The Decision to be Happy

My summer at Waycross has come to an end. Things came to a close in a series of ups and downs. We held "staffirmations" (affirmations for staff). It's a big step up from my first year's affirmations. Even from last year's. Over and over people said they looked up to me, or that I was an inspiration to them. It touched my heart. And I realized that my relationship with my peers had everything to do with my change in attitude. After my freshman year, I decided to be happier and healthier. Last summer, due to that, my relationships were stronger. I wasn't as afraid to be vulnerable as I had been before. But I didn't really have it all figured out yet. Honest and kind living was new to me. I'd just come down from a tumultuous time. My heart was in repair. And I certainly won't say that I have it all figured out now. Happiness is a skill that needs tuned. I spent the past year spending time with people who lifted me up, doing things I loved, and getting my head on straight. Once summer hit, I pushed myself even further by developing my vegan lifestyle and by exercising. I firmly believe that my relationships with people this summer had everything to do with my intentional happiness. I don't really believe you can be happy while focused entirely on yourself. It's the most selfish people that are the most unhappy. I don't believe you can be happy if you focus on your conditions. What happens to us has little to do with our happiness--it's our ability to bounce back from those events that define our happiness. Once I began to embrace that, life became more exciting, and I genuinely believe I became a more accessible and better friend.

When we'd finished staffirmations, I ran through the rain, carefully holding my papers to my chest so they wouldn't get wet. The Main House was cold and empty. I wasn't prepared to let down enough to cry, but I sat in silence for a while, reading and re-reading what my friends had written about me. I was so overwhelmed. I talked with James a while then we all moved in scattered groups of two or three to the chapel. In a big circle reminiscent of staff training reflections we began our closing. We were supposed to say something we'd learned and would take home with us. I said my belief that people can change. Alex opened up in the most honest way I'd ever seen from him. Ben cried in front of us. Mallory exposed her hidden insecurities. Heather expressed her fear to leave. I'm not sure that we answered the question we were asked, but I think what was said was needed to be said. I hope everyone left a little lighter.

At dinner, Barb made us a feast. She used her mom's recipes and did most of it by herself. She made me a whole vegan tray full of things that probably cost her too much. The kindness nearly brought me to tears. Then James read aloud a letter from one of my camper's mother. She thanked us because he'd said Waycross was the first place he'd really felt at home since they moved. She said he talked about camp until he fell asleep and that he felt a part of something important. Then I cried. There had just been too much.

After that was bowling in clothes from the costume box and sleeping in the New Cabins... but I prefer to remember our dinner together. A labor of love on Barb's part and a moment of communion for us. And writing this now I'm crying again. I'm going to miss the hell out of those people. "Never to be created in precisely the same way again." I'm scared. I don't know what next year will be for me. I don't know if I'll still be a counselor or if I'll move up. I don't know if Sara will be there or who will be director. I've never felt this sense of insecurity regarding my future. It's never felt so immediate to me. I'm going to be a junior. I'm over half-way done with my college career, and all I can think is that I don't want to ever leave summer camp.

I want to get kids muddy, and hold their hands when they're homesick, and sing Love, Love, Love once a week for the rest of my life. My heart is hurting, but it was time for me to come home. I'm happy to be here. I really am. But a part of me will always mourn my second home--my sanctuary. My Waycross.

Love, love, love, love

 The Gospel in a word is love

 Love thy neighbor

 as thy brother

 love

 love

 love

 love, love, love, love

 the gospel in a word is love

 love thy neighbor

 as thy brother

 love

 love

 love

 love, love, love, love

 the gospel in a word is love

love thy neighbor
as thy brother.
Love, love, love.

Bring us Your Kids: I Believe in Summer Camp

I've had camp on the mind lately. I'm so pumped for the summer. I realized last night as I was falling asleep that I have a whole life to live before I can get sick on those familiar winding roads. I'll have finished the other half of this semester. I'll have sung in my concert and danced in the showcase. I'll have been to Paris and Berlin and back. I pictured myself doing all these things and I felt very alone. At ACA Midstates Conference I heard the term "nature deficit disorder" for the first time. I need to slow down. This is traditionally a really hard time of year for me. As some of you will recall, this time last year this blog was formed. I left behind Tbird's Train with all it's secrecy and darkness because I wanted a fresh start. I think thus far I've done significantly better. But this long winter weighs heavy on my soul. So many good things can happen to me before the summer comes, bringing the energy and community of Waycross with it. But I only see these days as an obstacle. Am I excited for the other things? Of course. I cannot wait to see Berlin again and to visit Paris for the first time. I love performing, and I'm excited for my shows. But... my heart is in a hammock strung between two trees outside a little red cabin. So, what can I do about it? I'm just going to have to tie the two together--camp and life.

