Being.

It was a Tuesday night. 

Flashlight tag had just ended, and although it was only 9:30pm, I was dead tired. My 13-year-old legs could only take so much walking in a day. 

We walked from the grotto, this beautiful overhanging rock that could sit 300 summer campers underneath it, back to our cabins. I got lucky that my flashlight hadn't run out of battery yet, it was the same flashlight I had been using at camp for three years and I had never changed the battery. 

Our cabins had a lot of stairs, wildly inconvenient for a tired camper, but every climb was worth the struggle. When we got up the stairs, we threw our poison ivy clothes into garbage bags and put on our swimsuits that were cold and damp from earlier in the day. "Two Shower Tuesday" was a well-known convention in camp history. 

The walk to the shower house was a bit long. Down the trail, across the bridge, and up the road. We always joked that nature was going to eat us alive. The number of mosquitos was truly horrendous.

As we approached the shower house, the squeals of the other girls were inviting. They sang a silly song about Dawn's dish soap because every camper knew only Dawn could get the poison ivy off. Although they were not excitedly squealing about the results of the ultimate flashlight tag game and were instead shocked by the ice-cold showers, there was a shared memory to be found in these late-night shower house shenanigans. 

My cabinmates and I walked the dark path back to our cabin cluster after a quick and cold shower, ready for bed after a day filled with hiking, swimming, crafts, and games. As we approached our counselors to check back into our cabins, another girl, sniffling, was sitting with them. 

She was much younger than we were, only 9 or 10 years old. She was really upset. One of the counselors approached me and explained that the girl had left her glasses behind in the shower house and was worried about something happening to them. They asked me if I would take her to look for them.

It should be noted that I was not particularly fond of this girl. She cried every day, complained about all the walking, and didn't have many nice things to say about the week so far.

We had only been at camp for two days.

I didn't feel like I could say no to my counselors, so I grudgingly agreed to take the younger girl back to the shower house to look for her glasses. We walked in silence, for the most part, because I was afraid this girl would shoot down any kind of positive conversation I offered. 

We reached the shower house and she found her glasses quickly, thank goodness.

We began the walk back to our cabin cluster again. Down the road, across the bridge, up the trail. I kept repeating it in my head, determined to go to bed soon. Down the road, across the bridge, up the trail.

We got down the road, but by the time we reached the bridge, the other girl was lagging behind me and was complaining again. I was so fed up.

I pulled the girl onto the bridge with me. 

"Turn off your flashlight and just stand here," I demanded.

She was very confused. The night had cooled the air and we were both wet-haired and chilly.

I made her turn off her flashlight anyway.

"Okay. Now look out over the creek and just be quiet for a minute."

Words could never do justice to the experience in front of us. 

The stars reflected in the water, flickering as the water went trickling over rocks. The lightning bugs became as clear as day, slowly fluttering through the tall grass that lined the banks of the water. The bullfrogs croaked their deep and throaty sighs, making their presence known in the same way a heartbeat would. A cool breeze tickled my nose as I looked out, breathing. 

Being.

-Emma Lancaster