Wednesday, July 07, 2004
SITKA MONTAGE 2004
I’m tired almost beyond recognition, but I still have to write a few words, since it’s my first night in Sitka. I love this place so much that there really aren’t any words. Walking around downtown, being in the Back Door, landing among those green-brown dots of islands amidst the water--it all feels like home. This place has become so much a part of me that I cannot find the words. But of course, I’m still going to search.
Staying in the nursing home, the windows overlooking downtown Sitka. Korb and I are sharing a bathroom. This is going to be trouble. We’re not going to get any sleep for the talking.
At dinner the first night, I felt this wave of melancholy go over me as people began introducing themselves. I didn’t feel alienated. Quite the opposite. I felt enlivened and loved, as we all talked about the love we feel for this place and each other. Instead, I felt the pain in my shoulders and neck anew. Looking out at the blue-grey mountains, I could remember the way I felt in my body this time last year. I felt good. I felt exuberant. I felt unscathed. No more. I don’t have my usual energy. I have had such a hard time. And here I was, at this dinner with people I love, and I had to leave early. Last year, I had all this crazy, bounding energy. I felt alive and shrieking much of the time. Now, I feel quieter. More at ease, certainly. But not able to open my jaws so wide to smile. And I can’t quite capture that back
All the faculty seated in a wide semi-circle of chairs, in front of the students sprawled out on the floor. And as each one of us stood up to talk (to say our names, and where we’re from, and any camp story we have), I fell in love with the camp all over again. There are plenty of creaky places here--staying in the nursing home is not much fun--but nothing will stop me from enjoying this place. Especially now that classes have begun. And so, we defined ourselves, and the experience of the kids, by talking in exultant tones of love.
I can see this time, having been here twice before, how much we create our own experience. In the first meetings and dinners, we comment on how much we love it, those of us who have been here before. And in doing so, we set the tone for what the camp might be like for everyone else. Now, two days in, we’re already confirming what we thought that first night. And every time we do, we just build that sense of goodness more and more. By the end of the two weeks, it will be a frenzy of love and admiration. And we’ll leave, exhausted, and ready to re-create the place again next year. It’s amazing how much we choose our own moods.
Early morning at the nursing home, the attendants talking loudly at 5:30 in the morning. There will be no sleep in this place. So instead of fighting it, I open my door to the hallway and walk toward the babbling, happy noise. “Kiran!” I squeal, and run toward her to pick her up for a hug. Muesli and coffee for breakfast. Yoga stretches. Talking with Jessica, again and again, as I straighten my hair, and we debrief on the day before, anticipate the day to come.
Back in Sitka, and I’m in love again. Already, this fiction class moves me, and we’re laughing. There’s nothing like being with a bunch of new kids, their faces already familiar after a few moments, and knowing that they will soon be burned indelibly into my brain. 19 students in my fiction class, all of us gathered around three round tables placed together in the upstairs of the library. Every one of them participates. They are all telling stories, listening to each other, laughing, and writing. They're filled with enthusiasms, snorting when they laugh, funny as hell, and the most generous kids I've ever taught. Here it is, summer vacation, and they're all writing, every day.
Drew is 18, and blind. His eyes are peeled back in his head, pale pink and opaque. He’s filled with confidence, all the same, but he’s clearly lonely in there. He likes to interrupt all the time.He wants to make a connection with whatever anyone is saying. He’s not socialized. But he will be soon. That’s what this camp is about, after all. Alison and Kristina and Jessica and Maya and Acacia are back from last year, but most of them are new. We share the same space, creating a community of writers, disparate people bound by the compulsion to put words on the page. What that is, I still don’t know. But what I’m going to share with these kids, which I have learned fully this year: writing is a way to be utterly alone, in my own experience without outside influence, but still deeply connected to other human beings. I’m sure it’s the same with all the arts. In this way, it’s the perfect metaphor for being alive. It’s about reaching deep inside for something you know is there but can’t name yet. And then bringing it out into the light and watching other people’s faces light up at the sight of it. Because they recognize themselves in the image you have just created. And in seeing the look on their faces, you see it yourself.
