July 12, 2005

Camp is as excellent as ever. Long sunny days interspersed with tremendous thunderstorms, intensely intelligent and imaginative kids, endless activities and opportunities, admirable staff, and really weird bugs.

I am overcommitted, constantly running from one studio to the next, always feeling a bit behind. But I thrive on motion and commotion. Busyness centers me. I never feel more like myself than when I hold a writing workshop and then trek off to the Clown Shop for improv class or a sketch rehearsal. I never feel more real than when I dine on camp fare before running off to an a cappella practice, and then an evening of pottery or painting.

I like this place.

I am currently sitting in the vegetable farm, watching kids bent over their notebooks, scribbling away. They squeak when a cricket hops onto their paper, and stop to chew on the ends of their pens. In this field there is an old wooden building, listing to one side, and a chair sitting alone out on the grass. There is a decrepit and abandoned arbor, a bonfire pit, and the green green green of trees leaning over the field. If we are still, the groundhogs poke their heads out from under the woodpile, fat little things, comical as anything.

Far away is the calling of children, laughing by the pool, the tink of a softball on a metal bat, the crow of a rooster. There is the sound of pages turning, of bare feet padding across the grass, of purple finches, and rustling leaves. This is a sacred place, a place of buzzing and chirping and birdsong. This verdant pasture has a soundtrack of quiet intensity.

Last night the Eloise gave birth to triplets, fuzzy little goatlings, unsteady on their long legs. I peered inside the barn to say hello just as one of them tripped over his long loppy ears. Eloise pawed the ground but stopped when she saw I would come no closer. Outisde, kids sat at the picnic table, watching the bunnies jump about in front of them. I asked the name of one particularly small and innocent looking bunny and was joyfully told that the bunny's name is Killer. Killer nibbled on clover and looked up at me impassively before flopping down and closing his big eyes.

Now I will head back to the Clown Shop for rehearsal, where we will run around and yell and be silly. And then perhaps unicycling and some juggling, and then out to dinner with Mickey and Laura, the directors of the camp, to plan out details of our wedding next summer. (There will be whiffle ball and a picnic and music and dancing.)

I will try to write more often, though sometimes I'm so busy that it's hard to just stop for a bit. But I know it's worth it, so I'll try.

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