A spark, a light
On campfires burning in the dark of night
A few years ago at this time of year, though it hardly seems possible that it was actually years ago, I was at Mindcamp, a special creativity-focused camp. I cherished those five days at the end of August when I got to retreat to the magical YMCA grounds near Orillia, Ontario. The gathering took place on a peninsula of peace and quiet filled with water, tranquility, delicious food, workshops and activities, and a bonfire and guitar sing-along every evening.
I attended alone in 2017, and with Daughter in 2018 and 2019. That first year, while I was sitting on a rather uncomfortable log around the campfire belting out songs with at least 15 other people I’d only just met, I realized that there was an even wilder force at work. In the distance, shadows darted and hooted and hollered. Wild laughter caught on the wind and echoed through the trees. And every once in a while, a bedraggled and sweaty child would find its way to the light of the fire and the lap of a parent, to be carried off to bed.
This scene repeated each night. The Mindcamp kids were playing hide-and-seek in the dark, from after supper until whenever they fell over from exhaustion or their parents corralled them into bed. Watching that scene convinced me to sacrifice my much needed escape from parenting and to bring Daughter with me. I wanted to see her running like a banshee through the trees, to give her that unique experience of freedom and abandon.
Neither of us expected that 2019 would be our last year. But covid happened, and everything shut down, for far longer than we thought possible. There was a feeble attempt to move some connections online, but that petered out. In 2020, the organizers tried to pull together a virtual event, and in 2021, they hosted a limited in-person gathering at a different location, which had very little appeal for me — and at any rate I was out of the country, unwilling to return.
I used to think of the people of Mindcamp as “my tribe” (I don’t care if anyone considers it politically incorrect). I felt a real kinship and excitement about the ideas and the work of the people who congregated there. I was impressed and awed by their perspective and passion, by their ability to step outside of convention and to think and live differently. The events of the last 2.5 years have managed to cleave even that.
That last year, 2019, the attendees were divvied up on the first day into groups of roughly six people. We were given discussion prompts, and time was scheduled just before supper each day to regroup and talk about our experiences and the sessions we attended. I thought this was silly and contrived, and at first I didn’t particularly like my group-mates. I was a terribly reluctant participant, and would have much preferred to go lie on the dock and be lulled by the waves.
But we broke the ice, and I got over myself. As I loosened up, I began to appreciate my group-mates and their quirks. We laughed a fair bit, we compared notes, and after the second day, we stopped using the discussion prompts all together.
I took away a few important things from those group talks:
People aren’t always what they seem to be at first blush. I had judged them quickly and unfairly, as perhaps they did me. By the end, I was sad to see them go.
Trees communicate with each other! They have a secret and fascinating co-dependence with mycelia that just blows my mind.
Chopping up a collection of poems line by line and then reading the lines out in random order is great fun.
Some people like matcha tea far more than I can comprehend.
We all have our reasons for being where we are. Listening to other peoples’ reasons can help you better understand your own.
I am easily motion sick and a little afraid of sailing, but I also love the water. My favorite place at Mindcamp was the dock. I would spread out my towel on the hot wood slats, lie down, and attempt to doze off, though usually my brain was too abuzz for that.
The lake water was often surprisingly choppy, slapping against the undersides, rocking the docks, and causing a clanking and creaking racket. But the sun was warm, and the wind cool. The hoots and hollers of kids filtered in as background noise behind the ruckus of the docks. There was never enough time to really soak it in, but these are some of my most peaceful memories.
In 2020, when the organizers announced that Mindcamp would not take place, I felt I was being deprived of life sustenance, of air, of the essentials. I could make it through the year only if I got my five days of Mindcamp! But alas, it was not to be. August went by and left a little Mindcamp-shaped void in my heart. I thought, OK, next year, we’ll be back.
I wish I still felt such a strong desire to be there. I still feel a deep attachment to the location — its place in the world and in time — but more than that, I’m attached to the context: several days of carefree existence in a beautiful, secluded environment without interference from obligations or world events. Nothing remains untouched, it seems.
At Mindcamp, there was always a maze — several lengths of string and fairy lights laid out on the ground, creating a narrow path that repeatedly doubled back on itself, weaving its way into the center of the circle and back out. It was common enough, at any time of day, to see someone taking slow, measured steps through the maze, lost in thought, sometimes with eyes closed.
I wonder if I have lost the ability to immerse myself in the moment and abandon the outside world the way I once did. Has reality become too much a part of my psyche to ignore it, even temporarily? Am I stuck with this stark perception, unable to shake it off even for a few days?
Might there be another solution? Perhaps rather than briefly retreating into a time-and-space bubble, it would be wiser to stride out boldly and build a reality from which escape is neither needed nor desirable? Lehet. It’s possible.
And then I wonder, isn’t that also what we were doing? Walking the walk? Bringing a different kind of reality into being. Lehet. It’s possible.
Perhaps, that is also what Mindcamp was about: a chance to gather with kindred spirits, to bring something wonderful and creative and energizing into the world, and to replenish our creative stores before carrying those ideas and sparks of inspiration with us back into the day-to-day world. Mindcamp was like taking a dip in a cool pool on a hot day, and while the refreshing feeling lingered like glistening droplets on skin, turning to tell the person next to you, “You should take a dip. The water’s nice.”
Lehet. It’s possible.
Kindred spirits. A sense of peace and ease, unlikely and uncommon connections. The ability to lose yourself in the shadows of something larger. The light that brings you back into the fold, into the warmth of harmony and company.
It’s possible to share your joy expansively, bravely, and to see where that takes you. It’s possible that when you follow new paths, your world will change. Soon enough, you will be shrouded by the past, gazing out at an entirely new and foreign vista, wondering how you got there and how much farther you can possibly go.
Maybe you will camp for a night or five. Maybe you will keep pressing on. But you will go into the possible — whatever that turns out to be — into the unknown future, into the dream.
Goosebumpy tingles. I wish I had had the opportunity to share this with you! But now, we're both on to other adventures with their own promises of escapism.
Thanks, Daughter,
I love you. xoxoxo