for this most amazing day
Earlier this week, I caught a ride to camp with Charlie and Kristen. The three of us are part of a fairly exclusive club: we’re not just former camp counselors (of which there are many) but former camp counselors who continued working summers long past the usual expiration date. Most camp staff only last a summer or two before an internships or a relationships or any of a million other things prevent their return. Others dedicate their entire college careers: three summers, maybe four, and then maybe some volunteering after that. But for some of us, even that’s not enough. We’re the ones who perhaps found the post-college world just a bit more bleak than expected, and each extra summer was a way to put off adulthood just a little bit longer.
Still, even for those of us who put it off longer than most, the our camp years eventually do end – and once they do, it’s startling just how quickly you’re forgotten. Charlie and Kristen were both on staff last summer, so both of them knew quite a few people who had stuck around. Me, on the other hand: even though my own final summer was just three years ago, there are only a handful of people left who ever worked with me. With that in mind, I had decided that while Charlie and Kristen visited with people, I’d spend my time wandering around and taking pictures. I’d walk the trails I’d walked so many times before, cool my feet in the river, and try to reclaim some of the peace I’d once experienced in these woods.
But here’s the interesting part about going to camp with the intention of being antisocial: it’s trickier than you’d think. Even if nobody knows you, even if you’ve been out of the loop for years, there are still people excited to introduce themselves and share with you the things that make this place special to them. “Have you ever worked here?” they ask excitedly, and I fight the temptation to detail the summers I spent here, the things I did, the traditions I helped establish. I used to be important, I want to tell them. But that’s not the way this place works. Just as I believe we all leave our mark in some way, I also believe that in the end, most of us don’t get to claim it. And so I smile, and let them tell me about the things I used to know.
I went late to the campfire that night. Instead, I spent my time taking pictures in the twilight, leaving the shutter open for a long time to let the light make its imprint even in the dark. I got there in time to hear the prayer. “Dear God,” shouted the person leading the campfire, echoed by dozens of others. “Thank you for this most amazing day.” I listened to the sounds of children and adults thanking God for the beauty of the day and of their lives, and joined in.