When I come back from camp, I try to organize my life to look just like camp. Partly I'm holding on with desperate, sweaty fingers to the life I'm leaving behind, but partly I recognize the logic in a camp lifestyle. My bipolar mind requires structure. I need time for excitement and time for reflection. I need time for bonding and time for introspection. I need to get in touch with nature, and to turn off anything that requires a battery for just a while. I need breath. Simple. In. Out. When I come home from camp, I make myself a schedule as detailed, but not as dynamic and colorful as the ones I make for my campers. I hang my whistle by my door on a hook. I see it every time I enter or exit my room. It serves as a reminder. I am accepted--respected somewhere. And I'll be back soon. I want to recreate camp at school. Of course that isn't possible. Camp is a safe place. Someone got raped in the parking lot I always end up stuck in at 2:00 am on a Thursday night. Right? Camp is its own world. But at that conference I had another thought. Camp isn't a vacation. Camp isn't some trip you go on to get away from everything. In essence, you do, but not in the way we traditionally picture vacation. Camp strips away all the shit of everyday life to really give you the freedom to dig deep. Sure, it's fun. But who says self-discovery can't be fun? And if you dig really, really deep you may pull something to the surface. Maybe that something you find can change you on such a basic level, that when you leave that sacred place, you keep that thing--whatever it is.

We do a really incredible thing at camp. We give kids an opportunity unique to a camp setting in which to find themselves. Kids don't go outside anymore. They're far too entertained by what's inside. They're so overstimulated that they have learned to easily escape themselves. We let them push those things they hate within themselves to the very, very back of their minds. I say bring that shit up. Because there is nothing within a child that can make them unlovable. It's our job to show them that.  We teach kids to love themselves. I hate when people say, "how can other people love you if you don't love yourself?" Well. Fuck you, too. Not everyone has their shit together. Most of us don't. But everyone is worthy of love and compassion. That kid that is struggling the most--they're the one that needs love. For some people it just works the other way around. A kid needs to be loved before they know it's okay to love themselves. I will love the shit out of those kids

I will love the shit out of you.

Anyway. Here comes that wrap-up you've grown to know and love: Camp is a big fucking deal to me. And it should be to you too. Sending your kids to camp shouldn't be a matter of "if," but of "how." In an age of immediate satisfaction, depravity of nature, and real anxiety in children, one week of play, of meditation, and of unconditional love is golden and unseen. Bring us your kids. Because I believe that we can make a difference. I've seen it within myself. I've seen it within my campers. I believe in summer camp.

Proof and the Pursuit of Happiness

I was talking to a little girl a few nights ago. (I guess high school isn't so little, but I remember teaching her dance as a much younger, little girl. I'll call her what I want.) She's the product of a very hard life and a lack of those survival skills required to get her needs met. And now she's coming to me to help her. I want to give her Waycross. I want to make her feel important and tell her that she's more than capable to be better than she is right now. I want to give her the world. I want her to change and come to me someday with a degree and whatever else she wants out of life. A wife, kids, a healthy, happy life... whatever it is. I want things to be better for her than they were for her parents. I want her to beat the odds. Her sister, whom I love dearly, has done that. She is a brilliant woman.

But.

It doesn't really matter what I want. It matters what she wants. And she is denying herself the right to want it. The pursuit of happiness, if you will. She's so scared that she won't have all those things, that she's given up. I do have some small hope, however. She contacted me. Why would she call me and tell me all the bad things she's doing if she didn't want me to tell her what to do in order to be better. She didn't text me to tell me she wasn't going to be anything (although that's what she did). She texted me to tell me she wanted help. She just doesn't know how to ask for it. Is this my new project? Is this little girl going to be mine now? Am I going to subject myself to heartbreak if (and when) this doesn't yield immediate results, or work even in the long run? But I feel like I have to try. She's reaching out to me, and I can't shut her down. I just can't. And this is what I want to do with my life. I want to prove to girls like her that it's not wrong to hope. It's possible to be something different. That's the career I'm looking at right now, and I have to get used to that heartbreak. It will come--and in a way I need to prove to myself I'm capable surviving that.

