Going Back to Summer Camp at The Clearing

The passing of Memorial Day means that summer is officially here.  And if the 50 degree weather continues to give us doubt that the season is upon us, my husband and I just take a look at the top of our refrigerator at the toppling tower of booklets and brochures we started receiving from area summer camps back in February.

Like most parents around these parts, the anticipation of summer comes with enduring questions of what camps and activities to enroll our children in. 

We have NEVER spent a single thought on where we, as parents, should go to camp. 

That is, until now.

For Christmas last year, I received a wonderful gift from my family: the promise of a week-long writing retreat.  At first I thought about just renting a cabin somewhere and writing in a state of solitude, but decided rather quickly that I wanted to find a program involving some form of critique, a program that would afford me time to both write in solitude and to share in a critically involved community of writers.

I found it in my own backyard.

The Clearing was founded in Ellison Bay (just north of us, on the north end of Wisconsin’s Door County penninsula)  by Jens Jensen, a  landscape architect who designed many of the public gardens in northern Illinois.  Jensen first imagined his school as a place that would provide adults with diverse educational experiences in the folk and artisan traditions.  Today, sixty years after his death, it continues to draw returning friends (aka groupies, or, ahem, campers,) back again and again from year to year for classes as diverse as woodturning, caning, and birdwatching, watercolor painting, carving and writing.

Take the less travelled footpath. . .

Upon my arrival on the 21st of May, I discovered the campus to be a woodland treasure overlooking the shores of Ellison Bay.  As I followed the fieldstone path past several log cabins toward the main lodge, the trillium winked and nodded in the underbrush beneath the cedars and maples, alongside blossoms of yellow I would later discover were wild orchids, and among countless fairy rings of forget-me-nots. 

I was enchanted . . . and I hadn’t even checked in.

The Schoolhouse's Main Studio

I was one of the few newbies on campus, and spent much of the week just trying to analyze what it was about the place I loved the most.  Was it the spontaneous accordion concerts given by fellow participant Will out in front of Mertha’s Cabin in the evenings?  Was it the wonderful camaraderie that evolved among the watercolorists, poets and wood turners, or perhaps the critical investment of the professional artists who were guiding us in the development of our projects? The balance between focused dialogue and silence . . . or the insanely indulgent home cooked meals we were served at the lodge?

By the end of the week, I delighted to discover that it was the balance that The Clearing offered — between space for creation and restoration, silence and conversation, camaraderie and solitude—that will bring me back. 

Talking with poet Robin Chapman as
Will plays his accordian
(Thanks to Carolyn for this pic!)

I developed a chapbook last week, and short of that, wrote more than I have in some time . . . although you wouldn’t know it for the two poems that were actually completed.  One may just be the missing poem in a short collection of poems I developed years ago.  . . . and the other, while being an occasional poem with many references you just won’t get unless you were there, pretty much sums up my thoughts on why every adult should go back to camp:

Letter from Camp

Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh. . .

There are benefits in coming back to camp as an adult —

There’s less chance of contracting poison ivy from the kid wanting to impress the cute nurse’s aid now . . .  but boy, you should see the septugenarians swoon when Sweet-Granola-Erik or Peter-the-Morning-Eye-Candy are around.

Food fights and sunburns have been kept to a minimum as we’ve become ettiquitted, and less secure.

. . . you never know where it might lead you.

. . . And the ratio of homesick campers calling home has dropped exponentially.

This time, our leaders trust us enough to let us hike without a partner!  And craft time involves POWERTOOLS.

. . . And yet, as the gossiping that used to emanate from our cabin well past midnight has turned into a swell of snoring shortly after lights out at ten, I am practicing the maxims you packed me off with in my youth.

                “Talk to that quiet camper in your cabin. . . you may just discover she’s travelled seven continents.”

                “Make friends with the guy with the Swiss Army knife . . . you never know when you’ll need a corkscrew.”

                “Try new things, and never offer a disclaimer.”

A Poets Gathering.

Yes, yes, I’m eating enough.  And drinking. In fact, this camp seems to breed full bladders.  I’m pretty sure it isn’t wild beasts roaming around at night!

I have to say in the end, though, you were wrong about one thing Mom and Dad.  What happens at The Clearing doesn’t stay at The Clearing. . . but carries us the whole year through.