White Stag - 3.5

Everybody is at camp and I have never felt more alone in my life and I thought that maybe if I wrote about White Stag and spilled my heart out onto the page it would make me feel better so here I am at half past 1 in the morning trying my best not to stain my pillow with tears I miss everybody so much I miss being a PC I miss the feeling of being surrounded by love and joy. A lot of people ask me why I love White Stag so much especially when dust clouds rise every time I walk and mosquitoes cover my arms with itchy bumps and sweat trickles down my cheek like a tear drop but honestly the answer is simple; when I'm at White Stag, it's like the earth stops spinning. Time stops, and it's like I'm trapped in a picture in one of those smiling candids of a family behind a shield of glass that preserves a memory in time forever it's like I'm in one of those photographs except it's not forever it's only for a couple of days and then the glass shatters and the bubble bursts and everything is back to normal but that normal is not okay when my normal has become White Stag when I wake up every morning wondering how long I have to get ready until Opening begins when I go to meals and do grace and cookies like it's second nature when I sit on a bench in the Campfire Bowl sandwiched in between two best friends and I feel at home when I think of home and my mind wanders to Piney Creek when I hate the goddamn outdoors but at White Stag I can't help but be in awe of nature's exquisite masterpieces. When I'm at White Stag I don't think of anything other than White Stag I don't think about piano or debate or tennis or the SAT or AP classes or the last fight I had with my parents or how somebody from school is mad at me. Everything melts away and I am living in a pure ecstatic exhilaration and then camp ends and I feel empty and hollow and I return back to my regular world of stress and compulsions and grades and college preparations. This year, every time I felt like stomping up the stairs and slamming the door and punching my pillow and screaming into my backyard at night, I would think about the next staff development or about camp or about a previous heartfelt memory and that would be enough to carry me through to the next day and I don't know how to live without White Stag anymore I don't know who to talk to when I desperately need somebody to listen I don't know what to look forward to it's like my life was a blank canvas before I entered the program and now this camp has painted it a vivid blend of extraordinary hues. The candidates will be arriving in the morning and I won't be there and it breaks my heart into a million little shards.

White Stag - 3.0

I hear the bubbling creek. I hear the frogs croaking, but I can not see them. Birds sing their carefree tunes around me. Flies and mosquitos buzz past my ears. I hear the laughter of my friends, the kind of genuine laughter that can only be achieved by real happiness. I hear the songs of the crickets, calling out in the darkness of the night. I hear the yelling, sense the spirit embedded deep within them. I hear the whispers of reflections across the camp, hear the silent tears as friends think about impending goodbyes. I hear the crackling of a campfire, the pops of flames licking the air, the brush of cloth against cloth as we sway to the melody of a slow song. I hear the thump of boot against dirt, hear the scratching of stave against rock, hear the splash of patrols wading through the winding streams. I hear the skim of khaki against lush green leaves. I hear the sincerity of the "I love you"s. 

I feel the dirt. I feel the dust caking up on my skin layer after layer until the soapy wet wipe that I use in a desperate attempt to clean myself comes back brown. I feel the scorching heat, the waves of heat that roll off of me like a tsunami of fire. I feel the sweat that drips off of my nose and makes my glasses slip. I feel the cool refreshing relaxation of dipping my bare feet into the creek, squirming at the touch of weeds brushing past my toes. I feel the breeze that lifts my hair and makes it dance - it feels like heaven. I feel the sharp pain of burrs in my boots or splinters in my fingertips. I feel the weight of my backpack on my hips as I trudge step by step up a steep hill. I feel the exhilarating punch of cold water against my skin as I stand beneath the spigot and let the stream cool my body. I feel the fabric of my sleeping bag soft beneath my exhausted body. I feel the weight of my friends against my sides as we cuddle together beneath the stars. I feel the ache in my stomach from laughing too much, too hard. 

I taste the water. I taste the way the clear filtered water from the spigot reminds me of home. I taste the salty drops of sweat that drip down my face and roll onto my lips. I taste the creamy warmth of my favorite soup from Central. I taste the wind on my tongue. I taste the sweet, dried papaya that we clamber for in the trail mix. I taste the crunch of chocolate chips in those lovely soft brownies that melt in my mouth as we sit in a circle and evaluate the day. I taste the love that spills off of my tongue and solidifies into words as I talk about my experience in the White Stag program in front of a campfire of people.