There’s nothing like it.
I’m still moved to tears every time I hear a new group of kids talking about why they love to write. My role as teacher drops away, and I’m simply one of them. And in a way, I’m like a kid who has been lonely all her life finally finding friends. Finally, some people who think like I do, who understand the way my mind moves. It no longer matters that they are infinitely younger than I am, or that I’m supposed to be in charge. They are merely beings, and I am one of them, together. I love this gig.
Finn, my curly-haired, sweet-as-honey, favorite student (except for Maya, who is in her own category), who writes like a dream, produces his own radio show in Sitka, listens to everyone around him, gives hugs liberally, and laughs with his entire body? Finn's in my fiction class. On the first day of classes, I asked everyone to talk about why they write. Do you know what Finn said? "I write because it reminds me. It reminds me that even though there is violence and sadness in the world, nine times out of ten I think that the beauty of the world is more potent." He's 15. Everyone else in the class around him nodded.
I adore the other members of the faculty. They are some of my dearest, deepest friends in the world, and I only see most of them these two weeks out of the year. So these weeks are like a connection extravaganza--every conversation goofy and meaningful, loving and alive. I’m so glad Jara is back this year. I’ve missed her caustic kindness. And Christi? What did I do without Christi last year? We eat bad cafeteria food together, and complain about the lack of vegetables, mildly. This year, we're staying on the top floor of Sitka's nursing home. Don't ask. It's weird. There are beeping alarms and old women in wheelchairs with blue bows in their hair and heart monitors attached to the wall alongside our beds. But we have the entire third floor, and every time I open my door, I see someone with whom I want to talk, someone whom I hug. About forty-five hugs a day. Every evening, we gather at the ArtShare, in which someone, or several someones, presents his or her art. It's astonishing. And it always makes me want to work.
I love looking out the window and seeing all the masts of sailing ships in the harbor, bunched together in front of Mount Edgecumbe. And the blue, blue sky outside, on this glorious, unusual day.
Aren’t they all unusual?
Hot today. A little muggy. I ran all the way back to town, when I had nearly reached campus, because I suddenly remembered that I had left my wallet on the little shelf beneath the pay phone, outside the outdoor clothing store. I panicked, because I have all the cash from the faculty for the bonfire tonight, all of it tucked in there. Ack! And of course, I can only run so far. But when I finally reached the foyer, panting, I found it lying there, with a newspaper I had been reading. Not only that, but tourists were swarming the area, and no one had lifted it. So I love humanity again.
That view from Reber’s beach is truly one of the most, if not the most, beautiful sights I have ever seen. Green water, made deeper green when the sun hits it right. Dark fir trees topping little islands. We pointed out sunlight streaking the green water, eagles on wooden poles, shafts of light among the trees, pointed them out to each other. And there were bald eagles and black birds calling outside the window, diving down to the water and soaring up on widespread wings. The eagles, when they land, keep their wings tufted up until they balance in the top of the tree, then let their feathers settle softly. A snow-covered mountain out his living room window. It just moves me to tears.
Vastness.
And on top of that, add bonfires, back rubs, smores, and roasted bananas.
Could there be anything more beautiful?
God, I love my job. This is an endless well of happiness. Kristin and I were talking about this at lunch, over bad food and too-sweet cake--how creative teaching is. When you move away from the rote expectations, you trust the process. Have a rough outline, and then let the moments determine themselves.
Goddamn it, Reber beat me at Scrabble again. I claim bad back pain as a distraction. Rematch next year.
A kid named Marley told a hilarious story about his hippy mom picking up a hitchhiker, and somehow connecting it to a local man who had cremated his wife. “He turned her ashes into these wacky beads. He put one on top of a mountain. He wanted to put one down the throat of a lion, one down the throat of a baboon. And he gave one to me.” He’s a natural. He had us all rapt and laughing. And for a twelve-year-old kid, that’s pretty great.
