What is Real?

You want to know what camp is?
I’ll tell you what camp is.

Camp is a 19 year old who gets nauseous at the sight of vomit sitting on the bathroom floor holding the hair away from the toilet bowl for her 10 year old camper who made herself so homesick she threw up.

Camp is Saturday morning, when that same 10 year old clings to that same 19 year old and refuses to go home. There are no lakes at home, or horses, or 19 year old big sister/moms.

Camp is the 15 year old who gets nervous looking over the railing at the mall who chooses to climb a 30 foot telephone pole and step out onto a cable no thicker than his thumb.

Camp is the boy from the city who’s lying on the grass for the first time looking at the stars.

Camp is the only child who daydreams about having a little sister but instead gets to have seven (almost) twin sisters for a week.

Camp is the six year old who is so proud of her tie dye that her joy leaks out in squeals and giggles and a grin wider than should fit on her tiny round face.

Camp is the 16 year old who realizes that the younger boys are wearing their hats backwards because he does.

Camp is jumping in the lake, opening your eyes underwater, and feeling like you have discovered a new world, a world where you could live forever.

Camp is the man who feels like Peter Pan as he looks at the cabin he stayed in 25 years ago and drops off his son for his first summer.

Camp is making it up as you go along merging with 100 year old tradition supplemented with the schedule you wrote on a napkin sprinkled with a dash of the outline you forgot to print off the computer.

Camp is a game called Runscream, a game that you are absolutely positively certain means nothing, could teach your campers nothing, a game that is a time waster while you wait for your Real activities.

Camp is realizing that there is no such thing as Real and Not Real. That there is only Love and Not Love.

Camp is Love.

Not.

 

 

I hate you.
You are too close
to not be perfect
but you’re not
perfect
and that’s what I hate
the most.

 

 

Wanderer

I don’t want to be a wanderer.
I am not a wanderer on purpose.
In fact, I hate it when people compliment me on how great it is
that I have lived in so many places and how brave I am.
I don’t feel brave.
Sometimes I have felt trapped.
Other times I have felt called.
Mostly, I still feel like that shy, insecure 6th grader who was shocked
when Karen introduced herself to the new girl sitting next to her
on the first day of class.
I long for roots.
I am terrified to be here, but grateful for the opportunity.
Maybe this time will be my home and not just a stopover.
maybe I will keep wandering
God alone knows.

Vulnerable

so here it goes
the doubt
the hate
the fear
no one could like me
that is what I am sure of
no one
and I use
whatever I can
as evidence
these little triggers
assure me
that I am worth-
less

I wish you knew
it would help
maybe then you would like me
or at least tell me
that you do
I wish I weren’t so good
at hiding it
if my mask weren’t
so solid,
you could see
what’s underneath
how fragile I am
I wish you knew
how alike we are
in this
how scared we are
to be vulnerable
I wish you knew
and then, on the off chance
that you loved that
vulnerable me
maybe then I could
too.

Tonight

Sometimes the night is just so beautiful I wanna cry.
Sometimes the world is just so beautiful…
How do you do it?
How did you put it all together?
It all just…fits.
The moon, the stars, the howl of a coyote.
There is such joy in beauty,
In how it interacts,
Like the cogs and wheels of a great machine,
The pistons fire, the steam swells, the current flows,
and the wheel turns.
The wheel is always turning.
My movements mingle with countless others,
with thoughts, with actions, with storms, and flickers of sunlight.
And it all goes on.
I am a spectator and a participator,
on this night and every other night.
I am here.
And tonight I can see
It goes on so very beautifully.

the recycling

It hurts that what my life stands for
is something that you tossed away
like day old coffee
like a used mouse trap
like an ex-wife
it hurts that you could be so casual
with disregarding what I treasure
what I live for
what I would die for
it hurts too that it doesn’t seem to occur to you
that this might hurt me.
that you don’t realize
that how you respect me is
by respecting what I revere
I don’t ask you to believe
I ask you to leave it alone.
My love is not to be recycled with the day old newspapers.

Do you ever

Do you ever feel so misunderstood
that, to explain
how you are misunderstood
would leave them thinking they gained insight
and you knowing that they understood even less.

Do you ever feel like such an outsider
in a group in which you want and don’t want to feel included.
Staying on the outside is lonely;
hiding who you are to fit in is painful.

Do you ever feel like people are attacking who you are,
what you stand for, what makes your soul smile
and they don’t even know it?
Their lack of comprehension hurts more than
the sentiment of their attacks.