When I open my eyes to writing camp, I see pine. I see height and weight and brown and green. I see these trees which long for my touch as much as I long for their shade in the Bakersfield heat. I feel the smile on my face stretch.
I see light, dappled and holy not unlike the light in a cathedral. These pines are my stained glass, tiffany inspired windows.
I come to writing camp today to discover what is next for me. The more I mention camp and just flow with it, the more it grows. This last writing camp with Kat in the home feels freeing and sad, holy and frustrating. I long to walk alongside people on hikes, exploring rocks and nooks and crannies of the wilderness of camp and the wilderness of their souls. I want more of this….