Skip

  "Whatever the intellectual quality of the education given our children, it is vital that it include elements of love and compassion, for nothing guarantees that knowledge alone will be truly useful to human beings. Among the major troublemakers society has known, many were well-educated and had great knowledge, but they lacked a moral education in qualities such as compassion, wisdom and clarity of vision."Dalai Lama.

 Besides my parents, there is one person in this whole world who had as much impact on the development of my values and on the choices I made as an adult.  His name is Skip.  Well, his real name is Bruce, but I've never been able to call him that. It would be too uncomfortable!  He's Skip.  Always and forever.  Just like I am Muskie always and forever. 

I'm not alone.  I daresay there are quite a few people out there in "summer camp land" who wouldn't hesitate if they were asked to identify the person who impacted them the most when they were growing up besides family members.  The first name to come to mind for many is Skip. After they declared that, out would tumble a whole canoe full of stories that revolve around a place that remains sacred in our hearts and memories. Alive and well these stories are!  All you have to do is tickle a Kawabi kindred just the chin and BING!  Out shines a story about Skip.  

Some of them would begin by focusing on that sense of childhood fear of this man who generated an untouchable admiration and desire to please in many!  Two thumbs up from Skip and your feet didn't touch the ground.  However, the underbelly of this are the stories of when at age 13 you got caught in the middle of the night performing crazy antics when you were supposed to be sound asleep in your own bunkbed!  I get shivers just remembering how it felt when 12 of us campers who had reunited after a long winter of wishing for camp again, were in the middle of taking photos of all of us on one bed........ with every single flashlight on and a loud cacophony of laughter peeling through the tent walls!  

Through the sound of 12 girls humming like a crowd at a bottom of the ninth world series game 7 with the score tied and the heavy hitter up to bat...... a seriously sharp baritone would cut the air and slice through the loud din! Silence ensued immediately.  For out in the dark on the path you had to take to get back to your own tent was a man who walked those same paths without a flashlight EVER in glow in the dark white tennis shoes.  That's all you could see!  The shoes!  It was probably best not to see the stern brow on his face.  You knew it was there anyways.  

I've never even attempted to write a piece on this blog about Skip because I find it daunting.  Not that I don't want to..... its just that so many conversations, activities, campfires, games, and interactions come to mind all at once.   What underlies all of the stories I share with him are the values he lived and taught daily.  Compassion, love and belonging were expressed through his actions.  Like tasty sweets, they were shared with everyone who had the bloody luck to be under his wing for even one summer.  Me?  I had 12 joyful summers.  

As a camper, I found my sense of belonging and a mentor who cared deeply for every single kid that got off that bus on the first day of camp.  It was his goal always to know the names of every one of us by dinner that first day.  It was his expectation of his whole staff too.  If he was stumped............ he bought you a bag of "tuck."   

Skip led us in song, taught us new games that opened up the whole camp property into a place of adventure.  He handpicked his staff and gave them his blessing and complete trust to lead their little packs of campers through a memorable time learning how to swim, how to sail......... how to canoe....... how to shoot an arrow..... how to sing a round of Fire's burning....... how to make new friends and work as a group. 

On the first night of my second year on staff, Skip wanted to talk to me.  He had brought along the two female senior staff with him, so I knew right away it was serious.  Much to my genuine surprise, he wanted to talk to me about my contribution as an Assistant Counsellor the summer before.  Not that I had screwed up completely........ With an assertiveness but also with compassion, he told me that he was disappointed in me as he had expected more from me.  He saw me as a more proactive leader than what I was showing. 

I was pretty stunned by the whole encounter and couldn't understand why he had to have these two staffers with him.  Until he explained that he wanted them to take me under their wing.  He wanted to make sure I had the best guidance that summer so I would be ready to take on the role of Counsellor the following year.  He wanted me to succeed as the Leader he believed I could be.

Needless to say, I worked my ass off that summer.  If Skip thought I had it in me, and he wanted to see it shine, well dammit I was going to prove to him he was right!  Though my confidence took an initial knocking, by the end of the summer I was 16 years old, I felt an even greater sense of belonging and a good feeling that I too had left an impression on the lives of my "campers."  

One of the most important aspects of that "SKIP TALK" night was how it opened up our relationship to a place where he and I could talk more about so many other topics.  True, there was still a sense of reverence one has for their mentor, but there was also an levelling of our interactions.  Adult to adult.  He put his trust me.  I put my trust in him.  He gave me responsibilities and guidance, and I fulfilled them as I tapped into my gifts.  We learned the human side of one another.  We worked together.  I thrived being on his "team."

A couple of years later, Skip approached me one evening during pre-camp.  He asked me if I would join him in talking to an Assistant Counsellor who needed some guidance.  All of a sudden the big staff girl shoes were on my feet.  It was my turn. I was the one who would follow through with this staff person and help her process the message from Skip, but also be by her side that summer.  It certainly surprised me, but I was honoured to play this role.  Passing on the values.......... passing on the compassion, love and belonging.  Developing trust.  Developing deeper interactions with one another by sharing.  Growing in leaps.  

