Judging from the light filtering through the thin walls of our tent, I could tell it was early. I dared to move as stiffness and pain shot through my body. The packed dirt had provided no cushioning for us, and I had forgotten our pillows. (Thank goodness my husband is forgiving, and that I am innovative with a backpack of clothes, which I divvied up into two pillow-size piles the night before).

“My neck and back are killing me,” he croaked with a chuckle.

I nodded in agreement. Dew plopped from the trees above onto our tent, rolling down quietly to the ground. We listened to Sugar Creek, swollen well past its usual height, rolling just as faithfully over the rocks as it had all night, lulling us to sleep. We could make out small shadows inching across our tent walls. Cody pointed to one that looked like a caterpillar. I smiled, and we watched it lazily make its way around.

“WAKE UP, CAMPERS!!” I heard our friend Paul shout from his tent. We could hear giggling and sleeping bags rustling.

“SHUT! UP!” Chuck yelled back.

And all was quiet and still for a couple more hours as we ignored Paul and slept in as much as we possibly could. I loved not having a schedule. I loved that I didn’t have to look at my watch, didn’t have to “dress to impress,” didn’t have to be clean or ready for anything in particular. Out here, nothing mattered but the stillness and sharp beauty that surrounded us. I was free from the stifling hard-walled box of my schedule, responsibilities and never-ending Post-it notes and lists.

I never camped as a kid. I’m not sure if it’s because we never asked to camp or if my parents weren’t campers. Either way, as I got older, I felt I had missed out a little bit.

I remember feeling deeply settled when I was outdoors as a young girl. Our home was up against the woods with trees surrounding our house like a horseshoe. My brothers and I made trails zigzagging through the trees as well as a dirt bunker, complete with a plywood board over the top with grass planted on it. It was invisible to the unassuming eye. I would sit in the bunker, essentially in the dirt, and watch life continue around me: Dad mowing the lawn, Mom cleaning the pool, my big brother throwing walnuts at my little brother and my little brother crying or playing in the sandbox.

In those years, the seasons provided unique and changing backdrops to the outside world which I took the time to heed. In the fall, I would let the slow motion of the clouds carry my eyes in patterns as I listened to each dry leaf rustle and sway to the ground. The capricious summers offered the glee of a summer afternoon and the startling suddenness of a storm. Winter spawned vast sheets of snow that seemed to glitter like pools of diamonds under a full moon.

I remember praying often during these seasons because nature was always equated with prayer. Maybe it’s because nature always seems to be more of a friend than a setting. It seems to be the manifested image of a God who appreciates rest, peace and beauty. If I was feeling frazzled or stifled, I could go outside and instantly have space. If I was feeling fragmented, I could find the boundless presence of the sky. If I was feeling unbalanced and fragile, I could find the steadfastness of the rocks and the trees.

Of course, as I got older, I got busier. There was no time for quiet moments outside because there were more important things to do. My clock replaced the sky. My car replaced my walks. My planner replaced the guidance of the sun. My rigid four walls cubed my falsely-lit space in which my thoughts hung around my head like anvils on strings instead of flying up into God’s hands.

Those times before that had provided so much for me passed, unnoticed and unappreciated, as if they had never existed. Over time, I realized that the less I allowed myself to connect with the dirty and beautiful fundamentals of the world outside, the less I allowed myself to connect with the One who made me from it.

So camping takes me back. It’s a way to be a kid again and to grasp the child-like faith that my heavy adult heart sometimes craves. It’s a way to watch bugs innocently crawl along the walls, to see the nighttime sky all night long, to eat gooey sugary midnight snacks and to watch the story of a sunrise.

I’ll take the sticky sweat, dirty feet and fingernails, smoky-smelling hair and the no-makeup naked face any day. It’s how I was made anyway.

One Response to “I was walking barefoot through the dirt”

1. Julie Says:
   July 7th, 2008 at 11:57 am

   love it, girl. i feel ya.

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