It’s the first summer in years we won’t be at camp, and I have to wonder: Is it really summer without camp?
In Maine, we say we’re going “upta camp”—what flatlanders would call a lake house, cabin or cottage.
Enjoyed by family for four generations, camp is my rock. The place where I embrace the extended step-family who grounded me so many years ago, offering a semi-normal life with a brother, grandparents, aunts, nieces, another mother.
Camp is sunrise on the deck with my brother; tubing behind the jetski; chocolate donuts and Orange Crush; kayaking at sunset. Camp is where I snuck out as a teen to meet the boys. And it’s where I unwittingly began writing morning pages two years ago.
At camp, we undock our worries and let them drift away.
Camp is a state of mind.