Dancers flashing across the stage in a tumult of energy and listening to each other.
Life moves too fast. I can’t keep up with it. I have one wonderful conversation after another with people I love here, new students who have bloomed in my mind, and there are only twenty or thirty minutes a day to write it all down. I have to let it go.
We’re all exhausted. No one is sleeping more than five or six hours a night, which is terrible for the health. The past few days, and yesterday in particular, I was exhausted. I walked around campus in a daze yesterday, utterly spent, punch-drunk, but more creative for it in my teaching. And I keep falling asleep now--my body just can’t take it anymore. I’ve been running it into the ground. The food is always lousy here, so I’m not complaining, but little to no vegetables or healthy food plays its part as well....
A grey day, finally. The fog has rolled in, and I’m happier. Sitka feels more real with the clouds above my head.
Oh my god, the steak at Ludvig’s--with the creme fraiche and dungeness crab slathered on top--is beyond compare. Of course, the two bottles of wine probably helped too.
Mary won the Scrabble game tonight. And she feigned beginner’s luck....
Laura tirelessly tugging at the heavy screen onstage at Centennial every night. I’m glad the kids roar their approval for her, because she’s working hard. And Simon! My god, poor Simon. And Reber taking pictures every night, after teaching a full day of classes. We all work too hard at this camp.
I’m trying not to complain, because I’m at camp, and I love this place. But I’m exhausted. This is the ninth straight day that we’ve had classes, and I don’t know how we’ve made it through. Part of me would like to go home right now--for my warm bed, my music playing, and the sunlight coming through the living-room windows. But I also know that as soon as I return home, I’ll miss this place. I’ll wish that I was sitting on the second floor of this library, Maya’s feet propped up on the orange upholstery chair where mine are resting. All the children writing away, just because I asked them to try.
Reber and I driving by the dock full of people, waiting to leave for Berry Island, waving hello, then deciding we had time to drive to the P-bar to pick up more wine, so peeling out of the parking lot. Laughing.
On the boat headed toward Berry Island, away from Sitka, away from classes after nine straight days of teaching. Away from the alarm sounds (boop, boop, BEEEEPP) of the patients calling out for help in the nursing home. Away from it all. Through the dark grey water, threading through the dark green trees and islands, the breeze on my face, the wind roaring in my ears. My mind felt quiet.
The green amazed me, as always. But after a few moments of meandering among the tables laden with beautiful food, and talking with people, I headed over to the far cabin by myself. I wanted the hot tub. No one else was there. I peeled back the first half of the hot tub cover with a thump, then stripped off my clothes and slipped in. Eagles flew overhead, their wings unfurled, floating slowly above me, toward their rest on the other side of the island.
Alon ate a dozen sushi rolls in a row with enormous gusto and no sense of shame. Good for him.
Ravenswood wine. Foot rubs in the hot tub. Laughter always in the air.
We heard their excited cries as they came up for air. And then we all laughed as we watched these two naked men swim out for the other shore. On red head and one dark head. We all waved and laughed, shouting, “You’re crazy!” And they clambered up the rocks, glorious, and thrust their fists into the air, in a triumphal yawp of a moment.
Neck rubs on the cabin floor, in the middle of Roger telling the kayaking story. Smoked salmon. Rhubarb cake. Dawn watersking with elan. Pablo trying hard to stay up. Twirling Kiran above the green, green grass, in spite of my tender back. And as we pulled away from the dock, a burst of fireworks in the sky.
The sound of Jessica and Gary and Lynne laughing in the faculty lounge, wafting down the hall. Kristin coming home late from Minneapolis. And in spite of my tired mind, I can’t help but call out, “Come sit on my bed and tell me stories!” She does.
Dancing to the big band concert, at the feet of all our musician friends, felt like joy in physical form. Everything easy.
Alon in a yellow shirt, red fez, and bare feet, lumbering across the stage to the piano. Roblin, nimble and lithe, doing frenzied jumping jacks as the music sped up, faster and faster. And my laugh left my body in waves of joy, louder and louder, watching the two of them play together.