Proof. I need to prove to myself that I can make a good enough argument to prove to the children I love that they are worthy of the pursuit of happiness. Mission statement?

Intervention of the soul.

How do you define success?

So, I got out all my frustration on the subject of Kyle. I was personally offended, and I shouldn't have been. It isn't my life. Our lives have been so thoroughly intertwined for so long that is seems like a personal thing. Of course I think it's a bad decision. The people from whom I'd take advice think so too. Until recently, Kyle would have asked me first. Instead he acted quickly before I could change his mind. These are the facts. And I don't care about the finer details, because oftentimes the closer we look at things, the less of them we see.

1. He was a junior in college and dropped out.
2. He tried to get a job from the time he entered college, never getting a real one that he could hold down. He finally got a job at a gas station near his Terre Haute house. He missed the first day and was fired.
3. He doesn't have a job now. He plans to look for one in Marshall--but the job market is slim, and without an education, there isn't much for him.
4. He is living with his sister's boyfriend in an apartment. Clearly he is not paying rent.
5. He is smoking pot regularly--with money he can't afford to spend; with money he didn't spend on school. He plans on buying his childhood home--which will put him in debt. But he was morally opposed to the debt school put him in. Life is full of debt. It's inescapable.

Perhaps I just measure success differently than he does. Perhaps I see success as getting an education. As getting a job in a field of your study that you're interested in and care about. As making your voice heard. As being a good role model to children. I measure those things that I do at Waycross as success. I measure my current job as success. I measure the hard work I'm putting into this degree as success. And sometimes I get sad. I do. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed I feel like I'll never get out. I do. But I'm smart enough to know that so does everyone else. And we're all in this together. When Shannon had a ton to do last week, I sat with her in the library and entertained myself. And as I study for my big German exam, she is designing her Halloween costume right beside me. German is hard. But when I get those grades back, I'm proud of myself. I work my ass off and I see something for it. That is success to me.

So. Maybe that's just me. I'd say it's most people, honestly. But Kyle isn't most people. He's never going to be. He's more concerned with the way things should be than the way they are. He's gets so lost in his thoughts that he can't see what's in front of them. He is an extremist. He is so opposed to our societal structure that he's just opted out of it. But you can't ever really opt out of it. You still have to pay for your food. You still have to wear clothes when it's cold. You still have to pay for a house.You still have to pay taxes. You still have to pay for the gas to meet those you love (assuming you have a car).

The rules don't change. You can't get out of those things. All you can legitimately opt out of is a job that requires an education. You still have to pay to feed your drug habit. Money has to come from somewhere. Now it will just come from a job that doesn't involve writing, or thinking, or relationships, or art, and will start off at minimum wage. But again. Maybe that's what he wants. Maybe he's okay with getting a fast food job and writing blog posts. If that makes him happy, then so be it. It's just not what I'd expected from him. I saw a different path for him. But it's not my story to write.

There are times that I've wished I could just ditch these rigid structures of school. job. family. house... I understand that feeling. But school is my favorite part of all that. I like the discussions I have in classes. I like what I'm learning. There will be classes I don't like--but you can't always get what you want. I love school. I'd love to live more freely--but I'll make that happen. I'm going to create a kind of happiness and freedom in my life based on those things that I learn on this campus. I'm figuring out with the people here what my options are--how I can turn the things I love into a career. And I can't wait. I can't wait to graduate and find a grad school. I can't wait to figure out what I'm going to do. I can't wait to travel and see the world. ISU is practically PAYING me to do it!

I measure success as trial and triumph. I think in a phrase, that's how I'd describe it. Trial and Triumph. I want to know how y'all define success. Comment me, bitches. :)

Also: These pictures don't have a lot to do with the rest of the post. I know. But they were hysterical, and even a moderate connection was worth sharing them.

On Compassion, Self Love, and Roadkill

The air smells of pleasant decay—the pleasant smell of dying trees. I often say road kill smells good. I get looks. It’s not that I want to bottle it and replace my Chanel, no. I just acknowledge the inevitability of death. I don’t think it’s gross. It doesn’t even make me that sad anymore (although I still hold a soft spot for cats), because that animal meant nothing to me in its life, and it doesn’t mean anything to me in its death. That comes up often in my mind. 9/11 was no exception to my confusion. So, distorted faces and that quickly drawn air held tightly in our lungs comes from… nothing real. Breathe it in. I breathe that body in the same way I take in the smell of drying leaves. Neither could have lived forever, and that would be an exhausting life indeed.