Along the way, this staffer and I became lifelong friends. :)  Oh, and let me add too that one of the big girl staffers who was with me the night I got my talking to?  She's very much in my life still....... We all may live in different provinces, but we are in touch almost weekly.  Thank you facebook! :)

Years later, after many accumulative moments of shared feelings........ I returned to camp for a 40th anniversary reunion.  It had been 15 years since I had walked up the camp road towards the Lodge.  This time, I was accompanied by my own family.  For the first time, I was introducing them to my home away from home.  A place they had heard so much about had finally become the real thing........ the sweet scent of pine needles scattered on the soft ground in the woods, the tall trees that allowed only slivers of sunlight to pierce through, the sounds of laughter, boat motors, water play........ the cool breezes.... it was all there as we got out of the car and walked up towards the buzzing of the people there for the same purpose as I was.  To relive, reunite, rekindle, relight once again.   

As we ambled up to the top of the small hill on the road, I saw in the distance this man whose blonde hair had a little more grey in it, wearing a golf shirt, shorts and those glow in the dark tennis shoes.  He stood there waiting to greet us and I realized that I hadn't seen him since the night of my wedding reception where we danced together, Muskie and Skip.... mentee and mentor.  It took every single muscle in my body not to go right into a sprint towards him.  It felt like I had just completed the Amazing Race and he was standing by the finish line!  

I held my composure right up until I stood in front of him.  His arms went right around me like a big bear as I proclaimed..... "I'm home!"  

"Good to see you again Muskie..."

Tears? Oh yeah!  Both of us....   Then Skip turned his focus on my daughter whom he had never met in person before.  

"You must be Martha.  Welcome to Camp Kawabi.  I hope you will call it home too just like your Mom does because you belong here too." 

out of the blue..........

 the old craft shop, where it all began.

sometimes a smile finds me when i'm least expecting it

I may not expect it, but I always know where it has journeyed from.

It comes from you.

Out of the blue, I'm captured by a twinkling moment

when you squeezed my shoulder as you walked by

when you looked over at me from across the noisy room

when you were sitting beside me and all at once we turned our heads at the same time

like we knew it was time to really look into each others eyes

My smile arrives when I remember how my heart felt

uplifted

hopeful

fresh

excited

like a shooting star in a sky so full of night magic.

it still skips a beat

when the smile from you arrives..........

sometimes a smile finds me when I'm least expecting it

but when I need it the most.

out of the blue, it comes from you.

it's like you know when to send me reassurance

that I matter.

still matter to you.

sometimes i find myself stopped in mid stride

my focus is beyond the farthest point I can see with my naked eye

to where you are

out there living

Can you feel me there with you?

out of the blue, I return a smile to you.

it's what kindred spirits do for one another.

without even thinking twice.....

rain reflections of camp.....

I had a short catch up kind of conversation with my daughter last night on the phone. She's busy at her camp in the counsellor in training program, and is having the time of her life. So much so, that I think she's almost oblivious of how crappy the weather has been all summer long.

We have yet to have a string of sunny days. The temperatures are cool. The skies have been grey. The land is soggy. It feels more like early spring except everything is so lush it looks juicy. The flowers in the garden are bent over in surrender, too damped down by the wet lashings that they havent the energy to spring to attention. Instead, the blooms cower in anticipation of another downpour.

I asked my daughter how bad it was there in dampcampland..... Upbeat and perky, she admitted that she doesn't have a dry towel left, but they were all coping with it. In fact, she had just been swimming in the river to clean up after sliding in the mud. "It was great Mom. We put our bathing suits on and ran around the camp looking for mudpuddles to slide in. We were coated in it! It was a blast!!" Fun? WOW!

After we said goodbye, she was off to the Lodge to hang out with the rest of the CIT's...no doubt in front of a big blazing fire in the old fieldstone fireplace. No doubt someone would have a guitar in hand. No doubt there would be wishes and dreams, and plans aromatically floating from their comfort of belonging. No doubt they would offer up their hopes and bits about themselves into the communal basket of growing kindredness. Relaxed, unhurried, content, my daughter and her friends sprawled out on the wooden floor of the old lodge in front of the fire most likely spent an evening of broadening their connections through conversations, cardgames, music, and comraderie. I could envision it like it was something I had experienced myself. Why? Because I have and those memories I hold dearly.

Rainy summers working at a children's camp conjure up very different nostalgic scenes than the hot sunny long hazy day ones. Regular activities are often swept aside for different open ended adventures where you learn to live within the elements and have fun. Mind over matter always wins! Though it was hard work to push past the expectations of sunny paddles and blue sky sailings, you learned different skills by recognizing that rainy days offer gifts of deeper friendships. If you let it happen.

I remember summers when the rain was unrelenting, when moods were attached to short fuses, when pushing through the elements took a lot of energy. Leaders couldn't whine no matter how consistently dour the skies were. They were the backbone of enthusiasm. But it would take its toll. When this happened.....when there was a shift to a sense of surrender, our number one much loved leader, Skip, would decide to change things up by allowing his staff to sleep in a bit and along with a couple of his senior staff, would take every single camper, usually 120 or so on a long rainy day hike. Sounds like drudgery doesn't it? Far from it!!! Those hikes were ADVENTURES.....SKIN SOAKING FUN.

