When I was quite small, my parents sent me to a summer camp. I was horse mad, and had chosen the camp because of it's lush and prolific horsiness sprayed across the brochure. It turned out to be quite different from my imaginings of days of wild riding across open fields and forests. It was a small place, boasting a few Connemara ponies that we weren't allowed to ride, an above-ground swimming pool, and an acre or two of fields surrounding an old farmhouse that served as a dining hall. The property was dotted with a small cluster of wall tents for the 30 or so campers who attended each session.
The staff were an eclectic bunch, as much as I remember all these years later, they seemed old and quirky to my seven year old sensibilities. The cook in particular was an interesting character, a little gruff, wiry, crease-faced and quiet. I was a little afraid of him although it was clear he was well loved by the other camp staff.
The week I was there fell over July 25th, and the camp had a tradition of celebrating 'Christmas in July'. Everyone at camp was assigned a secret Santa, and on the day a tree was decorated, a turkey dinner was served and gifts were exchanged. Someone on staff knew that Christmas was my birthday, so when it was my turn my secret Santa stood up in front of the dining room to present me with my gift while everyone sang Happy Birthday. It was unexpected, I was shy and therefore horrified to be the centre of attention, and my secret Santa turned out to be the cook. And then he pulled out my gift - a paddle he had carved in the last 5 days, inscribed with the word "Roots" on one side of the grip. I can't remember all of what he said, other than his shy apology for not having finished carving out the other half of the camp motto on the other side..."Wings". To this day 40 years later, half a "W" is all that adorns that side of the grip. I was overwhelmed by the gift, the giver, the magnitude of the item I was being given. No doubt, as was my fashion, I clammed up. It's an unfortunate reaction that I sometimes still have when unsure of how exactly to express gratitude, or overpowered by strong emotion. It's easily misunderstood as disrespect or ungratefulness.
This paddle lived for a long time at my family's cabin, for all those years I spent living out of my car, or at basecamps. One winter I moved into the cabin for a few months before moving out west again, and took it with me when I left. At that time, the significance of the thing struck me. It had come to me long before I ever dreamed myself a paddler, but as an adult canoes have been the defining vehicles of my life. It had also come from a place with no nearby lakes, rivers or oceans, so it had always seemed strange to me that it's maker had chosen such a gift. To give to a small, introverted and mousy little girl at a horse camp with not a canoe in sight. It is hard not to imagine this gift as a missive from this long lost stranger, a future reminder of my arrival into one of the great passions of my life. As if somehow, my path as a wilderness guide and paddler and all it's soulful explorations and deep connections had been written into my DNA.
This morning I pulled the paddle out of a closet where I had stored it months ago while redecorating, still living with it's unfinished message. And I am considering that other side. I have come to be rooted here, indeed I have always thought there is a kind of rootedness to my nature. But I wonder, what needs to come into balance?
The work of this week is begin to carve new wings, because I think I might need them.
Yes, Carve "Wings" into it!
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