It's nice to return to this place. I haven't been here for over a week and it is like finding an old friend, another side of myself I haven't seen for awhile.
It was good to take time away, to find my way back to the natural, earthy rhythms that some call God. Strapping on my trusty boots, taking along my leather hat, bugspray, and water bottle; and there is something deeply empowering about tying a knife to a beltloop with a faded kerchief, and satisfying hunger pangs from a baggie of homemade trail mix in my pocket.
I have been spending the past days as a counselor to 16 little girls in a daycamp. I've never really experienced anything quite like this, even though I did go to daycamp as a girl. This was different, at least for me it was. I think it is because by this time I already know what it is that is there for us to discover, that never was undiscovered, only forgotten.
I made camp in the woods and each morning the girls would come in from the hot pavement to fall into the welcoming arms of the cool trees. As I approached from camp to join them, walking down the trail and over the bridge it was here that I could hear them. They would meet on a hill to wait for me and sing echoing rounds and repeat songs with other girls, "the other day, I met a bear...", silly songs, some patriotic; and also, poignantly sweet songs from days of old, once sung by girl voices now long silenced, "My mother gave me a penny to go and see Jack Benny..."
The singing has been purifying for me, like the rain from the skies that fell from the leaves to my head, trickling down my face, my tongue licking it off my lips where it dripped; so parched...
There were days the girls and I would be sitting around in a circle on the ground on our sit upons, talking or making potlatches for their hats, and down the path next to camp would come trekking little hikers in rain slickers singing at the top of their lungs, or playing a word game to pass along down the line. The voices ringing out, and not like birds, but strong and loud, sometimes almost yelling as if they had been quieted long enough, and now it was time to chime, like a celebration chorus of many bells.
More than magic, it was enchanting...
Yesterday it was raining while the girls and I were in the thicket behind our camp, under the trees and meant to be building shelters. We became distracted by the running creek behind us that whooshed and careened from the night's heavy storms, and we wandered through the woods. We trudged down a muddy hill and I found laying on the ground a broken limb, and on it, a yellow moth. I picked up the branch, and as it opened it's wings I passed the moth back to the girl behind me and whispered to her, "Look, it's a golden fairy..."
Her eyes so wide, her mouth broke into sweet, smiling pleasure, and ever so gently the moth on the limb went one by one amongst the human sprites to delightfully reveal itself to them until the last girl laid it down, delicately, safely away from the well worn path.
All followed me into the water. As we stepped into the creek and jumped over rocks and downed trees, the girls could only see the place where the fairy must make her diggings: The overhanging shale became her shelter, the moss her bed, the plants, leaves, and little flowers decorated her vast abode. She played on the ripple rock, the bubbles in the stream her spa, the tiny fish her food... We walked and wandered and found ourselves carefully exploring as visitors, and also, at the same time, rapturously at home.
As we parted today, I asked each girl what was the best part of the week and we all agreed that it was when we followed our hearts instead of our schedule, and heeded the call of the forest, stepping into the creek in search of our fairy souls.
It was good to take time away, to find my way back to the natural, earthy rhythms that some call God. Strapping on my trusty boots, taking along my leather hat, bugspray, and water bottle; and there is something deeply empowering about tying a knife to a beltloop with a faded kerchief, and satisfying hunger pangs from a baggie of homemade trail mix in my pocket.
I have been spending the past days as a counselor to 16 little girls in a daycamp. I've never really experienced anything quite like this, even though I did go to daycamp as a girl. This was different, at least for me it was. I think it is because by this time I already know what it is that is there for us to discover, that never was undiscovered, only forgotten.
I made camp in the woods and each morning the girls would come in from the hot pavement to fall into the welcoming arms of the cool trees. As I approached from camp to join them, walking down the trail and over the bridge it was here that I could hear them. They would meet on a hill to wait for me and sing echoing rounds and repeat songs with other girls, "the other day, I met a bear...", silly songs, some patriotic; and also, poignantly sweet songs from days of old, once sung by girl voices now long silenced, "My mother gave me a penny to go and see Jack Benny..."
The singing has been purifying for me, like the rain from the skies that fell from the leaves to my head, trickling down my face, my tongue licking it off my lips where it dripped; so parched...
There were days the girls and I would be sitting around in a circle on the ground on our sit upons, talking or making potlatches for their hats, and down the path next to camp would come trekking little hikers in rain slickers singing at the top of their lungs, or playing a word game to pass along down the line. The voices ringing out, and not like birds, but strong and loud, sometimes almost yelling as if they had been quieted long enough, and now it was time to chime, like a celebration chorus of many bells.
More than magic, it was enchanting...
Yesterday it was raining while the girls and I were in the thicket behind our camp, under the trees and meant to be building shelters. We became distracted by the running creek behind us that whooshed and careened from the night's heavy storms, and we wandered through the woods. We trudged down a muddy hill and I found laying on the ground a broken limb, and on it, a yellow moth. I picked up the branch, and as it opened it's wings I passed the moth back to the girl behind me and whispered to her, "Look, it's a golden fairy..."
Her eyes so wide, her mouth broke into sweet, smiling pleasure, and ever so gently the moth on the limb went one by one amongst the human sprites to delightfully reveal itself to them until the last girl laid it down, delicately, safely away from the well worn path.
All followed me into the water. As we stepped into the creek and jumped over rocks and downed trees, the girls could only see the place where the fairy must make her diggings: The overhanging shale became her shelter, the moss her bed, the plants, leaves, and little flowers decorated her vast abode. She played on the ripple rock, the bubbles in the stream her spa, the tiny fish her food... We walked and wandered and found ourselves carefully exploring as visitors, and also, at the same time, rapturously at home.
As we parted today, I asked each girl what was the best part of the week and we all agreed that it was when we followed our hearts instead of our schedule, and heeded the call of the forest, stepping into the creek in search of our fairy souls.
posted by SPOA | 8:33 PM
2 Comments:
(eyes welling)
You would have loved it. I'm going over to see your place right now. I haven't been there in days and I've missed you!
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