But, here was the catch. While he entertained the troops....taking them through the woods, down untravelled paths, away into the mystery of the forrest to a long forgotten old logging road and a haunted house called Blagdon Manor ..... while he led them in songs and chants and quick stops to check out new fauna, the rest of the staff had the morning to stretch, work together drink coffee and plan. Why? Because when the troops returned, swampy, muddy, happy, hungry and a little played out, they would be expecting a full out camp experience like no other. Planning consisted of working as a team to conjure up a whole slew of activities, usually under a theme, and usually ending in a dance in Squamish Hall. So many of those fantastic days swim out of my memory bank this morning that I feel upbeat just remembering them.... Staff talent nights (always hilarious!), capture the flag marathons, water baseball in the rain, Skit nights, Indoor games.... Guys and Girls, Counsellor hunts, Kangaroo Courts.... and theme days!

One year, we turned the camp into a Pirate's Training Den. It all began while the kids, then clean, dry and finishing a hot hearty lunch when a group of Pirates sailed around the point, right onto the shores of Camp Kawabi...... We had decorated one of the old outboard boats, The Stable Mabel and turned it into a sailing vessel.... A group of the most "vicious" looking staff dressed in their very best pirate rags loudly announced their invasion. Within no time, the whole camp ran down to the lake to find out what was going on, only to realize they were all held capture, thrown into groups, given pirate family names and promptly introduced to the idea that in order to become pirates themselves, they had to pass a bunch of "matey" tests, which had been set up in various spots all over the camp. If they passed the tests, they would be given their own head scarf and eye patch (all created that morning by a busy bouyant group of leaders).

As the skies threatened above, we were able to ignore its menacing ways and band together in a day of fantasy and imagination. How cool is that? Fun? WOW! A rainy day..... and I bet it was one of the highlights of almost every single person, no matter what age, of their summer. Laughter and song shared with 150 people is hard to ever forget. I loved rainy day activities..... I loved finding those mudpuddles and showing my group of campers how to slide with glee. You can always get clean..... You can't always find the mudpuddles...

After a long energy spilling day, which always left everyone smiling in exhaustion, we'd tuck our campers in and head up to the lodge. In quiet small groups, we'd form around the fieldstone fireplace. No doubt someone had a guitar in hand. No doubt there were wishes and dreams, and plans aromatically floating from our comfort of belonging. No doubt we offered up our hopes and bits about ourselves into the communal basket of growing kindredness. Relaxed, unhurried, content, and closer than ever..... rainy days can do that.

Ah, I now want to go find Blagdon Manor again. And why do I all of sudden want to wrap a scarf around my head? Arrrrrrrrr..........matey.........

ps.... what do you know? I finished this piece and the sun came out.... for a little while. :)

kawabi comfort and joy

Black bird singing in the dead of night

Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

all your life

you were only waiting for this moment to be free

The other day, as I headed to my car in the back parking lot of my office building I was struck by the bitterness of the cold winds. Flurries were swirling above the pavement like fairy dust lost. It was cold. Winter had finally arrived. We had been lucky. November had granted us a overflowing river of rain, but the breezes had been palatable. The cold winds demanded the respect of wool. The transition between seasons, especially from warm to cold, from lightness to early darkness is cruel.

As I drove away, I wanted to shake off the thought that this weather is only going to get worse. It is Canada for God's sake. The cold is going to drop to inhumane temperatures and the snow is going to dump from the heavens. Ice will make walking treacherous. Slush will only bring misery. It is what we're known for........winter.........well, that and making love in canoes.....we do that well too..... oh, and we have an abundance of maple syrup and men who dress in red uniforms and chase bad people through the woods. oh, and humour.....thank the Lord we've inherited the absurdist humour gene....well except for Clyde Wells. He's a defect. I mean really, who ever heard of a politician from Newfoundland who didn't know how to tempt our palate with wit??

So....where was I? oh, yeah starting up my cold van ....... I thought to myself ..... hmmmm .... beautiful self ................... if I could choose to be anywhere else right at this moment, where would it be? And, surprisingly a little shack in the woods clearly popped into my internal slide projector. My old craft shop. With a blink of a thought, all at once I was transported to a little cabin tucked into the familiar woods of my youth. It was blinking back at me. Not only that, the visual recollection was accompanied by a simple yet haunting Beatles tune.

Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly

Into the light of the dark black night.

I've always loved that song, probably because it has such a deep connection to my old craft shop. There are very few places I can think of which resonate a sense of comfort and joy for me. Its not "comfort" as in a soft sofa sense either. It's a feeling of being connected to a collective sense of belonging and all that is right in the world. Do you know that feeling? Its rare, but when it is there, it is a whole mind and body feel.

