Sending Our Kids to Camp

Thirty summers ago, we dropped our son and daughter off at a camp in the hills of New Hampshire, an idyllic spot "where the purple lilacs" grow. Free from the rigors of school, from the watchful gaze of parents, free to be their best and happiest selves.

This morning the sun is shining here in the Berkshires, the air is pure and, while the heart is heavy, who can be anything but invigorated by the feeling of a perfect New England day. When our kids spoke to each other as night gave way to day, the conversation turned to a reunion happening this weekend less than three hours away. "We have lost someone we love this week. Now why don't we do something we love today."

And so it was, on a moment's notice, that our daughter's car pulled up in front of our unit. Both of our kids with their suitcases packed, pillows and sleeping bag in tow, heading towards an adventure neither of them had contemplated in the hard times that preceded..

Off they went, our daughter free from the rigors of parenting, both from the aftershocks of recent times,  free to be if not their happiest selves, at least happier.

No matter one's age or station in life, there is something magical about camp, something healing for the soul and quieting for an aching heart. The New Hampshire mountains opening their arms to two adults once again, at least for this weekend, mere children.