Summer sun always did the illumination dance on the lake. I liked to squint and look as close to the bright, reflective bits as I could until sun spots blurred my eyes.

I had begged to be allowed to go a year early to no avail, but my time finally came in June of 1982. I was 12 years-old and going to the summer camp where I had been desperate to go for three years. Truth told, the only reason I had been so obsessed was that it was where we took my older sister every summer … and I was well-immersed in the rigors of big-sister worship resulting in relentless mimicry at that stage. I am sure my sister would have been more likely to categorize my behavior as big-sister torture, but what’s a girl to do?

The camp was on Saranac Lake, in the middle of the fresh, moist Adirondack Mountain air. There were plenty of normal, campy activities like hiking, swimming, canoeing, volleyball, soccer, races and even a ‘prom’ at the end of the week. At this camp, though, there was also something more as it was sponsored by the Roman Catholic Diocese in the region. There was definite focus on faith, but in a multi-lateral kind of way and the atmosphere was always more spiritual than quintessentially Catholic. It seemed as though the entire place was designed to help us to be self-reflective, to look for our depths, to learn how to answer hard life-questions ourselves, to channel the angst and anxiety that comes with the preteen/teen trials of growing up, to find our own dignity, self-respect and boots made for walking the walk of life to come.

We were also there to have a lot of fun. Did I mention that part before? Fun and being social was definitely high on the priority menu, though it may be hard to tell in this particular story.

The brilliant staff of young-but-together 20-something counselors were there not just to keep things running, but to help us down whichever path of ourselves we chose to explore, to support and encourage and play and be the objects of endless crushes (in my gorgeously imperfect memory, every single counselor looked like a movie star.) Among this illustrious group was Leanie, who would become the second pivotal person, whose adoption Velcro attached itself to mine. She helped me learn how to wear comfortably once again the part of my skin that bore the adoption stamp with increasing fury rather than pride of place.

Ceremony and symbolic gestures were key tools used to help us go down difficult paths. One of these ceremonies involved each of us finding a rock and carrying it around all day. The rock symbolized our burdens, whether troubles or mistakes we had committed or sins we worried about committing or things done to us by others or fears or anything else that was weighing us down.

At the end of the day there was to be a group discussion with lots of music and reading of poetry and prose and, ideally, sharing of feelings and life-stories by all the campers. This group activity would be followed by either an opportunity for classic Catholic confession with the priest at the camp (a very hip guy and also the DJ for the prom at the end of the week … I think I even had a crush on him … that is definitely a different story) or time to sit quietly alone to reflect or to speak with one of the counselors if some feedback was needed. After everyone was finished, the rocks were to be thrown into the lake, and with them, our burdens.

[to be continued...]