How to Explain Campsickness
Monica Flory is a director and teaching artist at Ghostlight.
In Dramatic Writing Core this summer, we came up with some big questions–queries that might take a whole lifetime to answer. Questions like
Does love last forever?
Why is there hate in the world?
and
What happens after this?
Everyone wrote their question on a post-it note, which we stuck on the big gazebo, and we each chose a question that appealed to us. Then we wrote pieces of theater that in some small way answered the question. Some beautiful, thoughtful, and very funny pieces came from these questions.
A few of us chose this one:
How do you explain colors to somebody who has never seen color?
In this season, where the excitement of fall adventures overlaps with the sadness of another summer gone, I am pondering this big question:
How do you explain campsickness to someone who has never experienced it?
It’s more than the math of missing camp: people plus place plus time spent equals longing. Those bunkmates, that porch, that hour just before sunset. Those castmates, that performance space, that final dress rehearsal. We spend so many minutes together. Of course we’re homesick for camp, and for each other.
Some of us also miss ourselves–well, the different self that gets to go to camp. It’s a longing for the artist who makes things so constantly that they forget to care if they’re good or not. The phone-free observer who spends ten minutes enthralled by a tiny frog. The thrilled audience member who claps for their friends until their hands sting. The one singing along, full belt. The one collecting roses, acknowledging thorns, looking for buds.
The one immersed in making and feeling and just being.
Campsickness is longing for more color in a world that feels kind of muted.
If I was trying to describe the color of a Maine sunset to someone who had never seen color or camp, I would start with
the feeling of the evening cooling on your skin
the scent of a campfire
the sound of a familiar voices softly singing
The feeling of contentment
of belonging
of savoring a singular moment
I’d be tempted to say
You just had to be there
And some of us are so fortunate
Because we were
Campsickness is sitting in a room with a present you can’t open
And you know exactly what’s inside
We’re grateful summer always comes again