There are two types of families: Those who go camping and those who know better.
Oh, I jest. But the family I was born into was one that placed a high value on modern marvels such as electricity and running water, so we only went camping one time during my childhood, or at least that I haven’t blocked out. We slept in an actual tent on actual ground, and the biggest adventure we experienced was coming back to our tent after a swim to find a raccoon eating through our Tupperware container in order to consume the potato chips that resided inside. I think the raccoon won.
Maybe that’s why we never camped again.
Lately, it feels like I am camping out in a strange landscape, and I am still not a good camper. I wake up after a restful three hours of sleep and, just for a moment, forget this new world we all are living in. I forget that it feels like we are playing out scenes from every apocalyptic movie my kids have forced me to watch. I forget that there are so many “what ifs” floating through the air, ready to land and blossom into a frightening flower I’ve never seen before.
I simultaneously want to read all of the things about the pandemic, constantly refreshing my phone for the latest updates and yet escape into the brain bend that is “Tiger King.”
I want to be with my people, watching movies and eating snacks and enjoying time together, and yet I also want TO BE LEFT ALONE FOR FIVE WHOLE MINUTES. Sorry. My introvert is a bit...shall we say...exhausted these days.
I want to shop online, to have something new and shiny show up to distract me from what seems like the end of the world. And yet I also want to save money for the uncertain future and give money to those who are unable to work during these long days.
I want to stay healthy and strong for myself and to protect those I love, and I also want to eat all of the chips and queso and Cadbury eggs until I am in a carb coma.
We are living in a foreign middle space, and it is ok to feel the pull, to long for what we’ve always known. In this middle space, we aren’t sure if we are simply camping, getting out our flimsy chairs and circling up (not too closely, of course) around a firepit. Or are we to dig in, install some landscaping, make this weird spot pretty? If we do, does that mean we’re never going back home? Shouldn’t we remain on edge, not growing comfortable with where we are?
The problem is, then, we are quite literally living on the edge: On the edge of our sobriety, our binging, our excess, our anger, our anxiety, our too much.
Maybe we can find an answer that allows us to embrace both sides of ourselves:
We can camp here and use our good dishes. We can camp here and bring a mattress and the best sheets along. We can camp here and light our favorite candles. No one, not even the experts, knows how long we will stay. So we must stop looking back to the skyline behind us, stop trying to peer too far ahead.
We can settle into the uncomfortable, learning to be gentle with ourselves, not asking ourselves to use this time to be more productive! More creative! More fit! We can and must connect with other humans in a new way, find a different happiness in this place it feels like we’ve been dropped into. We can soften the edges. We can plant the flowers, freshen up the sleeping bags, string up some twinkly lights around the wonky chairs. We can dig deeply into the unfamiliar dirt for happiness, even if it can only be found in the tiniest moments, the smallest of ways.
We can, dare I say it, even for us non-camping types, learn how to camp well here.
See you around the fire.