The craft shop was a sanctuary for many. It sat up the beaten path behind the painted rock off on its own away from all the other fluttering, bantering commotion of camp. Every morning when the kids signed up for activities, crafts would fill up first. We always had a full shop of happy campers in search of a place to be creative, but more than anything a place to catch their breath after a more rigourous activity of swimming, snorkelling, paddling, sailing, water skiing. They would arrive and line up by the painted rock until the bell chimed to announce the beginning and then scramble inside....the screen door banging behind them as they grabbed a spot on the benches which were smattered in years of paint. In fact there wasn't a spot on the walls, ceiling or the wooden beams which held the place together (barely) that didn't have a name and dates painted on it. The craft shop was Kawabi's signature palace. 40 years worth of names decorate the little shack. Mine is in red.......Dana/Muskie, 1970-1981......the summers where my voice was a part of the echos.....

There was no chapel building at camp.....no need really because anyone who embraced the place as their own knew it was all a little piece of heaven on earth. Chapel services moved from one place to another most Sundays........in the middle of the woods, in the lodge, down on the beach, even across the beautiful blue lake on an island not too far away. But, if I had to choose a place where I always found a sense of awareness and fellowship, it would within the walls of that little craft shop.

It doesn't exist anymore and neither does Camp Kawabi.....except in a wide range of kindreds' memories. It will live on...... Actually, the craft shop began to sag a while back and was replaced by a more fancier shmancier place right off the road into camp....definately not the same. So, it has had time to begin to sink back into the ground.

There's a melancholy feel to my memories of the times shared with friends, both during the daytime and in the evenings after the campers had been tucked in for the night. That was the time when quiet enveloped the whole camp.......and if you wanted to be still with your thoughts or share a spot alone with a friend, you could always find it up the beaten path away from it all. I can still "go there" in my reflections whenever I need to.

Melancholy...... it seems like a sad feeling when you look at the surface of it. It was what I was feeling when I got into the van that night......cold at twilight.....but it led me to a place of comfort and a moment of joy. Not a bad drive home. The flurries never touched me.... only bittersweet comfort and joy........ and the melancholy of the blackbird.....

A Camp Kawabi Sunday Chapel.

This morning, I was supposed to be leading a group in Sunday chapel service. At one point in my life, when I was in my late teens and early twenties living and learning as a children's summer camp counsellor, I led this part of the week every Sunday......with a little help from my friends of course.

Some of those friends have gathered this weekend for a reunion..........at another camp site in eastern Ontario owned and operated by one of our very own. Close to 50 people, camp counsellors of all ages, all of whom lived and worked and grew up on the same camp menu as I did, albeit some at different times over the course of a 40 year timeframe made the trek to hang out together. Due to the circumstances in my family life (my husband is doing very well and has physically recovered almost completely........thank you for all of your concern and support) I wasn't able to make it this time. Next time..........next time.

Needless to say, I may be physically present here in my home sitting at my computer, I am emotionally and spiritually at Camp Otterdale, and will "be" with them in that capacity as they gather together to give thanks to life and friendship. The theme of the chapel today is "Moving Forward......" My intentions as to how I was going to organize the service were cast aside and instead I sent the following offering on how music is the force behind our past, our present and our future............how it ties us together in feeling and kinship. I want to post it today to share with you as I believe some of the points I have made are universally felt. I also wanted to share this with any Camp Kawabi kindreds who just may stumble across this blog looking for a bit of nostalgic resonance.

It should be noted that as camp counsellors, we all had nicknames.........all of which have their own stories behind the naming. Mine was Muskie. Yes, there are a handful of people who know me as that and not by my real name. In fact, when I was speaking to a few old buddies yesterday, Muskie was the nom de plume. Actually, I am much more Muskie than I am anyone else..........but that's for another post. So, the names in this piece are nicknames.........

My heart is definately elsewhere this morning.........enjoying one of the most meaningful renditions of what camp was all about..........found in the shared faith of Sunday morning chapels, in the middle of the gathering of friends.

_______________________________

Musical ties that bind.

As I was driving to work the other day, I popped in a new CD my husband had given to me the night before…..John Hiatt’s latest offerings. As soon as the first guitar chords filled my van, his voice starting singing an upbeat folksy tune, I found myself transported right into the heart of the song like it was a familiar old sweater….. like I had worn it before. And yet, it was brand new. How could that be?

By the middle of the song, I was singing the chorus. The words and the tune found me because it had the perfect combination for a great Kawabi classic…….of summer listening in the Hub, in a car on a day off, during a late night campfire in the lodge on a cool August night. Of course, my first act when I reached my office was to scribble out an email to Skagg to ask him if he had heard it yet. I didn’t even have to ask if he liked Hiatt. I just knew he would. I just knew.

I remember a few years back, I was standing in my kitchen making Sunday dinner, listening to Neil Young’s, Harvest Moon, another Kawabi classic that was recorded LONG after I had spent my Muskie summers on the shores of Big Hawk Lake. And yet………there I was physically standing in my kitchen, but emotionally, spiritually…………? I was swaying to familiarity on the front porch of the infirmary….with Luten and Fastback during work crew in 1981?? 1981?? Amazingly, I automatically felt a tie back to a relaxing evening long ago after a hard day of completing jobs around camp.