Roadkill

 I have to remind myself constantly that much of what I “hate,” or “dislike,” or “find unattractive,” is culturally instilled and doesn’t much reflect the way I really feel. Culture is inescapable—we are influenced by where we come from and who has ever meant anything to us. That is part of what makes all of us so interesting. There is a culture within my household that can never be replicated anywhere. That’s brilliant. But yet: I find that I’m getting to a point in my life in which the harm of value judgments is becoming apparent. Just as culture is inescapable, so is judgment. But for years I used that as an excuse for being an insecure bitch. (I was pretty normal in that regard.) That insecurity was masked by my ability to focus the attention on someone else; on someone with pants that are too tight, or someone who is awkward, or even someone who is unkind to others. That’s an interesting concept. Two wrongs, eh?

 Judgment isn’t all that inescapable—it’s just really fucking hard. It’s that hard for three reasons, I think. 1) I do it all the time, and it’s hard to catch. 2) I’m mortified at how often I do it. 3) I force myself to consider why I was thinking or saying that—about others or myself.

I’d say number three is the hardest. It’s exhausting to delve into my insecurities all the time. It’s exhausting to figure out where they come from. And more than exhausting it’s painful.

I’m trying really hard. It’s going to make me a better, happier person. Just like deciding road kill doesn’t actually smell that bad and daddy longlegs are acceptable snacks, and that I should not be sad for the loss of someone I don’t know; most of the parts of our world that we think are bad, are not a big deal, and we'd be happier if we stopped hating. I assert that everyone is good. Every single person is good. Everyone does bad things. Sometimes those bad things are unforgiveable—that’s the nature of human relationships: feelings get hurt. But behind those bad things are feelings of inadequacy or pain. You can’t tell me that in a moment of sadness you’ve never lashed out at someone. Sometimes that’s all I ever see of someone. That happens to all of us. We have one interaction with someone, and it was bad—so we assume we don’t like them, right? And it’s not that I pity them. I don’t pity my “enemies.” I just acknowledge their goodness. I’d want someone to do the same for me.

I hate what religion does to people oftentimes. I hate that the goodness of a person is masked by the hate they’ve been taught. And you know what? That is a lot bigger than ignorance. There are things I know nothing about, that I’m ignorant to, but because compassion is already within us, I can be kind to them. Ignorance isn’t the problem—it’s learning the wrong thing. And still. I don’t pity those people. I will still be kind to them, as hard as it is for me. I will be kind to the goodness in them, and as it arises, I will be honest about my distaste for what I know is incorrect in them. Hate is taught.

Lately this has been on my mind. Actually, it’s on my mind all the time, because apparently I am ruthless in there. And I wanted to share it. I know I talk about this a lot in a lot of different ways. But it took a few different takes for me to finally understand what it means to be compassionate. And I’ve made it clear that I believe we all have it in us. Based on your culture of home, it’s harder for some to get there, but I know it’s possible. And compassion towards others and yourself is the only way to learn to love yourself. The only way. I repeat that statement with an emphasis I can’t give you with the written word.

Love the shit out of yourself. Look (really, really hard if necessary) for the good in others. Tell that voice that tells you that you look fat in that dress you love to shut the hell up. Because you know that hearing it from someone else does nothing. You have to believe it yourself. I just talked to Sara about this, which is why I decided to make a post. I think Sara and I are kicking our own asses, and one another’s. Let me know if you want in on the love.

Lord I'm 500 miles from my home.

I'm really sad today. I'm just sad in general right now. I'm thinking about a lot of things--dwelling really. I think I'm getting depressed again. I want to fight it, but I'm getting to that place where fighting it hurts more than living it. All I can do is keep going and keep on top of the things that need done. I'm kind of happy I have Chi Omega right now, because I have a reason to wake up and actually shower and take care of myself. Through recruitment we need to represent Chi Omega well. All I want to do is sleep.

So, apparently I wasn't a rebound. But the fact of the matter is I was too much for him. Right now he needs someone that doesn't need to be taken care of because he needs to take care of himself... whatever. It made me think, though: am I just too messed up for a relationship? I've already cut myself off from boys for a while now. I know how bad they are for me, and I know I was looking, which is never good. Love should come to me, I think. Today James said, "My grandma used to say that we live to find love, we don't love to find life. I think that's what you need." He's so right. And that resonated with me after a little time in the car gave me time to process that. I was looking. But I couldn't help but wonder if I am just too much for someone else to take care of. Am I so difficult that I'm one of those project relationships--will people take me on to try to fix me? Because I know how poorly those turn out. So, after that thought, the first thing I considered was just waiting. Maybe in time I'll have my life better together and I'll be good for someone. But then that disquieting word--maybe--slapped me in the face. What if I'm never better than I am right now? What if my whole life will be this roller coaster of ups and downs? What if when I need medication adjustments I become too much to take? What if I always struggle with self harm? What if I spend my whole life falling in love with people who are scared of me?

