I was sixteen the summer I became a dishwasher at Camp Wood. I did not write much that summer, I was too busy living. It was only afterward that I longed to put it on paper, to try to hold on to the beauty before it slipped away into the detritus of ordinary life. I am in algebra class but in my memories I’m also far away, falling through the air after running off a cliff. I hit the cold water and fall through it too. Then I surface, thrilling to the fear, the smart of the impact, the coldness, and the pure audacity I possess. It’s something like love; a feeling so great, so important, you can never forget it. Yes, I’ll always remember the first time I saw the camp as it overflowed with beauty.

Green sloping hills and far horizons surround it. A steep rocky path leads from our cabin on top of a hill down to a lake with an island in the middle of it.

My friend Monica and I are the first of the employees to arrive, but are soon joined by others to fill more positions. After our work is done we swim to the floating dock and lay in the sun, or go and play with a new litter of kittens. Sometimes we play tennis or cards, watch fantastic sunsets and late night television movies. We have pillow fights, and listen to records as we go to sleep. There are skit nights, cookouts, sing-a-longs, jokes, counselor hunts, piggyback rides, shaving cream fights, watermelon feeds, and moonwalk jumps. I ride a horse across the rolling hills to round-up cattle.

One deserted weekend, Monica and I clean a long row of windows, then paint the dock green. When we get hot we jump off into the lake to cool off. Afterwards, I hike alone to Lookout Hill and look back at the camp as I rest, drinking in the beauty of the place.

Camp Wood sometimes seems so far away. I left with great reluctance, but summer must end. Look in a newspaper and you will see pain. But look inside yourself and you will see a camp with green sloping hills and far horizons full of laughter and joy. As time goes by I sometimes wonder if I imagined it all. But even so I never stop hoping I will find Camp Wood again.

Much of my time has been spent doing yardwork lately. It’s a good to way to connect with nature and recharge emotionally, although it can be demanding physically! I once read that to be a good gardener, you have to hate the weeds as much as you love the flowers. It’s so important to remove the weeds for the remaining plants to have the room to grow.

What I’ve learned this week:

I learned about a neat website called crosswalk.com. It’s neat for a lot of reasons, but especially for the Bible search tool.

I’ve been trying to decide what I want to learn more about. Do I want to learn a new language? Or learn how to play the piano? There are free lessons at PianoNanny.com! Life’s all about learning, isn’t it?! Learn what you’re learning style is, and begin a learning journal.

I’ve been reading a book called “Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott. The author shares her advice about writing, something I’m definitely interested in learning more about! Becoming a writer, she says, is about becoming conscious. Writing and reading deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul. Oh, yeah, that’s what I want! At times it’s easier for me to figure out what I don’t want than what I do want. It feels great the other way around. 🙂

I watched the movie “Assault on Precinct 13” last night. When things get dicey, criminal kingpin Bishop tells Sergeant Jake Roenick that he’s seen many people die, and there are two ways to do it: with self-pity or without it.

I guess there’s two ways to live too.

It reminds me of the quote from “The Shawshank Redempetion”-get busy living, or get busy dying.

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream ! —
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real ! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal ;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way ;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle !
Be a hero in the strife !

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant !
Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act,— act in the living Present !
Heart within, and God o’erhead !

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time ;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate ;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.