And by the way, if you haven’t bought a copy of Mary Fettig’s cd yet, you’re just dumb. That woman rocks.
Jessica’s kids in that searing play, the one that made me gasp out loud as it ended. Beverly’s mask kids, one of them holding up the sign, “GASP!” Roblin’s clown kids, cavorting in full extensions of themselves.
The last number of the last concert of camp. The jazz band playing a cha-cha Summertime, everyone taking a turn, almost everyone in the room up and dancing in the aisles. All that life and energy, fulminating, the exuberance of the last two weeks expressing itself in jumping up and down. Wide smiles. Sweaty faces. And people holding each other, close, sweetly, knowing that it’s all just about to end.
All of us gathered at Ludvig’s, the last night, the happiness filling the room. Roblin tries to take good pictures on Kristin’s camera, but Reber keeps closing his eyes. One last try. Roblin laughs so hard--eyes shut again--that he falters back in his chair. Then kicks out at the table to catch himself. And knocks over the almost-full bottle of wine, which spills all over the table, then all over Reber. I laugh so hard that I dive headfirst into the kitchen. Let this be a lesson to us all. Keep your eyes open!
One last, lingering coffee at the Back Door. A sad trip to the airport, then the plane lifts away. And I’m gone.
So that's camp.
I've been thinking of this phrase often, these days. "The readiness is all." (Shakespeare, of course) It feels as though I am readying myself for something, clearing away layers of habits and langugage that I no longer need. This time in Alaska felt more profound and loving with each passing day. So I don’t know everything that this time in Sitka has taught me. I just know that it is profound and loving, once again. And it will take me the rest of the year to know it fully.
And I have all of you to thank for it. In spite of what was said, in haste, at that last, strange faculty meeting, there will never be another Mark. There will never be another Julie or Kevin or Amy or Hannah or Bob or Laura or Scott or Jamie or Mike or Charles either. There will never be another group of people like this. Thank you for being there, all of you.
See you next year.
I’m tired almost beyond recognition, but I still have to write a few words, since it’s my first night in Sitka. I love this place so much that there really aren’t any words. Walking around downtown, being in the Back Door, landing among those green-brown dots of islands amidst the water--it all feels like home. This place has become so much a part of me that I cannot find the words. But of course, I’m still going to search.
Staying in the nursing home, the windows overlooking downtown Sitka. Korb and I are sharing a bathroom. This is going to be trouble. We’re not going to get any sleep for the talking.
At dinner the first night, I felt this wave of melancholy go over me as people began introducing themselves. I didn’t feel alienated. Quite the opposite. I felt enlivened and loved, as we all talked about the love we feel for this place and each other. Instead, I felt the pain in my shoulders and neck anew. Looking out at the blue-grey mountains, I could remember the way I felt in my body this time last year. I felt good. I felt exuberant. I felt unscathed. No more. I don’t have my usual energy. I have had such a hard time. And here I was, at this dinner with people I love, and I had to leave early. Last year, I had all this crazy, bounding energy. I felt alive and shrieking much of the time. Now, I feel quieter. More at ease, certainly. But not able to open my jaws so wide to smile. And I can’t quite capture that back
All the faculty seated in a wide semi-circle of chairs, in front of the students sprawled out on the floor. And as each one of us stood up to talk (to say our names, and where we’re from, and any camp story we have), I fell in love with the camp all over again. There are plenty of creaky places here--staying in the nursing home is not much fun--but nothing will stop me from enjoying this place. Especially now that classes have begun. And so, we defined ourselves, and the experience of the kids, by talking in exultant tones of love.
I can see this time, having been here twice before, how much we create our own experience. In the first meetings and dinners, we comment on how much we love it, those of us who have been here before. And in doing so, we set the tone for what the camp might be like for everyone else. Now, two days in, we’re already confirming what we thought that first night. And every time we do, we just build that sense of goodness more and more. By the end of the two weeks, it will be a frenzy of love and admiration. And we’ll leave, exhausted, and ready to re-create the place again next year. It’s amazing how much we choose our own moods.