Music can be timeless.

Music lifts us out of the dust of everyday life and allows us to FEEL a thought. Not only that, it allows us to experience the same emotions, which are also timeless. People everywhere are the same in heart and spirit. Music threads our hearts together, no matter how distant the space is between us……no matter when. We live in a sea of constant change, while trying our best to “live in the moment”….a song, a tune, even just the right note helps us take a step into our own rhythm, where eternity meets us in the present. It is that feeling which allows us a glimpse to seeing music as the common denominator, as the means to which we connect in spirit.

There are two sensory triggers that pull me back to Kawabi in a flash…….the fresh scent of pine is the first one. No matter where I am when I inhale that aroma, it fills me with a smile and a clear picture of walking up the path from the girls tentline for dinner after a sunkissed busy day.

The second trigger…………? An old song, whether it was one sung after dinner with gusto, or one played on the tapedeck in the craft shop, or a rockin’ tune at a dance, or whether it was a hymn sung during Sunday chapel……….a song from my days as a camper and counsellor envelopes me with sweet memories. I think we all share these two triggers. Some of the songs may be different but the flow back in time is the same, isn’t it?

Music IS timeless……..

It is the golden thread woven into the tapestries we continue to create of our lives lived…. It is the constant that links us to our pasts, that enhances our present, that is anticipated in our future. What I find so interesting is that there are some songs like the John Hiatt song, the chorus by the way begins with the line………”old days are coming back to me……” capture a past thought and feeling so vividly! Amazing.

These two triggers……….the lovely scent of pine and the kind of music which stirs my Kawabi memories are two of the reasons why I have found my home in the Maritimes. All around me is the fresh air pine…………….all around me are songs that could easily be strummed and sung around a campfire with a bunch of Kawabi kindreds. Music is in the fabric of this part of our country…….and NOT just the fiddling kind! Folk songs, the ones with the catchy kitchen party feel to it are here in abundance. And one of them, written by a local Fredericton guy named David Myles floated to the surface last year, won an international award and captured my full attention. I loved it the very first time I heard it.

The first Kawabi person I shared it with was Daisy………I just knew he would LOVE it too. Not only did that, he quickly learned the chords and the lyrics as we plotted to present it to you at chapel today. The second person I shared it with is my dear friend Skagg, who due to circumstances will be going it solo! You know, this song is meant to be in the hands of Skagg……….

It is my hope that this tune will be added to our ever growing Kawabi songbook which contains the golden threads from our personal tapestries……….a song sung in the present, and hopefully for your future enjoyment when you find yourself on your way to work one day in need of the feel of a familiar sweater. May you find yourself this morning enjoying a heart and spirit moment together when eternity touches down on the present as you sing along. I will be singing along too.

here is the song for your enjoyment...........please feel free to let it rip!.........xx (ps, the man accompanying Myles in the video is Thom Swift who is another local musician. He has his own solo album out, and is also a member of a well known band in the Maritimes especially called Hot Toddy.........a bluesy feel to this band......AND I was at this particular concert.........can you hear me in the chorus??)

David Myles performing at the songwriters circle during the East Coast Music Awards. My kids and I had front row seats!!

flickering light of friendship

Candles have a way of warming up the ambience of a room. Just a couple of flickering candles glowing on a mantlepiece make a room feel so much more inviting. Though I sometimes light them in the summer on the back deck, my real urge to light candles doesn't seem to appear until the fall. Maybe because it starts getting darker earlier. Maybe it's because it's colder outside at night and somehow they make a difference.

Amazing too that only one simple flickering light can make a difference. At the camp I worked at as a camp counsellor when I was young, there was a tradition that was followed every "last night" of camp. After the big banquet dinner, all the camper groups and their counsellors would congregate on the beach to share a letter that each group had written while sitting surrounding a blazing campfire.

As we arrived, we were given an unlit plain white candle with a piece of tinfoil wrapped around the bottom of it. We would circle the beach area with the little ones sitting up front and the older campers closing in behind them. Then, one group after another would have a chance to read their letter to all. The letters varied............humourous, lyrical, serious, but always heartfelt and hopeful..........kids describing the special times that they had shared living together away from home, away from family all the while developing friendships, some of which would become lifelong.

In between the readings, the whole camp would sing familiar campfire songs for the last time. Songs of the kind of spiritual friendship which makes life at a camp such a special place.

And as we shared our stories and many laughs, the blazing fire would begin to die down. The sun would begin to disappear. The evening would become solemn. Once the letters were finished being read, Skip the Camp Director would collect them all. He'd then roll them up in a tube and place them in a plastic container to be buried, only to be dug up the following year to be read aloud during the first night of camp. By the time this ritual was completed, all that would be left of the campfire would be silent embers.....enough though to light a candle.

Skip would then take his candle, bend down to the embers while talking about how one little light can make the whole difference. He would light his candle, and then turn to his wife "Nish" to help light hers. From there, they would pass their light onto the counsellors. The counsellors would turn to light their campers candles. Before you knew it, the cold darkness was gone.

