More than a Camp

I've been rolling my eyes at all the recent attention and media posts from my friends about Lost Lake Scout Reservation closing. I’ve been saying things like, "We all knew it was possible." And a few hours later- it hits me. I know I wasn't there as long as many of my friends and colleagues, but I was there. That place meant a lot to me- it was a home for me when I felt like I had nowhere else to go, when I was confused or scared, when my dad died- I had camp. It was always there for me- waiting- like milk in the fridge, or God... it's just always supposed to be there.

 

I was never more myself than I was when I was at LLSR. All the people I left behind... that were still around me as long as I was up there.... I feel like I lost them all over again. LLSR was... a home. I never felt so accepted before. Hell, Day One: I knew NOBODY, and these guys, these crazy, pierced, smoking, loud rowdy guys pulled me into an overfilled camp truck and treated me like an old friend. And that's just the way it was. Noplace in the world will ever be like that. And I'm going to miss it.

 

I feel hollow.

 

The people, the relationships... all the shit we went through. We all say it meant nothing, but look around. Look at all of us. Face it- we're upset.  We're united. We're all hurt or crying or drinking or.... we feel it. And as long as we feel it, it mattered.

And THAT is what hurts.

 

We have PROOF. We KNOW what that camp is, what it means to be at Lost Lake; to be staff member is like an immediate initiation into a club that has your back no matter what, good times or bad. It’s hard work, sweat, blood, lost sweaters and broken hearts. It’s midnight rides in hijacked golf carts, it’s spicy fries and a corner jukebox, an old tree out in the middle of nowhere. It’s belonging to something bigger than yourself.

 

It’s an amazing thing, to work with a scout. Sure, you can meet at a local library, but nothing will ever compare to leaving your laptop, iPhone, and parents three hours behind you, and getting thrust into the woods with a bunch of crazy counselors who want to sing and jump around and joke and flip your kayak right when you think you’re finally getting the hang of it. It’s rainy nights, and sharing a can of Pringles with a group of hungry CIT’s in the basement of Bennett Lodge during a tornado. It’s breaking your foot on a renegade turtle rescue during that same tornado. It’s the scouts and friends and fellow staff that made that place come alive, but without that place… none of those wonderful things that shaped us, that shaped those scouts into young men, men who are responsible and kind and successful… without Lost Lake, where would we be?

 

And where do we go now?

 

Just get over it, get on with our lives. “It’s only camp,” is the mantra from my non-scouting, my non-LLSR friends. Even among us, we talk of how we needed to be free of “the crutch” and how good this will be for our tight-knit cliques built on years of experience and grudging seniority. I agree only slightly. That camp, those 2000 odd acres of carved trees and broken glass, fire pits in the middle of nowhere and secret spots with names like “The Oak Tree,” “The Duck Pond,” and “Cabin 2,”- those places are our homes. They house or memories, our hearts. They taught us more than knots and fishing. We learned about life- as cliché as it is, it is sadly true. We learned about responsibility, honesty, friendship, and the true value of a helping hand. We learned not to sweat the small stuff, and some days- it’s ALL small stuff. We saw the fruits of hard work, and we basked in the glow not only of oversized bonfires, but in our scouts. Every high-five or youth-protection-violating hug we dodged taught us just how much our work mattered.

 

So where do we go from here?

 

Back to work, back to classes, back to bed. The world spins on, oblivious to the hearts that are simultaneously breaking. We have places to be, deadlines to meet. We cannot drop our lives for an extra moment to pick up our memories. That’s not how it works, this life. So we continue on. We go to school, to work, to our families. We push against the torn edges of our hearts, making grocery lists and memorizing the periodic table. And over time, the pangs will dull, the edges soften, and eventually it will stop. We’ll have our memories; we’ll be those grandparents talking about how things were “-when we were young.” But it will always linger, that feeling. We’ll always remember how being out at Lost Lake made us feel. Maybe one day we’ll be at the beach, and the smell of the sand and water will hit us with a thousand memories. Maybe we’ll pass a tree limb that resembles something other than a limb. Maybe we’ll remember a ridiculous song about a turtle, and we’ll smile to ourselves. And that’s what we’ll have to carry with us to keep the spirit of Lost Lake alive.

Bravery

Sometimes all you need is a friend. That one person who just gets it- who just gets YOU.

Sometimes you need somebody in your life for the fun stuff. I used to call that kind of friend "my favorite bad influence." We all know them, maybe some of us ARE that person. The person who is always having fun, a joke for every situation, being adventurous and keeping the rest of us from growing up too quickly. The friend that calls you drunk at 3AM with his buddies while he's peeing in a sink. The friend that drags you out and coaxes mascara and lip gloss on before going to Karaoke at a delightfully tacky sinkhole. The friend that is always initiating something crazy, that will probably get somebody killed one day, but for now, it's a blast. The friend that makes the best pictures and the best stories happen.

