We just got home from our first legit camping trip as a family. We took the boys to the redwoods and pitched two tents beneath the huckleberry bushes and set up shop with our cooler for a pantry. Every meal was over the open fire or else cold leftovers, we swam in the river every day, picked wild berries and kept strict daylight hours. I wish I could say that I came home elated and freshened and all Walden 'ed up. I am afraid I actually came home desperately tired of stumbling out of my tent in the dark, groping for the door of my kids tent zipper and trying to shush whoever was waking before the whole campground was awakened, I was sick of scrubbing dishes in tepid water and getting them sort of clean, I was was exhausted from lighting fires to try to cook anything and I was dying to take a shower and peel off the filthy blue jeans I wore every day all weekend. There were brilliant memories and great times and we were all glad we went and are already planning our tent pitching next year....but still I have this secret disappointment. I didn't feel like I wanted to. I wanted to be alive in the woods and feel free and lighter, to come home inspired to live more simply and to embrace more of the world of a life between the campfire and the tent. Instead, I feel worn thin and so grateful to live where I do and when I do. Have I softened with old age or am I just realizing that I have not given this pampered shadow self of mine enough voice?