I thought of all these things as I was driving away from camp with NPR playing quietly in the background, only to make me feel less alone. I've never known someone with bipolar that had a positive, healthy romantic relationship. Bipolar people are great for some things. They are writers and actors. They're movers and shakers... but they never seem to have love. And that thought scares me. I'm working on being okay alone, which is hard, but I can't help but try to look to the future and hope that I find someone. I can't help but hope that I'll have that camp wedding I always dream of, and that I'll have babies that don't have to have bipolar disorder. I wouldn't wish this feeling on anyone right now.

He wanted me back Friday, after he dumped me Thursday. He told me that he missed me, Madeline Webster, Queen of the Gollywhops. He said I made him believe in love again. He said he'd made a terrible mistake, and he couldn't believe he'd let me go. But Wednesday night... he was with someone else. So I knew those feelings had to have a parallel conflict he didn't want me to see. So, against the calls of my heart, I said no. I said no even though he wanted me to believe that he wanted me. And today, Labor Day, four days later, he again doesn't want me. I see it was a wise decision to hold strong. Because no matter how much he "loves me," he doesn't love me enough to withstand my bipolar disorder. And maybe it's just the place he is in his life--I can accept that. But when love is real, none of that matters. When love is real, you can't imagine your life without someone. When love is real, you don't even consider loving someone else. When love is real, you're willing to take anything thrown your way: distance, stress, mental illness...

So, he dumped me Thursday. I'd planned on meeting his family this weekend, and so I hadn't signed up to work at Waycross for Family Camp. But when it happened, I knew I needed camp. I knew that I needed support, distraction, exercise, and music. So I emailed Eric, and he let me work, but I didn't get paid. I spent a total of $65 dollars in gas to get there and back and make my runs in Brown County. But I didn't even care. I was just so happy to be there. It was so good for me. The thought of Jacob still hurt a lot, but I managed to make it through the weekend with growth and a greater sense of peace. I think it'll take a while to heal now. I'm still very hateful towards him.

I'm maddest because he was the one that wanted to look so far ahead. Somehow that assured me, because he was willing to believe in long term when Drew wouldn't even commit to now. We seemed so good for each other. He promised to love me despite everything I was afraid he'd leave me for; everything I'm still afraid I'll be left for. And after rushing so quickly into things, he dumped me so quickly. I'm mad because even after he played on my emotions trying to get me back, he managed to change his mind so quickly again. I can exist as a fleeting thing. He can want me and not want me three times in the course of a weekend. I was mad because I felt deceived. But I have to catch myself when I'm mad at him for not wanting me. That really isn't fair. In that instance I'm not mad at him. I'm mad at my fear that no one will look far enough past my crazy to love me. Because honestly, at this point I'm not grieving him.

If he doesn't want me, he doesn't. And I have almost entirely retrained my brain to not want him anymore too. I can't even imagine myself ever being desperate enough to make that mistake. But I am grieving the hope I've lost. I think when I was looking, like I'd said before, I was looking for assurance that I was lovable despite my mood swings, and my scars, and my depression... and I thought I'd found that in Jacob. But I was wrong. And that's why it hurt so much. Because the very thing I was looking for in love, was the very reason I lost it.

I'm getting sick. My throat is sore, my head hurts... I'm just miserable really. I'm disgusting and I need a shower. I miss camp. But here I am, back at school, fretting about this homework I need to scan and email, and looking at the mess in my room fearing that I don't have the will to pick it up. It's going to take everything I have to shower and get to the library. I'm listening to Peter Paul & Mary, which is practically my camp soundtrack. 500 Miles just played. And I think it's true. I have no idea how many miles camp is from me right now, but it's too many. And not just camp, but those people who make camp what it is. They're my home too. And it's all so far away that it physically hurts. I feel it in my bones that there is where I belong. And soon I'll return to clear trails, or fix bikes, or work on the new archery field... and I'll find peace again. And maybe someday I'll learn to bring that peace home.

