Chop Wood, Carry Water.

Two weeks ago, I wrote this in the Grownupness blog:

"I grasp at things I think I want, but I’m not willing to firm the foundation to get there – to mix the mortar, lay the bricks. Chop wood, carry sticks. That’s where I need to be at. Very simply, I need to lay hold of qualities and actions that I have tried to avoid."

And so, this weekend, I carried sticks.

The simplicity of camping, even in the complexity of “car camping” the bastardized cousin of “real” camping, was so easy. It’s so easy for me. What needs to be done next? Well, we’re heading out down the river for the afternoon while others go river rafting (a luxury expense I couldn’t afford), so what did I need to bring? Sunscreen, towel, book I didn’t crack, hat, water. That’s it.

It’s turning darker, what do we need to do? Get more firewood, build a fire, refill the water, not at the mercury-laden river’s edge.

There are things that I know how to do, and this weekend, I got to see that very clearly. I know how to build a fire, I know you need something like paper or brush to catch under the kindling to catch under the wood blocks that were neatly chopped for us in a bundle wrapped with plastic. I know that I need to slather sunscreen on myself and wear a hat because I’m paranoid of skin cancer since my encounter with the Australian sun – the sun won.

I know how to make coffee, and put up a tent and roll my sleeping bag and to remember to bring earplugs and tarot cards ;)

I know how to camp. At least, I know how to car camp.

When I unfurled my sleeping bag, in it was a long-sleeved shirt I hadn’t seen in two years, since I was in that tent, with someone else.

I played Ghosts of Camping Trips Past this weekend. Remembering acutely who I’d been with and when. Each and every one of the even mildly significant and more significant relationships I’ve been in over the last six years, I’ve been camping with that person. I haven’t slept in that tent alone in a long time.

This particular camp grounds, I’d been to maybe 3 or 4 years ago, when I’d been newly dating someone. It’s a beautiful spot on the American River, up past Sacramento, and almost to Tahoe. It’s amenitied out the yin-yang, but that’s alright. I remember the photo of me and that person in that very landscape, I remember the release I feel when I’m out there. Not with the person, but out there, knowing and feeling confident that I know even that little bit.

I haven’t roughed it. I haven’t hiked out into the woods and set up camp since I was 19 and leading a camp group overnight with our packs into the Appalachian Mountains. And even then, it wasn’t roughing it – That’s alright. I know it’s something I still want to do.

I wondered why it was, as I went through my previous camping trips over the last few years, that each had included a man I’ve been involved with. Was this my test for them? For “us”? Was I only able to be there with someone else?

No. The reason, I realized, is because I love camping. And I happen to go and be invited, and then I happen to invite the guy I’m with. That’s all. Turns out, camping is a hobby, I suppose. It’s likely the only same thing that has occurred with each relationship I’ve had over the last few years. The only “adventure” or “event” or excursion that has happened in each involvement. It just points out to me that this is an important thing for me. Something I love.

A way that I don’t feel I need to be any different than I actually am.

I feel confident out there (yes, even with the general store and port-o-potties nearby). But I feel like myself. I usually look like a wreck, and I don’t care. My hair matted and loved by the sweat and dust and river mist. Caked in various layers of SPF lotions and supportive sneakers. I don’t look like Xena, I look like me. Like the me I am in private, with no one to impress or stun or mesmerize. Like the me I am when it’s just me. Whole, and unabashed, and unprotected. And capable. I usually feel like a leader, or at least like a competent person when I’m out there. Something those of you who read this blog with any consistency can attest is not my normal M.O. out in the “real world.”

I needed that. I needed to feel worthy and valuable simply for who I was/am. Not for how I looked. Or for how much money I had. Or for what kind of job I worked. Or what cell phone I carried. Or degree I had. I could be valuable for my contributions to the group, be it building a fire, or fetching the water, or going off to sit and do my Morning Pages out on a rock in the middle of the rushing river so that I could be more present and emptied of my junk when I returned to the group. I could be valuable by bringing Madlibs to do by the fire at night – which led to so much hilarity, and stupid good fun. I could be valuable by making coffee the first morning when everyone was still asleep or grumpy. I could be valuable by breaking out the guitar one of us brought for a little while, and later, sing along harmonies with her, and remember that I have a voice.

I felt purposeful. I didn’t question who I was or where I was going or what I was doing with my life. I didn’t have any profound judgments or insights. I simply “chopped wood, carried water” (no chopping this trip, but you know what I mean). If I can take that simplicity, and that confidence, and that sense of pleasure from being precisely who I was/am into the world, I think I’ll be alright.

If I can dress nicely and put on makeup, and remember that it’s just a lens through which to see the whole that I am.

If I can breathe in the fire smoke scent of my balled-up clothing and recall what it feels like when I’m just me, then I think I’ll be alright.