Last day

Sitting on my couch this morning, I can see the leaves have begun to turn. All those yellow leaves were green when I arrived at camp – was that only a few days ago? Already the inevitability of departure is beginning to pull at the hearts of both campers and staff, some of whom are doubly torn because some of their friends are needing to leave early, called by the demands of their other lives.

The musicians are practicing farewell songs for the last evening fire; I hear one say to another, “I hope I can get through this one without breaking down,” and my heart aches for him. One of the craft teachers was missing when class started; her co-teacher found her around the corner consoling a tearful camper. Two of the girls in my pastel class spent their time making farewell cards for their counselors and for their favorite teachers, and when the poetry class headed down to the dock for a farewell row, I decided to go pack instead; it’s almost time to me to go as well.

Summer is winding down, and the days are getting shorter – which means I could be down at the docks before sunrise this morning, and could watch as the sun peeked over the mountains and the fog came rolling in. That's how it happens, year after year: the dark begins to rise, change is in the wind, and though we’re mostly aware of the losses, there are always gains as well.

Still – it was hard to contemplate walking to the dock when I was lying safely tucked between flannel sheets in my chilly room. But the book I’ve been reading, Improv Wisdom, posed these questions yesterday: “What is my purpose now?” and “What would not get done if I were not here?” The answer to both those questions was clearly (in my head at least) “photographing the sunrise,” and so I did. It was, despite the chill, and the early hour, and the steep downhill walk on aging knees, definitely worth the trip (see results on the poetry blog, or at left).