Facebook and Fanny Packs

For sorority recruitment, we all had to deactivate our Facebook pages. Whoah. My whole world feels a little different right now. And I'm really okay with it. I feel a little bit... free? I have to limit my Facebook usage! This feels kind of like camp--like a weight's been lifted from my shoulders.

I ask only that you guys share my posts to Facebook in my absence.

So. Now for the real post.

Katlyn sent me her Vera Bradley fanny pack in the mail today. She is so incredibly generous. You may think it's weird I'm so excited about this. But I think it's one of those camp inside jokes. Except there's not really a joke--it's just something camp people get. BUT IT'S CRAZY EXCITING. I can't wait for an excuse to wear it. I wrote her a thank you card. I've had so much fun with all my letters!

Kisses.

Met an old friend on the street yesterday...

The Value in Letter-Writing

We have a great gift past generations lived without. When I want to talk to my mom, I can call her, and assume that she will answer or call back. Immediate satisfaction. I can have an entire conversation via text message telling all my girlfriends, in a group message, how a date went. They can immediately ask questions, and likewise, I respond immediately with all the juicy details. I use my cell phone all the time to talk to friends and family; to quickly tell them I love them, or relay bad news.

But letters. What happened to letters?

When I pass the computer table, I always peek in hopes of seeing my name printed in pen on an envelope. When I do see my name, I get super excited. My shoulders shoot straight up to my ears, I make silent, happy claps, and I hop from foot to foot. I don’t think I’m the only person that likes letters or cards. Everyone gets a little excited! It takes no real effort to send a text message. It’s become part of our lives. You can do it standing up, sitting down, on a bus, on the toilet, under your desk in class… and we’re so good at it now. I’ve come to expect that a person respond to my text within the next five minutes. But there’s nothing special about that.

Letters are different. You have to sit down with something to write with, and something to write on. You have to correct your own spelling and grammar mistakes. And since you’re there, you feel compelled to say more thoughtful things. In order to fill up that space, you come up with more to talk about. And you don’t just relay those things that happen to you, do you? You talk about the way they made you feel. Sometimes I write a letter and I learn things about myself that I hadn’t taken the time to notice. I don’t believe I can say the same for texting.

And when you start writing, back and forth, back and forth… you start to get excited about your next letter! You’re waiting and you start to anticipate that response. And when it comes you feel somehow relieved that they still care, and that they can still find you. And that response! In that time you’ve thought of so much to tell them! You’ve done so many cool things, and met some strange people…

What about letters? What happened to them?

Just because we have the option of immediate satisfaction, doesn’t mean we can’t still practice patience. It doesn’t mean we can’t stop to make an effort to tell someone how much they mean to us. It doesn’t mean we can’t feel a sense of satisfaction when we read our name on the envelope.

Amanda sent us post cards.

Write me a letter, friends. I promise I’ll write you back.

I think that...

school from k-12 should be more like camp. The classes would be way smaller, or they would rotate early on. The teachers would start with staff training, and they would learn to love one another as family. The teachers should eat lunch with their students--on occasion offering to sit outside at a picnic table. The students should be allowed to chew gum, and stand up while they're doing their homework if that pleases them. The teacher would get to know each student on a personal basis. They would know the names of the child's pets. They would be able to point out a bully early on. They would play with them at recess. Class can be as fun as rock wall climbing, or canoeing... but it isn't to most kids.  They spend seven hours a day there.
But that's in a perfect world.

Me after an all-nighter, writing a paper for Psychology.

Sing a song for the good times that still lie ahead.

I had an excellent last two weeks of camp. I found myself in ways I've never before been able to do. I've felt the shaking body of a sobbing girl in my shoulder--truer tears than I've ever been entrusted with; than I've ever been responsible for catching. The tears from the loss of an uncle to the sensitive words of Michael, Oh Michael. Those words have played the strings of campers' and counselors' hearts for years.

"Some folks look back on a lifetime of yesterdays thinking of what might have been, while others they dwell on the thrill of today; they don't care if they lose or they win."

A fourteen year-old boy who has seen hardships I'll never know held my hand and cried. He said to me, "it doesn't matter that I'm going back to camp Sunday... A camp, Sunday... it isn't Waycross. Waycross is different. I'm not ready to go." And holding back my own tears I said, "I'm not ready either. But we've got next summer, and the next, and the next. That's what matters."

