Progression
As my senior year of high school kicks off with intense work and college applications loom too close for comfort, I can reflect, without judgment or guilt about not writing more here, on my late spring and summer with a surprising sense of tranquility.
I spent the later part of the spring recuperating from the mental defilements remote learning and remote living presented me with. Then I started the summer under the impression my only occupation would be my involvement in a farm-to-table restaurant in the center of town; this belief was snipped at around 9 PM, July 16th when I accepted a call from the director of the summer camp I applied to cook for. I was prepared to give him a solid but saddening answer, declining his invitation to return for the camp’s second session, as I had far too much to complete before school started. The more we talked, as it happened, I began to recall the magical connection ever present—even through the phone.
So I gracefully hung up, promising him an answer the next morning, and called my college counselor. We talked each and every doubt through, and I then made my decision. 6 days later I was on the Plymouth and Brockton bus headed for Plymouth, Vermont. For the first time in a year and a half, I accomplished a rarity; entirely myself for myself, I unearthed my dust-gathering camp necessities and my adoration for the place I truly belonged to.
Once settled back within Farm and Wilderness camps, I began working as a staff member in the kitchen, cooking three meals a day for 60 hungry and thankful campers and around 40 weary but equally as grateful support and cabin staff. Within the kitchen, I could tangibly appreciate being so close to the camp’s garden, where all food and livestock can be found. Dating back to my years as a camper, when I spent hours each day on the farm, every summer I’ve gone and returned with a better sense of the relationship humans can have with the earth. Remarkable things can happen when we are given the responsibility to grow and tend to our source of energy and nourishment, and being in the kitchen was no different. Working—truly working—in that kitchen for the majority of each day made me see what pride one can take in that said responsibility. I found myself proud of the food I was making, and happily envisioned all those a part of morning Barn Chores running from the farm to the kitchen, ladened with bushels of lettuce, chard, and fennel, while other pairs carrying waxed boxes filled with potatoes, heirloom tomatoes, and fresh organic eggs. There was a different connection this year, being on the receiving end, and always adorned with a messy and damp apron, seeing the fruition of my campers’ labors come to life. And, without exception, campers chirping “thank you, thank you, that was delicious!” bettered every day spent there.