward us if we did. Somehow, we can take in the whole of it without strain.

In its abundance, we are not depleted. We are restored.

I think of those years as a young mother of five, when summers felt relentless. I was “on” all the time — moving, tending, and responding. There was little space to be still, to listen, and to notice anything beneath the surface of our days. I remember longing for autumn — not for its absences, but for its permission to slow down.

I am learning now that I do not have to wait for another season. I can choose it here and now.

In the midst of fullness, I can step back. I can leave space on my plate. I can let the abundance surround me without needing to take it all in — to receive, rather than consume.

Perhaps attention, like love, has more than one expression.

There is abundant attention — lush, responsive, and alive to what is blooming. And there is an abiding attention — quieter, slower, and rooted beneath it.

I may not always feel full in my love. There are days of frustration, of overwhelm, and of distance.

Yet, beneath those changing seasons, something remains: My love abides.

For those I love. For this place. For the earth itself.

Perhaps this is what summer is inviting us to remember — not to take it all in, but to be as we are in the season we are in.

Sometimes that looks like fullness — leaf, blossom, and fruit — and sometimes it looks like letting go.

Branches bare. Space opening.

Not less full — just here — present to what is given, and resting in what abides, like sitting quietly in the shade.

Vicki Kensinger is a lover of the healing power of the written word and the natural world. Her daily journaling practice take her into the wild terrain of the inner landscape, while her wilderness excursions carry her deep into the backcountry of Ontario via canoe. Mother of five and Gaga to 10, she lives in Mount Gretna with her husband, Don. She blogs at EmmaatLast.wordpress.com and AnAlgonquinAffair.wordpress.com.