As summer approached, Jack and I prepared to put our house on the market. Our real estate agent advised a number of projects and improvements to optimize our potential sale price. Between doing that work and sorting through the spoils of our life together—(I hadn’t bothered to take all of my crap when I moved out)—we were forced to process the end of our marriage and the modern family we were becoming.
It felt like a reckoning, a more official end to our marriage than our divorce would be. A cache of Asher’s art was cause to reflect on the schools he had gone to, teachers he’d had, families we’d met, and places we’d lived. I reminisced over a stack of cards I’d left in my old nightstand. There had been so many sweet occasions Jack and I celebrated together, and his language of love had always been words of affirmation. It was a heavy weight to read old sentiments and remember when. I stopped after the first few, wrapped them in a rubber band, and shoved them in a box. Then there were the bags of items we sorted for Goodwill. I might have felt glad the stuff would find another life with someone new. Instead, it reminded me of time passing and dashed dreams—clothing Asher had outgrown, toys he no longer played with, random tchotchkes I once stood in a store and coveted, which now seemed useless. Emotionally, it was a lot. But with the challenges came a spark of hope. I realized quickly that selling the house would give me a financial cushion, which would mean I could leave my job. I couldn’t wait.
The same week our house sold I saw a Facebook post from Granite Valley Camp, the one I went to as a kid. They were looking for a “Health Manager”—basically, a camp nurse. The job started in two weeks.
The summers I spent at this camp—as a camper and later as a counselor—were some of the best times of my life. It is my happiest place on Earth. Immediately I knew this was what I needed to do. I emailed the camp director and told him I was interested. We talked on the phone the next day. The job entailed ten weeks of living in a rustic cabin in the woods, taking care of kids’ mosquito bites and barf and twisted ankles and colds. It would mean I could bring Asher with me and he could play all day, and when I wasn’t busy with kids I could work on my blog and cookbook proposal for Eat Like a Yogi.
There was something else I knew it would mean: I couldn’t smoke or drink. I was paranoid about nicotine withdrawals but fuck it. I had to quit smoking. I couldn’t stand that it had become a habit. Something had to change.
Once I confirmed the job at camp, I scheduled a meeting with the executive who oversaw the marketing org at my company, with whom I had a good relationship. I described my experience since I started there.
“How can I help?” he asked.
“Well,” I said. “I don’t want to work here anymore. I don’t think it’s a fit.”
Hearing myself say it, I was profoundly relieved. We agreed to the terms and determined my last day. I packed my things, set my computer and badge neatly at my desk, and walked away.
It would take me a long time to sort out my feelings. Had I failed among the Ivy-Leaguers? Or had I succeeded at choosing the best path forward for myself? It troubled me to think I couldn’t hack corporate life, because I still hadn’t accepted: there is no way to become yourself when you’re trying to be someone you’re not.
Asher and I adapted quickly to our camp routine. The days began with Reveille and ended with Taps. In between Asher swam, did crafts, sang songs, made friends, and played every sport under the sun. Jack visited and they saw each other on my days off.
I was busier than I anticipated—much busier—and realized quickly there would be no opportunity to work on my own projects. But I didn’t mind. I was so busy I hardly noticed any nicotine cravings; that was a lie I’d been telling myself.
The job was perfectly limiting. Since I couldn’t predict when a kid was going to walk up crying, limping, itching, or otherwise in need, I was tethered to the health house. I’d drift to the art barn for watercolor or beading supplies or wander to the dining hall to make a smoothie, but otherwise, I stuck close to the little cabin and awaited my next patient. Unless I was in the camp office, I didn’t even have cell service. No texting, no social media, no email. I had no choice but to simplify.
One night in July I woke up in the wee hours to the sensation and sound of an impact. The noise subsided quickly but the air felt taut. I lay still, listening, wondering what it was. My first thought was a locomotive. Realizing that made no sense, I considered the horses—maybe they had galloped by? It took me a minute to realize that didn’t make much more sense than a train.
I was nearly asleep when it happened again—the noise, the shifting—yanking me back to attention. I laid there wide-eyed, still confused but aware of feeling unsettled in a way I never had, like the elements within me had been disturbed. A moment later someone knocked on my bedroom door. I wrapped myself in my robe and peeked out. It was the gardening counselor, clearly shaken.
“Did you feel the earthquake?” she asked.
“I did,” I said, feeling a little stupid I hadn’t realized what it was—an earthquake, then an aftershock.