Early morning at the nursing home, the attendants talking loudly at 5:30 in the morning. There will be no sleep in this place. So instead of fighting it, I open my door to the hallway and walk toward the babbling, happy noise. “Kiran!” I squeal, and run toward her to pick her up for a hug. Muesli and coffee for breakfast. Yoga stretches. Talking with Jessica, again and again, as I straighten my hair, and we debrief on the day before, anticipate the day to come.
Back in Sitka, and I’m in love again. Already, this fiction class moves me, and we’re laughing. There’s nothing like being with a bunch of new kids, their faces already familiar after a few moments, and knowing that they will soon be burned indelibly into my brain. 19 students in my fiction class, all of us gathered around three round tables placed together in the upstairs of the library. Every one of them participates. They are all telling stories, listening to each other, laughing, and writing. They're filled with enthusiasms, snorting when they laugh, funny as hell, and the most generous kids I've ever taught. Here it is, summer vacation, and they're all writing, every day.
Drew is 18, and blind. His eyes are peeled back in his head, pale pink and opaque. He’s filled with confidence, all the same, but he’s clearly lonely in there. He likes to interrupt all the time.He wants to make a connection with whatever anyone is saying. He’s not socialized. But he will be soon. That’s what this camp is about, after all. Alison and Kristina and Jessica and Maya and Acacia are back from last year, but most of them are new. We share the same space, creating a community of writers, disparate people bound by the compulsion to put words on the page. What that is, I still don’t know. But what I’m going to share with these kids, which I have learned fully this year: writing is a way to be utterly alone, in my own experience without outside influence, but still deeply connected to other human beings. I’m sure it’s the same with all the arts. In this way, it’s the perfect metaphor for being alive. It’s about reaching deep inside for something you know is there but can’t name yet. And then bringing it out into the light and watching other people’s faces light up at the sight of it. Because they recognize themselves in the image you have just created. And in seeing the look on their faces, you see it yourself.
There’s nothing like it.
I’m still moved to tears every time I hear a new group of kids talking about why they love to write. My role as teacher drops away, and I’m simply one of them. And in a way, I’m like a kid who has been lonely all her life finally finding friends. Finally, some people who think like I do, who understand the way my mind moves. It no longer matters that they are infinitely younger than I am, or that I’m supposed to be in charge. They are merely beings, and I am one of them, together. I love this gig.
Finn, my curly-haired, sweet-as-honey, favorite student (except for Maya, who is in her own category), who writes like a dream, produces his own radio show in Sitka, listens to everyone around him, gives hugs liberally, and laughs with his entire body? Finn's in my fiction class. On the first day of classes, I asked everyone to talk about why they write. Do you know what Finn said? "I write because it reminds me. It reminds me that even though there is violence and sadness in the world, nine times out of ten I think that the beauty of the world is more potent." He's 15. Everyone else in the class around him nodded.
I adore the other members of the faculty. They are some of my dearest, deepest friends in the world, and I only see most of them these two weeks out of the year. So these weeks are like a connection extravaganza--every conversation goofy and meaningful, loving and alive. I’m so glad Jara is back this year. I’ve missed her caustic kindness. And Christi? What did I do without Christi last year? We eat bad cafeteria food together, and complain about the lack of vegetables, mildly. This year, we're staying on the top floor of Sitka's nursing home. Don't ask. It's weird. There are beeping alarms and old women in wheelchairs with blue bows in their hair and heart monitors attached to the wall alongside our beds. But we have the entire third floor, and every time I open my door, I see someone with whom I want to talk, someone whom I hug. About forty-five hugs a day. Every evening, we gather at the ArtShare, in which someone, or several someones, presents his or her art. It's astonishing. And it always makes me want to work.
I love looking out the window and seeing all the masts of sailing ships in the harbor, bunched together in front of Mount Edgecumbe. And the blue, blue sky outside, on this glorious, unusual day.