If I close my eyes right now and picture the scene from my memory.......I see glowing faces of the kids quietly watching their own candle flicker from the breeze, in awe of being a part of such a simple yet powerful lesson on sharing. And in the background, the older kids would quietly start singing one more song as they huddled together, holding their candlelight, feeling the warmth of many summers of friendship.

Mmmmmmm I want to linger

hmmmmm a little longer

mmmmmmmm a little longer here with you.

mmmmmmm it's such a perfect night

mmmmmmm it doesn't feel quite right

mmmmmmm that this should be my last with you.

The song ends as soft humming continues. Each group files past the firepit to throw their candle onto the embers. Quietly campers and counsellors head back to their tents for a last night together...............a quick turning glance at the glowing resurrected flames which reveal the tears streaming down the faces of friends......arm in arm......quietly holding onto the magic of the moment.

One flickering light shared.

Flickering hope

Flickering happiness

Flickering friendship

One flickering light spreads companionship.

The warmth of the candle needs to be shared.

The prompt this week on Writer's Island is friendship. I wrote this piece last fall. When I read it again tonight for the first time since I posted it, I was transported back to my camp counsellor days, to the last night campfires and to the warm friends I shared my candle with.

That's what you are.............

I look at this picture of this one little path which leads to a beach I can conjure up in a blink of an eye and I am bowled over by the many many unforgettable moments I hold close to my heart. Camp Kawabi. A view from the lodge.

_________________________________________________

What makes a moment unforgettable? It's not the length of the moment, nor the planning of it. Many times have we stopped to gaze out at the night stars on a summer's night and yet only a few of them are so memorable that they sit on the plateau of never forget. What made them so special? Was it because you shared it with someone? Was it because looking out at the stars on that unforgettable night was the moment you were able to catch your breath after an experience or an event which meant a lot to you? Or was there a special star which caught your eye and made you wonder.............?

Unforgettable events become the tangled story of our lives. They are the snapshots in our memories which we can reach back to touch. They make our short existance real.

First kiss, first love, first time passions.

Tender first steps through transitions -- milestones which record our history

Footprints of people who left impressions on our hearts

Mentors who guide

Elders who pass on their wisdom

Kindreds who share of themselves

Babies who melt our hearts

Our children who remind us everyday of what is important.

Moments of hilarity

Segments of grief

Bone chilling phone calls or sirens or alarms.

Heart lifting songs which become soundtracks to our stories.

A time when intimacy began with a shared look of desire and ended in confusion and silence.

Saying goodbye forever

Saying hello for a lifetime

Unforgettable moments are trapped in the deep sighing crevasses where our emotions resonate the strongest.

It's where you find..............

Sharp edged sorrow captured for eternity

Joy shouting in the light breaths of new life.

Struggles, achievements, successes and failures......all of which etch out the stories tucked in our memories.

so many, so many..........................tiny time capsules

our chain linked life line

allowing us to leave our fingerprints behind

giving our existance meaning

exposing us as unique

adorning our tapestries with the sequins of our light.

Unforgettable is the prompt for Writer's Island today. Since reading the prompt, I have replaying a few of my own most unforgettable moments...... they have all made me smile and wonder if my moments which have left indelible memories in me are as strongly felt by the people I shared them with.

where i used to go...........

A good friend sent me this photo today with a teaser, "guess what this is?" Not many would recognize it, and only a handful would look at the building in this photo and have the same nostalgic feelings I have of it. This little cabin nestled in the woods was where I spent many wonderful hours during my youth. It used to be a destination as a kid, and then it eventually though temporarily it became my domain, albeit one I shared with a gaggle of kids. This used to be a merry making hub of activity craft shop. It hasn't functioned as one for many years. The beams are broken from age and winter beatings. It's filled with rusty old iron bunkbed springs from long ago......abandoned and left to harbour the echos of the past.

But, back when the voices were creating the future echos?

It was a haven that housed 4 groups of kids during four activity periods everyday for two months out of the year. They would arrive excited to hang out..........to make something, to listen to the music, to chat with their friends, to be still in a place where still was in short commodity. After outbursts of activity emanating throughout the rest of camp.........from swimming to sailing to water skiing to skin diving........it was a place to catch one's breath. Even the wiggly jiggly ones who rarely could sit still, they would find some focus in the craft shop.

This magical spot was set up with shelves, supplies and half creations hugging the perimeter, while a work area was set up in the middle in a U shape. I worked mostly behind the work area in order to facilitate and help kids working on projects, all the while working on my own. It would be nothing for 15 kids to be in there working on 15 different projects ranging from plaster molds to copper enamelling, to etchings, clay pottery, weaving, and various and sundry other sorts of crafts.........and two or three staff to direct the harmony.

Paints, dyes, powders and clay......glue, varnish, wool and strings.....sticks, sand, pipe cleaners and jute...... it was all there to do with it what we wanted.

I think this is where I first learned about how the process of creating was much more satisfying than the end product. It is also where I learned how an activity where one is working with their hands has the power to allow for a comfort in sharing of the heart. Lots of talk was interspersed with the music and the jokes and laughter.