She’d woken up with the first rumble and had all the time since to think about the risks (fire, sinkholes, falling trees) and the vulnerability of children asleep in nature with only a canvas Army surplus tent to protect them.
We found the Assistant Director, already awake in his tent, and contemplated together whether there was anything we needed to do. We decided to go back to bed and hope for the best, which was—it’s likely none of us wanted to admit—about all we could do.
I laid down again next to Asher, who slept through the whole thing, and gave him an extra snuggle before settling on my back and staring at the ceiling. I felt infinitesimally small and helpless, yet also a strange tranquility. The unrestrained power of the earthquake had reminded me of something inherent: the earth within me. It was the first time I had a felt sense of what Carl Sagan meant when he said we hold the cosmos within us. In fact, I was made of stars.
The time at camp was the first time I ever gave myself an opportunity to pause before chasing down a new distraction. I had never learned what “in due time” meant. I didn’t do due time. I’d always done my time. Now. Yesterday. Hurry up, let’s go. In my adult life I had had four unique careers and lived in five different cities. I was married twice before I turned 35. The first time I got divorced I was in a new relationship before we’d even filed the papers. After Vox was stillborn, I was pregnant again three months later. I started fucking around and falling in love before my second husband and I even knew we were over.
If I wanted something to change, I had to be different, and my time at camp was exactly that. For the first time since we opened our marriage, life was simple. I went to bed before 11PM every night and woke up naturally between 6 and 6:30AM. Every morning I would make myself a cup of tea and sit on my porch among the firs and cedars. I watched silently as the robins hopped along searching for breakfast and filled my lungs with the smells of pine and fertile soil. I softened into the sound of wind in the trees, horses nickering down the gravel road, and occasional footsteps on the earthen paths. The best times were the mornings it rained; nothing was so tranquil as the space between my thoughts and awareness as the rain sang down around me. Every morning I journaled for twenty minutes and then meditated until the bugle. It was exactly the change I needed, and it changed me.
The last night of camp was Friendship Dinner, which was followed by a folk dance—one of many camp traditions. It was bittersweet. I was excited to be going home, but a part of me never wanted the summer to end.
The registered nurse—the actual camp nurse—was on site since it was the last night. She came by to relieve me for a bit. With Asher occupied at the dance with his friends, I headed straight for my favorite place: the back pasture. I found a broad log near the gated entrance and sat down in front of it, breathing in the sun-soaked cedar. I crossed my feet and wrapped my arms around my legs in a hug. It was almost the magic hour.
I thought about the portion of Vox’s ashes I had sprinkled at the base of a nearby tree during a visit a few years before. I sat in silence contemplating his presence and watched two hummingbirds zip overhead. Distant purple mountains touched the fading blue of the twilight sky. Tall trees surrounded the expanse of the field and framed the herd of horses, spotted and speckled in browns, blacks, grays, and whites. The view was a still life in living color. It was a perfect peace, a divine order, and the beauty was overwhelming. I breathed long, even breaths with a feeling of sublime calm. I was still.
I closed my eyes and felt tears run down my cheeks. I felt my heart in a way I rarely had, like it was growing from within. I heard a voice that sounded like my own. She said, “I quit drinking. Wasn’t serving me. Saved my life.”
It didn’t occur to me in the moment how I felt about it—quitting drinking altogether—and I wasn’t sure I was quite ready for that. But I felt the promise in the sentiment. It was a promise of a way to be different and of better days ahead. It was a promise of the new life that was coming.
I opened my eyes to golden light bathing the trees and mountains beyond and gasped with awe. The scene was majestic, and I was a part of it all. It felt like a miracle: I am as much a part of creation as the mountains and trees and the sun itself. For the first time I felt aligned with my pure nature instead of the things I’d come to believe about myself from so long ago.
I put both of my hands over my heart. Overwhelmed with gratitude, I acknowledged everything exactly as it was. I thanked the Universe of Gods and Whatever for the privilege of being myself. I accepted in that moment the whole of me: my bad habits and poor judgment, my anxieties and insecurities, all of my grasping and running and chasing, my anger, my shame, my grudges, my intensity, and my impulses. Also, my best intentions, my desires, my sincerity, my tenacity, my courage, my fearlessness, and my great big enormous heart that falls hard and loves harder. In that moment, for the first time, I felt worthy of the love I’d always sought from others. And I realized the love I wanted most of all: my own.
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