Aren’t they all unusual?
Hot today. A little muggy. I ran all the way back to town, when I had nearly reached campus, because I suddenly remembered that I had left my wallet on the little shelf beneath the pay phone, outside the outdoor clothing store. I panicked, because I have all the cash from the faculty for the bonfire tonight, all of it tucked in there. Ack! And of course, I can only run so far. But when I finally reached the foyer, panting, I found it lying there, with a newspaper I had been reading. Not only that, but tourists were swarming the area, and no one had lifted it. So I love humanity again.
That view from Reber’s beach is truly one of the most, if not the most, beautiful sights I have ever seen. Green water, made deeper green when the sun hits it right. Dark fir trees topping little islands. We pointed out sunlight streaking the green water, eagles on wooden poles, shafts of light among the trees, pointed them out to each other. And there were bald eagles and black birds calling outside the window, diving down to the water and soaring up on widespread wings. The eagles, when they land, keep their wings tufted up until they balance in the top of the tree, then let their feathers settle softly. A snow-covered mountain out his living room window. It just moves me to tears.
Vastness.
And on top of that, add bonfires, back rubs, smores, and roasted bananas.
Could there be anything more beautiful?
God, I love my job. This is an endless well of happiness. Kristin and I were talking about this at lunch, over bad food and too-sweet cake--how creative teaching is. When you move away from the rote expectations, you trust the process. Have a rough outline, and then let the moments determine themselves.
Goddamn it, Reber beat me at Scrabble again. I claim bad back pain as a distraction. Rematch next year.
A kid named Marley told a hilarious story about his hippy mom picking up a hitchhiker, and somehow connecting it to a local man who had cremated his wife. “He turned her ashes into these wacky beads. He put one on top of a mountain. He wanted to put one down the throat of a lion, one down the throat of a baboon. And he gave one to me.” He’s a natural. He had us all rapt and laughing. And for a twelve-year-old kid, that’s pretty great.
Dancers flashing across the stage in a tumult of energy and listening to each other.
Life moves too fast. I can’t keep up with it. I have one wonderful conversation after another with people I love here, new students who have bloomed in my mind, and there are only twenty or thirty minutes a day to write it all down. I have to let it go.
We’re all exhausted. No one is sleeping more than five or six hours a night, which is terrible for the health. The past few days, and yesterday in particular, I was exhausted. I walked around campus in a daze yesterday, utterly spent, punch-drunk, but more creative for it in my teaching. And I keep falling asleep now--my body just can’t take it anymore. I’ve been running it into the ground. The food is always lousy here, so I’m not complaining, but little to no vegetables or healthy food plays its part as well....
A grey day, finally. The fog has rolled in, and I’m happier. Sitka feels more real with the clouds above my head.
Oh my god, the steak at Ludvig’s--with the creme fraiche and dungeness crab slathered on top--is beyond compare. Of course, the two bottles of wine probably helped too.
Mary won the Scrabble game tonight. And she feigned beginner’s luck....
Laura tirelessly tugging at the heavy screen onstage at Centennial every night. I’m glad the kids roar their approval for her, because she’s working hard. And Simon! My god, poor Simon. And Reber taking pictures every night, after teaching a full day of classes. We all work too hard at this camp.
I’m trying not to complain, because I’m at camp, and I love this place. But I’m exhausted. This is the ninth straight day that we’ve had classes, and I don’t know how we’ve made it through. Part of me would like to go home right now--for my warm bed, my music playing, and the sunlight coming through the living-room windows. But I also know that as soon as I return home, I’ll miss this place. I’ll wish that I was sitting on the second floor of this library, Maya’s feet propped up on the orange upholstery chair where mine are resting. All the children writing away, just because I asked them to try.
Reber and I driving by the dock full of people, waiting to leave for Berry Island, waving hello, then deciding we had time to drive to the P-bar to pick up more wine, so peeling out of the parking lot. Laughing.