Some nights, when I wanted to get away from the hubbub of the other staff milling around after the campers went to bed, I would head up to the craft shop to work on a project......sometimes alone........sometimes with a friend......in the stillness of a summer night. Creating something helps clear the head. It's where we find our flow.........where time slips by unnoticed and takes with it the fog of worries......

I can't imagine how many kids soaked up the welcome over the years.....too many to count. The majority of them left something there forever though.....they left their name, painted on the inside walls of this cabin......in their favourite colour....in a spot chosen for posterity....with the dates of the years they lived at camp. The walls are plastered with names, some painted over.

Mine is in there.....1970-1981.....in red. Names which conjure up the faces of the echos. If I close my eyes, I can see the inside of this little place and know exactly where I painted my name, just like everyone else who holds a memory or two of the old craft shop.

Nostalgia has it's place in our memories. It can be visited like a good friend who lives far away. It can leave you feeling a whole mix of emotions too that sometimes surprises us with the intensity it creates. Sometimes it simply slips by as an afterthought. I guess the word that best describes this particular nostalgic memory for me is bittersweet. But mostly sweet.....a whole bag of sweets.

Thank you Ribii Scott for the chance to relive some sweets......and to hear some of the echos. And one of the echos is you!

finding our own way......finding our own faith.

"Faith is a state of openness or trust. To have faith is to trust yourself to the water. When you swim you don't grab hold of the water, because if you do you will sink and drown. Instead you relax, and float. And the attitude of faith is the very opposite of clinging to belief, of holding on. In other words, a person who is fanatic in matters of religion, and clings to certain ideas about the nature of God and the universe, becomes a person who has no faith at all. Instead they are holding tight. But the attitude of faith is to let go, and become open to truth, whatever it might turn out to be."

Alan Watts, Philosopher

When I was very young, 3 years old I think, my father took me out for a paddle in a canoe. We were staying at a lodge in the Haliburton Highlands with my parents friends for a weekend. I don't remember all the details........how far or how long we were canoeing when a storm full of gusts and waves kicked in. The canoe tipped over not far from the shore, but in deep water. For a stop gap moment, I was underwater thrashing until my Dad grabbed hold of me and pulled me up for air. Then, he managed to get me and him AND the canoe to shore.

Though it was probably a millisecond, time stood still. I can't imagine how freaked out my Dad was afterwards, but during the swim to the shore, he was calm and in charge. We walked back through the woods to the lodge soaking wet, in bare feet, me in his arms.

From then on I had an aversion to water and to boats for a long time. My Mom put me in swimming lessons, which weren't successful. One swim instructor even had the gall to throw me in. I guess she figured survival would kick in or something and I would magically begin doing the front crawl. Can you imagine a swim instructor pulling that stunt now? No, structured swimming lessons were not for me. I felt such pressure to conform.....the anxiety created by these moments are still real to me as I remember them.

One summer, when I was around 8 years old.......the sun came out and stayed...........and stayed and stayed and stayed.......it was hot for three months straight. Consequently, the amount of times hanging around pools, beaches, and such increased........opportunity with no pressure offered me a summer of playing in the water. I started with my big toe and eventually could put my head under water.

I learned to float and to trust that I was going to be alright when it was at my own pace. Faith in the water.....found me when I wasn't looking for it and when it wasn't being forced on me.

Canoeing came along the following summer when I went to overnight camp at age 9 for the first time. On the first full day of activities, my group had signed up for canoeing and I had to go. I was terrified as I hung back hoping that I could figure out a way of keeping my feet firmly planted on the safe ground. As everyone paired up and grabbed their paddles, this friendly burly male camp counsellor nicknamed Onions (I don't know why ) approached me to see if I had a buddy. I told him that I was too afraid to go out in the canoe. I told him what had happened to me.

Somehow, he managed to encourage me into the bow.........with lots of soothing words and enthusiasm......as he pushed off the shore and slipped into the stern. Onions continued to talk and to ask me questions which made the first foray less monumental.......like we were just having a nice conversation while we had an adventure. Along the way, he showed me how to hold my paddle which increased my confidence. He talked about canoeing as a journey. A fun journey, if you just went with the flow. And I was fine.......my trust in the flow happened because of the trust I had in a leader with empathy.

Every morning, from that first day, Onions would seek me out during breakfast to ask me what activity period I was signing up for canoeing. Everyday, I signed up. Everyday, he took me out. Just me, and we would share the journey. One day, Onions paddled our canoe past the point which was the boundary for the canoe area.

He kept talking in his soothing voice as we turned the point, paddling out of sight of the camp shore. And there on a large rock jutting out of the lake was a Great Blue Heron, perched like he was waiting for us. We shushed and drifted and looked in awe of the Heron majestically still......a gift of faith. A life lesson in taking a risk and in stretching boundaries. Letting it flow.



Camp and I were a good fit. I loved it from the moment I set foot on the now very familiar path which led down to the girls tent line. I belonged. I felt safe. I made lifelong friends, and I always knew someone older was keeping an eye on me. Eventually, I grew to be the one who kept an eye. Eventually I grew up to be the Counsellor in charge of canoeing, mastering the art of paddling.............and finding a deep connection to the pull of the paddle through the water.


