Two Kinds of Suffering

In reading Terry Tempest Williams' Refuge, I came across something very interesting: "Buddha says there are two kinds of suffering: the kind that leads to more suffering and the kind that brings an end to suffering." Later she concludes the chapter with this: "Dying doesn't cause suffering. Resistance to dying does." To me those words struck home and caused a realization about my connection to camp. To be honest, I am scared to right this down, I'm going to reveal some things here that are painful to me even today, and that others may not want to know.

When my mother turned fifty in 2006, she had what is known in urban legends as the midlife crisis. She packed us up and moved us to Maine. I was not at all pleased with this decision but had no choice. At first I was hopeful that a family member would let me live with them, at least until I graduated high school, but I don't think I was brave enough to voice this opinion except to my friends at school. The next thing I know my parents are receiving emails from realtors and going to Maine on weekends to look at houses. If I had a long weekend from school I would go with them and walk around cold, crumbling brick capes on top of windy hills, and run down white farm houses. When my parents asked my opinion I would simply say "there's no free water" or "there's too much wind". I never voiced the hurtful opinion "we have no money. Why would you buy a house you can't fix?" and "why do I have to move?"

Finally we found a house. Mom and I went to see it with the realtor and we were surprised. It was a newer house, about eight years old then, an "A" frame with antlers and sticks for door handles. The metal roof allowed even the softest snow flakes to be heard when falling. Six acres sloped down in a narrow rectangle to a fresh water marsh where moose were a guaranteed sighting, and a workshop where the previous owner made boats would be perfect for Dad's puttering. The price was right and the residents would be moved out in eight weeks. Mom and Dad put an offer in and bought it.

The bedrooms were small, a little girl having used one and a baby boy in the other. I chose the little girl's room with the teal walls and plastic flower border. Every night I sat in that room and cried. I had a picture of Josh and Gunner tacked to the wall next to my bed. Why me? I cried and screamed in my head. Why me? The tradition lasted for about two years easily. I learned to cry with no sound, letting the tears run down my face my nose stuff up. Before dinner I would check in the mirror above my dresser, making sure my face was presentable; I allowed no red rimmed eyes or sticky lashes.

After the two year mark, I took down the picture and put it in a photo album on a shelf above my bed. I painted the room in pink earth tones and began to tack up magazine clippings of animals and guns. I met a young man at our new church and we began dating, I even made some new friends from the church and gained some of his. I graduated from the State of Maine in 2008, alone in a class of five strangers while my friends in CT graduated together. Soon I was accepted at Unity college, while my boyfriend joined the Navy and went to boot camp two weeks before I left for school.

I managed to go back to CT during camp meeting week in 2009 to work as a dishwasher in the dining hall. As I drove through the gate and saw the speed limit sign "slow caution children" I was attacked with memories as if those moments were being relived. Tears began to roll down my cheeks again. Tears that hadn't been there since I took the picture down from my wall three hundred miles away in a gray, sunless prison about the size of a walk in closet. I drove down the same dirt road I had ridden a purple bicycle on with no hands. The same road I walked Gunner on in the evenings with my parents. I parked in front of the same cottage my grandparents have always stayed in for two weeks of the summer. I dried my eyes checking for the evil red rims and the sticky lashes. I found no sign of them. I gave myself a mental slap on the back, oddly proud for retaining my secret crying skills. I greeted my grandparents and carried my bags upstairs. I sat on the bed and began to unpack.

Leaving ten days later I cried again. This time I had six hours to recover before I needed to be composed. The tears were different this time. Loud, soaking my face, spit flying out of my mouth as I tried to stay on the highway.

In January of 2010, I promised I would come back and be the dishwasher again. I never made it. On my way to CT this summer I made a phone call to a close friend who gave me excellent advice. "If you don't want to do it. Don't." And I didn't.

The professional decision is one I will always regret, but the personal decision has allowed me to stop resisting. To stop holding on to something I can't have right now. I had refused to accept my life in Maine because I didn't want to be there. I still wanted to live at camp with my friends, family and freedom. I pulled the car over and called my fiance from Kennebunkport, telling him I was coming home. I turned around and cried the same tears I had a year ago; loud, soaking my face, spit flying out of my mouth as I tried to stay on the highway. However, they had different meaning; it seemed as if a dull throb went away, leaving my head lighter, and quite literally, I felt something heavy leave my shoulders. I was able to sit up straighter and felt no physical weight.

I'm not happy that it all happened, but it did, and a lot of good came from it all. My parents are still married, I have grown a stronger person, and have gained a lot of knowledge. Camp Bethel hasn't actually died, it's still thriving every summer and I still have my memories. I'm jealous of what people get to experience when I am not there, but I think I know the next time I am there even more fantastic memories will be made. I bear no more suffering because I allowed myself to stop resisting. I am simply excited for the next time I am able to go to camp, be it tomorrow or fifty years from now.