I brought Bri to Waycross. On the way home she said, "This has been the best summer of my life." That's it folks. Waycross has the arms to cradle the hearts of the hundreds who have danced to "will the circle be unbroken!" and swayed to "both sides now." It's a warmth we hold; a power we posses. We are One Body. We each make Waycross what it is: a haven for anyone willing to be vulnerable enough for that body to feel the genuineness in their hearts, to accept them and rejoice in their strengths.

I broke Friday night. I cried and cried. I just broke. During serenades I was useless. I didn't want to sing because I had no voice left anyway. But even more than that, I felt that lump in my throat. I knew that if I tried to make noise, my voice would break, and I would cry, and I wouldn't be able to stop. And that's what happened. I just sobbed. I kept thinking, "I'm just not ready. I can't do it yet." Things at home aren't awesome right now. My family is struggling with the loss of a parent, the metaphorical (and alarmingly possible) loss of my brother, and the intensity of my family's work. At Waycross, I was comfortable with my vulnerability to those matters. But I was safe there. At home things kept happening, but camp kept going--camp was still magic. I'm starting to learn that all those things are really all the same. Those little upsets are all the exact same. I can still live in a bubble, reflecting those painful things back to where they came. I can deal with them on my own time. And happiness is nothing more than a deep breath of sanity away.

Met an old friend on the street yesterday, got to talkin' bout days gone by. The summer camp stories we told made us laugh. But a campfire song made us cry.

Music of the Moment

I just made two playlists. The first is gospel and the second is titled Windows Down, which was designed for nice, long, summer road trips.

Gospel:

1. I'll Fly Away--Alison Krauss
2. What Wondrous Love is This--Blue Highway
3. Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing--Fiddlesticks
4. Me and God--Avett Brothers
5. Po Lazarus--James Carter and the Prisoners
6. I Am Weary (Let Me Rest)-Cox Family
7. Will the Circle Be Unbroken--Mavis Staples
8. Long Time Traveler--The Wailing Jennys
9. Babylon--Don McLean live
10. Down to the River to Pray--Alison Krauss

Windows Down:

1. Black-Eyed Susan--Town Mountain
2. Picture Show--John Prine
3. Blister in the Sun--Violent Femmes
4. Wagon Wheel--Old Crow Medicine Show
5. Half Moon Rising--Yonder Mountain String Band
6. Rocky Top--Osbourne Brothers
7. Home--Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes
8. You Are My Sunshine--Norman Blake
9. Old Plank Road--Guy's All-Star Shoe Band
10. Union Maid--Old Crow Medicine Show
11. Distraction #74--Avett Brothers
12. Let it Rock--Catham County Line
13. Graceland--Paul Simon
14. How Sweet it is (To Be Loved by You)--James Taylor
15. Old Blue--The Byrds
16. Dawg's Rag--David Grisman Quintet
17. Sweet Potato Pie--Ray Charles & James Taylor
18. American Pie--Don McLean

Go purchase (or illegally obtain) these keepers. The order was considered carefully, also. I think you guys might like them, even if folk isn't your thing. These are kind of classics, or may be someday. Let me know how you feel about them. :)

Peace

The hills meet leftist city girls

We lead exciting lives... I think.