On the boat headed toward Berry Island, away from Sitka, away from classes after nine straight days of teaching. Away from the alarm sounds (boop, boop, BEEEEPP) of the patients calling out for help in the nursing home. Away from it all. Through the dark grey water, threading through the dark green trees and islands, the breeze on my face, the wind roaring in my ears. My mind felt quiet.
The green amazed me, as always. But after a few moments of meandering among the tables laden with beautiful food, and talking with people, I headed over to the far cabin by myself. I wanted the hot tub. No one else was there. I peeled back the first half of the hot tub cover with a thump, then stripped off my clothes and slipped in. Eagles flew overhead, their wings unfurled, floating slowly above me, toward their rest on the other side of the island.
Alon ate a dozen sushi rolls in a row with enormous gusto and no sense of shame. Good for him.
Ravenswood wine. Foot rubs in the hot tub. Laughter always in the air.
We heard their excited cries as they came up for air. And then we all laughed as we watched these two naked men swim out for the other shore. On red head and one dark head. We all waved and laughed, shouting, “You’re crazy!” And they clambered up the rocks, glorious, and thrust their fists into the air, in a triumphal yawp of a moment.
Neck rubs on the cabin floor, in the middle of Roger telling the kayaking story. Smoked salmon. Rhubarb cake. Dawn watersking with elan. Pablo trying hard to stay up. Twirling Kiran above the green, green grass, in spite of my tender back. And as we pulled away from the dock, a burst of fireworks in the sky.
The sound of Jessica and Gary and Lynne laughing in the faculty lounge, wafting down the hall. Kristin coming home late from Minneapolis. And in spite of my tired mind, I can’t help but call out, “Come sit on my bed and tell me stories!” She does.
Dancing to the big band concert, at the feet of all our musician friends, felt like joy in physical form. Everything easy.
Alon in a yellow shirt, red fez, and bare feet, lumbering across the stage to the piano. Roblin, nimble and lithe, doing frenzied jumping jacks as the music sped up, faster and faster. And my laugh left my body in waves of joy, louder and louder, watching the two of them play together.
And by the way, if you haven’t bought a copy of Mary Fettig’s cd yet, you’re just dumb. That woman rocks.
Jessica’s kids in that searing play, the one that made me gasp out loud as it ended. Beverly’s mask kids, one of them holding up the sign, “GASP!” Roblin’s clown kids, cavorting in full extensions of themselves.
The last number of the last concert of camp. The jazz band playing a cha-cha Summertime, everyone taking a turn, almost everyone in the room up and dancing in the aisles. All that life and energy, fulminating, the exuberance of the last two weeks expressing itself in jumping up and down. Wide smiles. Sweaty faces. And people holding each other, close, sweetly, knowing that it’s all just about to end.
All of us gathered at Ludvig’s, the last night, the happiness filling the room. Roblin tries to take good pictures on Kristin’s camera, but Reber keeps closing his eyes. One last try. Roblin laughs so hard--eyes shut again--that he falters back in his chair. Then kicks out at the table to catch himself. And knocks over the almost-full bottle of wine, which spills all over the table, then all over Reber. I laugh so hard that I dive headfirst into the kitchen. Let this be a lesson to us all. Keep your eyes open!
One last, lingering coffee at the Back Door. A sad trip to the airport, then the plane lifts away. And I’m gone.
So that's camp.
I've been thinking of this phrase often, these days. "The readiness is all." (Shakespeare, of course) It feels as though I am readying myself for something, clearing away layers of habits and langugage that I no longer need. This time in Alaska felt more profound and loving with each passing day. So I don’t know everything that this time in Sitka has taught me. I just know that it is profound and loving, once again. And it will take me the rest of the year to know it fully.
And I have all of you to thank for it. In spite of what was said, in haste, at that last, strange faculty meeting, there will never be another Mark. There will never be another Julie or Kevin or Amy or Hannah or Bob or Laura or Scott or Jamie or Mike or Charles either. There will never be another group of people like this. Thank you for being there, all of you.
See you next year.
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