There is nothing more spiritually enhancing for me than a solo paddle in a canoe.....gunnels almost touching the surface of the water, leaning just right, slicing through the calm........the canoe and the water an extension of me. It only happens when you let go a bit.....when you don't try so hard........when you don't go looking for the perfect stroke. Just like religion. Just like faith.

Swimming has never been my forte, though I learned......sometimes pushing hard and forcing myself to learn how to master the strokes well enough to be considered as a camp counsellor. That was my goal. I even had a few mishaps in the water again....once being trampled by a bunch of enthusiasts running into the water while I was coming out. Pushed under, fighting the sandy swirling water in my face, pressure on my back by another.....I was saved quickly by Skip, the Camp Director, who knowing I wasn't a good swimmer had been keeping an eye on me vigilantly. He pulled me out by the scruff of my neck....swooped me up and out onto the beach in one move. This time, it didn't cause me such anxiety. For one thing, I was a much more confident swimmer and I was old enough to know that I was being watched over by someone I trusted as much as my father.


For the last few summers as a camp counsellor, I went full circle and was offered the chance to teach the little ones who were afraid of the water. Me, a sinker..........and a bunch of non-floaters. Inch by inch, everyday we took our time learning together how to allow the water to be trusted. Initially I could see them trying to grab on......slashing and splashing with anxious limbs. But after more and more opportunities when the sun shone and shone........one by one they found their own way to put their faces in..........only to pop up with a big glorious smile of achievement.

Sometimes we just need time to be...........to learn to trust...........to take our own path, our own steps to meet our faith in the shallow end....or just around the point where the shore is left behind and a gift is awaiting sitting stoically on a jutting rock.


ps. a few years after I had moved on from my world as a camp counsellor, I took a trip back to Camp to spend a few days just hanging and helping out with the kids and the counsellors, some of whom were little ones when I had worked there last. Naturally, I gravitated down to the canoe racks for a paddle, and asked a 10 year old girl if she wanted to join me. We grabbed a canoe and headed out, paddling towards the point with me silently wondering about the Heron who greeted me so long ago. I started chatting away, asking her questions about how long she had been at Kawabi etc. She told me that her parents had been camp counsellors there years before. It turned out her dad was Onions. I told her about his gentleness with a little girl who was very afraid.......and of the Heron as I felt a warming reinforcement of serendipty.

changes.....................

Last night, while sitting in front of the fireplace with a friend enjoying a glass of wine a song popped up in our conversation. I don't even know where it came from or how it wound up being retrieved from the past. Surprisingly, neither she nor I knew anyone else at this juncture in our lives who knew the song. Also surprisingly, it turns out it was our favourite folk song sung when we were young attending different summer camps. Of all the folk songs we were taught, this one resonated the most......she at her camp in her life separate from mine. We have only known one another for a couple of years..........

When I was 10 or 11 years old, my camp counsellors were heavily influenced by the folk songs of that anti-war era.........many were shared.......many were taught....many were sung around a campfire. I remember them all fondly........ For some reason, I couldn't for the life of me remember the words to my favourite. The tune has been nestled in my brain for a long time with no means of connecting to the words. Sometimes, a snippet of the song would pop up and as hard as I'd try, I couldn't dredge the rest up from my memory. I asked others if they could remember. I tried to find it on the internet, but had no luck. I didn't know who wrote it until last night..........it was Phil Oches.

A touchingly beautiful end of summer lament returned. A gift. Wish I could hum it for you. But I think the words hold up as poetry. No need for a tune.

Beautiful pictures of starry night beach gatherings, of glowing faces lit by the light of the campfire, and of one special summer love whom I also know holds this song close to his heart............these are my pictures filling in the grace notes between the lyrics.............

Changes

Sit by my side, come as close as the air,
Share in a memory of grey;
Wander in my words, dream about the pictures
That I play of changes.

Green leaves of summer turn red in the fall
To brown and to yellow they fade.
And then they have to die, trapped within
The circle time parade of changes.

Scenes of my young years were warm in my mind,
Visions of shadows that shine.
Til one day I returned and found they were the
Victims of the vines of changes.

The world's spinning madly, it drifts in the dark
Swings through a hollow of haze,
A race around the stars, a journey through
The universe ablaze with changes.

Moments of magic will glow in the night
All fears of the forest are gone
But when the morning breaks they're swept away by
Golden drops of dawn, of changes.

Passions will part to a strange melody.
As fires will sometimes burn cold.
Like petals in the wind, we're puppets to the silver
Strings of souls, of changes.

Your tears will be trembling, now we're somewhere else,
One last cup of wine we will pour
And i'll kiss you one more time, and leave you on
The rolling river shores of changes.

Phil Oches.

dare to be different

Muskie, circa 1981

"We need pilgrims with unflinching honesty,

who are willing to take risks,

who accept that there is no point in upsetting yourself

if you're not willing to be different."

Jean Vanier