From the age of eleven to twenty, I spent my summers at a sleep-away camp. I literally fell in love with this place. I always felt the safest and most comfortable during those summers. I knew that, one day, I would have to give it up — we all have to grow up eventually. But I never wanted to leave.
This past week, I went back to this camp. It had been six years since I was last there. We had a reunion — all the kids that I grew up with, the kids who are my age, came back to celebrate…to remember the summer we all spent together, ten years ago, when we were sixteen. The same summer of my first kiss. To me, this was the most significant reunion that I’ll ever have. High school was never that important to me, especially when compared to camp. Camp was magical.
Turns out, it still is. For all the kids that still spend their summers there, camp is still magical. I couldn’t help but wonder…what it would be like to return, to get a job there and spend my summer running around in flip flops, smiling and happy? I am one of the most nostalgic, sentimental people I know. I admit this easily. Doesn’t it make perfect sense that I would yearn to be back at camp? My happiest memories are of that place.
Nevertheless, I believe there is a line that we are forced to draw in this whole “growing up” process – I’m just still trying to figure out where my line is, where I have to draw it. Would it be “unproductive” of me to go back to camp? Would it be stepping back, falling behind? Am I doomed to struggle with my heavy sense of nostalgia for the rest of my life?
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