THE CIRCLE GAME

Yesterday a child came out to wonder. Caught a dragonfly inside a jar.

Fearful when the sky was full of thunder, And tearful at the falling of a star

Then the child moved ten times round the seasons, Skated over ten clear frozen streams

Words like, when you’re older, must appease him, and promises of someday make his dreams.

And the seasons they go round and round, and the painted ponies go up and down

We’re captive on the carousel of time. We can’t return we can only look behind

From where we came, and go round and round and round on the circle game.

We sang with arms intertwined, mesmerized by the campfire flames, childish voices rising with smoke as our pleas.  Memorized words encapsulating a grief that we didn’t recognize.  I loved the song.  “The Circle Game” meant summer camp, guitars and campfires, smoky t-shirts and hands to hold.  And yet, I sang without comprehension, absent of a panic that set in years later.

“We can’t return, we can only look behind from where we came, and go round and round and round in the circle game.”

But as I read the lyrics today, I search for the missing verse.  The lines that detail getting off of the merry-go-round, an escape from repeated lessons and circular living.  I picture the slow spinning and realize that I could stand here forever, and watch the same pink pony return again and again.  The ride does return, doomed to revisit the same path eternally.  I understand the message, and the mourning of spent childhoods, passed adolescence, and approaching gray hairs.  I understand the theme of wishing for a pause button, and how seasons seem to accelerate the older I get.

 But the ride has lost its thrill; after so many circles, I’m ready to try something new.  No longer content to simply wave at beauty and watch the world pass me by, I itch for new lessons, new adventure, and new scenery.  I could sit upon my pony, passively toeing the line, but it seems there are better things ahead.  I’d rather not miss the swing ride, the log flume, or the sticky cotton candy as the side dish for the magician’s act. 

I know I can’t go home again.  I realize that years pass by and it’s shockingly easy to wake up having missed the past decade.  I have learned the same lessons over and over, my stubbornness tripping over my future as I trace the familiar walls of the same hole.  But it’s time to move on.  My painted pony is getting uncomfortable, as I stay rooted on its dizzying spin.

 It’s time for new dreams.  It’s time to wave goodbye at history and mourn lost chances.  It’s time to make peace with old doubts and leave behind healed scars.  It’s time to appreciate the simplicity of the merry-go-round as I head off to new risks, new opportunities, and new chances, learning new tunes as I walk. 

The melody still moves me, wistful for old friends and childhood laughter.  I still pause, aching as my pony returns again and loved ones have walked on, tired of the same scene for decades.  I might miss my familiar ride, and the gently safety of its routine. 

But I’m done being captive.  The seasons will go round and round regardless.  It’s time to stop merely “looking back from where we came”.  It’s time for new horizons. 

Bears and Bugs and Sexy Campfires, Oh My!

Camp Vegas: www.visitlasvegas.com
 “Do you remember those summer camp days of your childhood?”  Yes! “Well then come to camp Vegas for sexy campfires and…”  Wait, what? No,no,no! Not summer camp! Don’t scribble over blissful memories and sweet innocence! It’s summer camp! Stop talking! But leave it to Las Vegas to take nostalgia and warp it into a scandal, leaving the details at the curb lest they follow you home. 

Despite the disturbing radio ad, I choose to maintain my scrapbooks stuffed with laughter and mosquito bites.  Sleep-away camp summers are my gold standard; experiences encapsulated in bubble wrap and polished in the light of adult comparisons. Camp was the place where I found my footing, and triumphed in the art of lanyards and spontaneity.  I cleared my throat when I boarded the bus and learned the language of childhood.  I swapped folded creases for cut-off shorts and studied the craft of sneaking out amidst pine trees to rendezvous for romance.  As a girl who felt one notch below in school, one season too late with peers, I found my place card at camp.  I learned to care less about dirt under my nails and more about how to tie the knot and avoid the boom. I packed rules and order under my bunk bed and set about living with glee, grabbing hands of friends, and showered in the lake. I was willing to bide my time the other 335 days until I could once again fold stationary beside ‘Bottner’ labeled underwear and don my camper title. 

Those summer days symbolized my dawn; lessons on waking up and finding space for silliness. Living on minimal sleep and a diet of peanut butter and jelly, we whispered forever vows and carved our dreams into wooden walls.  Camp was the ultimate destination, the place to be a kid, to play without consequences, to sing without blushing. I opened my eyes, shedding my controlled routine and studious manner.  I leapt out of my tidy box and stretched my definitions of the person I could be. 

I found friends who loved without judgment, walking in a row of 6, arms linked and pinky-sworn promises.  We dressed in black and raced down hills after midnight, aiming for stolen ice cream sandwiches and illegal moonlight swims. We wrote songs for campfires and awarded medals to those who first lost their voice during Color Wars. We became the ‘Oldest Campers’ and hence, self-appointed rulers of the fields.  We organized casino night, debated outfits for the inter-camp dance, and plotted pranks, just to prove we could. We walked with confidence, flip-flops marking our territory, as we staked our claim to Best Friends Forever, Cedar Cabin, 1995.

I wasn’t the perfect camper at age 10. My first summer at Camp Pearlstein was muddied with homesickness,

“Dear Mom and Dad, Please please come pick me up.  I really really really want to come home.  I'm not having a good time at all here.  Today we had arts and crafts and it was really fun.  I made lots of friends in my cabin and tonight we’re making smores! Please come pick me up. I hate it here.”

I skipped during the day only to lose my footing at nightfall, darkness calling up the panicked fears of abandonment.  But slowly, I learned the blessing of camp and how to grow into a camper…

“Dear Mom and Dad, 

I really really miss you and want to come home. Maybe don’t pick me up today, but can you come tomorrow…”

Until day 18…

“Hi mom! They let me call you to ask if I could stay another 3 weeks for second session…”

There was no second session that summer, but a camper was born, and for the next five years, I lived a constant count down – 67 more days until camp, 66, 65…

But the magic of camp isn’t in the details.  It’s not the water-skiing or pottery classes, not the rickety cots or murky lake.  Camp can’t be seen in the cabin pictures or wrinkled t-shirts, the bleary-eyed counselors or rainy day board games.  Camp is more than the life vests and campfire songs.  The magic of summer camp is in the wide-angle lens.  The picture in retrospect, a vision of silly freedom lacking obligatory lines.  Summer camp is a bubble of glory, days requiring only singing until you’re hoarse, striving for laughter-induced stomach aches, and reaching out to find a hand as the sun sets.  Summer camp is a glimpse of safety, a pocket of connection, and an envelope sealed with the joy of being real. 

I hike with nostalgia through my camp scrapbooks, remembering names and escapades, cabin numbers and melodies mixed with smoke.  I can’t peruse the memories without smiling, always wistful for those summer camp months, grateful for the sip of carefree smiles. 

Maybe camp Vegas offers adults this same joy.  Maybe they lead song sessions and sleep in saggy bunk beds.  Maybe there are marshmallows and face-painting, mail calls and summer romances.  I doubt it.  But I hope so. 

I hope that summer camp isn’t just a warm memory.  I hope that the magic seeps into adulthood, weaving laughter and hoarse voices into grown-up days.  I hope that the six girls with confidence and laughter in my photographs re-emerge, discovered in new connections and fresh adventure. I dig out my camp place card and post it on my fridge in the hopes of spreading a little magic into upcoming summer months.  I post it as a reminder to seek joy and settle on freedom.  And I smile as I think of camp and remember to cherish the silly and claim my seat in life. 

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