But some things you don't want to remember. That's the friend who brings you a box of tissues at midnight, who will walk trails or sit at the lake's edge for hours, and not feel the need to talk at all- they are just there- just so you know you're not alone. The type of friend who can tell from the "Hello" when you answer the phone just what kind of mood you're in. The friend who will take away the dangerous things from your reach, and from inside your head. The friend who isn't afraid to be seen with you when you're at your lowest, hair a mess, life a mess. That's when they take your hand, whether you like it or not. I cannot be more thankful for those people in my life.

Often times we categorize our friends. Deny it all you like, we have a hierarchy. The people we call first- for new babies, for news, for the big sale at your favorite store. The friends we call when we're happy. Then the second-string: the friends we call when our first choices aren't around. Eventually we reach deep in the recycling bin- the friends we merely keep in contact with because we were "bff's" 15 years ago and we feel some sort of reluctance to let go of that, though we know nothing about them but their names and their most recent Facebook profile picture. Then, in its own subgroup, off in the corner, are the Friends. The shining, radiating Friends. The ones we forget about until we hit rock bottom, or we feel like we have. They're the ones who come over when life comes crashing down- not because nobody else will, but because they love you, even if you did forget their last birthday. These are the friends that should be first. They love us best- which most of us don't deserve. They care about everything, not just the good times. They deserve MY best, and I've decided to make a change, to flip the hierarchy, to fix this inexcusable social distortion that is my life. I'm going to be brave.

I'm going to love. Out loud. I'm going to make sure the right people are in my life- that people are getting my love and my attention. I don't want to be the former "bff" 15 years from now. I don't want to be a name in the back of somebody's mind, a picture in a forgotten drawer. I want to be PRESENT. I want to be in the front row at their weddings, picking them up from the airport for holidays, holding their hands when they need me.

I challenge you to do the same.

No, really.

Look around your life. Think about who is always there. Who is always there for the party, the fun, and the sunshine, and who is there for the dark days? Who is there when they know you need them before you're willing to admit it? I'm sure we all have one or two people who deserve better from us. And I challenge you to give it. Give it all.

Collections

In life, people collect things. Some people collect as a hobby- coins, baseball cards, pieces of toasted bread resembling highly regarded religious figures. Others collect as a way to stay organized or involved in life- collecting data, facts, pictures of melting ice caps. One thing most individuals collect, almost without thought, is other people. Throughout life, an individual collects family in the form of parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, perhaps a spouse (and all the in-laws) and children, then their children to follow. He collects classmates, which are interchanged form year-to-year, save a few who he carries with him through those awkward adolescent years. He collects work colleagues, from quirky Joe in finance to Miranda, the lovely receptionist, and even Larry, the quiet loner in the cubicle 2 down, who remembered that his birthday was last Saturday, and that he loves red velvet cake. Again, these people will flit in and out of the collection, sometimes shining brilliantly like a rare un-circulated coin, and sometimes dully forgotten, like so many memos piled beside your computer.

I am not concerned with the people in my collection who drift in and out, who reside in a museum-like fashion, for a season or so, then move on, leaving behind memories, a few pictures, and a dinged bumper from when they accidentally rear-ended your car in the parking lot. The great concern lies on those permanent fixtures in life, the people in the collection whom you keep forever, or on the reversal, who refuse to leave. These people can be the greatest influence in a person's life. The can lift and support a person through his struggles, celebrate his triumphs, and laugh when he does something remarkably stupid (but not fatal). Again, these people can also hold him back, drag him down, and convince him that his dreams are unattainable. They can keep him from taking chances and branching out, cocooned in the safety of "old friends." They can betray him, yet rely on is goodwill to allow themselves back in his world- they can teach him to build a wall around his thoughts, his feelings, or his heart. These friends are dangerous, and not friends at all, but viruses, plaguing the collection, deserving to be obliterated, tossed aside, and forgotten. But yet they remain.

Why?

Take Me Out

Take me out.

We could wine and dine.
We could lie on our backs and watch the stars pass us by.

We could walk.
Walk the woods, the beach, the mall, the neighborhood.

We could go for a drive.
I'd rest my head on the rolled-down window and watch the trees fly overhead.

We could sit on the grass or out in the leaves.
And feed the ants our secrets.

Just take me out.
Don't keep me locked inside the walls of your heart, keeping me safe with you but not letting me live or experience anything else.

Take me away. Show me ancient trees with deep carvings, foot-trails long forgotten with tall grass and deer who look startled that people have wandered into their midst. Take me dancing.

Take my hand.