So. On Saturday after the campers left, my parents and grandma picked me up. After some time in Nashville, IN, we made our way back to Blueberry Cottage, the legitimate name of the cabin they'd rented out. It was cute enough, but after three weeks sleeping on a cot or on the ground, I was given one of the four couches. Somehow, it was still better though, so I wasn't even ready to start complaining. I also hadn’t slept in air conditioning for a while, and there was some comfort in requesting blankets. Mom spent a lot of time talking about harvesting basil. I spent a lot of time talking about camp; something I've learned will fall on deaf ears. I think we both tuned each other out. No one at home understands Gollywop language and Boogaloo. And I know nothing about gardening. (I need to go water the plants, now that I think about it. Give me a minute…)
Speaking about gardening and growth and such… I took care of a spider for Mom! That’s me, Official badass of the Bush-Markle-Thompson-Webster-Dunahee-Collings family. Need a spider taken care of? Call me and I’ll eat it. I’d drive to Centralia just to eat a spider. My heart swells with pride at the sight of disgusted looks. I’ll eat that spider, but I won’t eat a hamburger. I just realized that. Whatever.
When we settled into Blueberry Cottage, we snuggled into a few of the couches. Jim and Grandma were watching Road House. Jim likes boy movies, and Grandma gets all hot and bothered ‘bout Patrick Swayze. And Mom wouldn’t stop bitching about it. We shot her some looks, because she always gets to watch what she wants. Jim deserves Road House after all the episodes of Project Runway he’s sat through. But Mom kept with the resentful comments like, “I just don’t like all of the senseless violence,” and “this is so predictable… I could write this shit.” That’s her famous line. And I took a long-avoided shower just to escape the nonsense.
When we were all presentable, we tripped our way out the door.  We were all geared up to go to Indianapolis to the Cannoli Queen. Oh, my god it was so good. I suggest you go, especially when you’re having a bad day, because she’s super adorable and hugs your heart with her smile. But just as I got my new ear buds in and started to listen to some Chris Bathgate, there was a whole bunch of honking. Apparently, the car alarm system had been tipped off. It thought we were trying to steal it! I thought the whole thing was hysterical, because when you’re a camp counselor, you learn to laugh at disasters—it makes life a lot nicer thing to live through. And it also kind of reminded me about that scene in Little Miss Sunshine when their car horn keeps going off… that’s my favorite part in the whole movie! It’s such an Irving-esque way to remind you how desperate and ridiculous the whole situation is. But Mom and Grandma started yelling and Jim started shaking his head.
And Grandma was yelling all kinds of panicked orders, and Mom was yelling at her to stop freaking the fuck out… neither got their way. Grandma wanted to call everyone who had ever touched a car in their life, and Mom wanted Grandma to change a major part of her personality… at the ripe age of 72. The two of them were cat fighting. I actually know what that means… because I have cats and they fight. So I’m kind of an expert. And it looked just like that. Mom was saying intentionally hurtful things, and Grandma was taking anxious to a whole new level of irrational. I thought I was going to crawl out of my skin. At least cat fights end quickly. The alarm stopped sounding as we drove, but the blue light by her steering wheel was beating to the time of the music I’d turned up only loud enough to drown out their screeching and hissing. I wanted to smash that little, taunting bulb. It’s a good thing Jim’s the driver.
Meanwhile, empty clouds teased the city with a drop or so. We still have no creek, by the way. L The sound of thunder makes me bitter now. I hear it night after night, and I still live in a creek-free reality. I would growl back at the thunder if I didn’t think the thunder was a honey badger.
I did come out of Nashville with goodies on a way less depressing note! I bought myself some art and earrings from a cute little store called The Purple Fig. And I received Philosophy Body Wash that smells like PINK ICED ANIMAL COOKIES! You wonder, hm? How does this work? And I suggest you take my word for it, because it’s beyond your comprehension. I also got some eye-shadows for every day of the freaking week. Like, they’re titled different days, and the best part is the cute little descriptions that match each color. And then the box they came in. That was pretty cute too. I don’t want to get rid of it. Pencil case perhaps? AND me Mama and Papa got me ear buds with OWLS on them. Try to top the cuteness of that. Just try.
Then I came home and got in a bunch of fights with my parents and cried a bunch. But not before (actually, that’s a figure of speech. We fought before and after) I got to enjoy their new little yummy creation involving home-made pesto, local cheese, and artisan bread. Okay. It has a name. It’s bruschetta. But I’m going to pretend my parents invented it, because somehow that makes it taste better. It tastes like genius.
And because we have really exciting lives, we noted that Baby Kitty had been out for a while and that was worrisome. We wondered if she ate mice out there. We acknowledged that Maybeline is not nearly as glamorous without the fur they shaved off her due to fleas. Grandma brought up a bunch of depressing subjects that we groaned at. “Let’s talk about Darren…” actually Grandma… let’s not. We chatted more about things we found interesting despite the fact the rest of the table didn’t. We at 1111 Vine just like to talk, I think.
Today, Kelsie and I took pictures of ourselves on my webcam. They’re super cute. You can look at them here. Then she left. Then I got a cherry-coke Icee from Burger King with Kyle. We usually go to McDonald’s with Jacob to make fun of Fox News, but somehow without Jacob, it’s just depressing. He’s way better at witty than I am, and I can’t just watch Fox News without getting sick to my stomach. Making light of it is the only way to handle the piles of stupid they feed their viewers. I couldn’t handle that, so I opted for BK.
This post is getting really boring. I’m gonna stop now. I’m sorry if you fell asleep and now you have a bunch of Js and Qs on the Word Document you accidentally opened when your head hit the keyboard. Sorry. But if that didn’t happen… actually I’m still sorry.
Peace