I smell the crisp air free of pollution. I smell the musky cows that I walk past every single day on my way to meals. I smell the garlic bread and the marinara sauce in the campfire bowl. I smell the humidity in the showers that makes it almost difficult to breathe sometimes. I smell the overwhelming scent of the leaves that crowd around the bridge and engulf me every time I need to cross over to the other side.

I see the clouds of dust that rise every time I take a step. I see the streaks of dirt on my arms and legs. I see the way that my friends' eyes swell up every morning, and I can't stop laughing. I see the illuminated paper bags that light up the trails to ceremonies. I see the stag, shining bright against the branches of a tree. I see the laugh lines in the familiar faces around me. I see the creek, teeming with tiny bugs and leeches, rushing over smooth gray stones. I see the exhaustion under my friends' eyes. I see the giant expanse of stars above me, like powdered sugar juxtaposed against a black canvas. I see the occasional shooting star that I make wishes on - I wish for the moment to never ever ever end. I see the dim light from my lantern as I scribble down the day's memories in a notebook in my tent, past midnight. I see the explosions of water droplets in the pool as we splash around during the Class A swim. I see the tears that stain the cheeks around me. I see the rhythmic swaying to slow songs. I see the hugs so tight that my knuckles turn white. I see the intense love that surrounds me from every single side.

Before camp started, I remember writing in my journal that I was dreading going to White Stag. Because if camp started, then it had to end, and I didn't want it to end. I didn't want to let go of the memories that this program had given to me. I didn't want to let go of the friends that had become family over just nine lightning quick months. I didn't want to let go of all of the traditions and quirks that this program had adopted throughout its lifetime. 

Last year, during a campfire, somebody told me that being a candidate was like getting 1% of the White Stag experience, and that the other 99% could only be achieved by being on staff. I now genuinely believe that that is true. 

I am so eternally grateful for what this program has given to me. White Stag, thank you so much.

White Stag - 2.0

I don't want to leave White Stag. Because leaving, even for just a little bit, means forgetting, and I don't want to forget. I don't want to forget the exhilaration that I felt as I screamed at the top of my lungs, or the feeling of accomplishment that blossomed in my chest after completing a 15 mile hike with 30 pounds on my back, or the sound of crickets chirping in the background of a late night song/skit fest on the banks of a peaceful creek. I don't want to forget the pride in my chest when my graduation neckerchief was placed around my neck, or the tears that stained my cheeks as we sang Linger for the last time, or the hoarseness in my throat after leading a station of the Triphase Games. I don't want to forget Dennis' potato stories, or painting Will's nails with green and turquoise 3D fabric paint, or the "TAKES OUR COOKIES TO MAKE CAMP GO" part that I loved before every meal. I don't want to forget the authority of being SPL for a day, or the delight that tingled through me at being presented the purple PL beret. I don't want to forget the yells, or the songs, or the little mini tunes that could be triggered by certain words. I don't want to forget the Madrone patrol's cantaPOPE, or the session we gave Will, Dennis, and Maya on how to give other people hornets, or the weather rocks, or the ring of power that bestowed 3 spirit berets on my fellow candidates, or the potato song that I wrote. But, of course, I want to forget some things as well. I want to forget the explosions of dust that came with every step I took, and the flies that buzzed too close to my ears and landed on my lips, and the sweat soaked shirt that clung to my body, and the showers caked with mud and dirt. But I would endure all of that and worse just to get the chance to stay at White Stag for another week. From the day I stepped onto the blue tarp last year during Phase 2, I knew that this camp would be different from the rest. I looked up to Phase 3 with immense admiration, and it's so surreal to be one of them this year. I never want to stop following the stag, forwards, upwards, and onwards, and I hope so bad to be a part of the youth staff next year. So, White Stag, I feel good.

Green

Green represents nature and green represents tranquility and green is the color of trees and grass and leaves and bushes and green is the color of cats' eyes and apples and my favorite knit sweater; green is the color of beauty - but green is also the color of disgust and green is also the color of nausea and green is also the color of vomit and green is also the color of a corpse's face; green represents filth and mire i am green i am both beauty and disgust i am both serenity and chaos i am green.

White Stag

I wish I could create a time machine to relive the memories White Stag gave me, to relive the cotton candy sunset and the shooting star I made a wish on and the sunrise I watched from the top of a hill with the rest of my patrol and the burning in my throat as I yelled, confident and unafraid, during the night hike and the hug I didn't want to release and the 3 feet pool I laughed and splashed in and the shower I took at the mess hall sink and the rock I carved and the tree my patrol sat under to escape the unbearable heat and the campfire I teared up at and the song I didn't want to end and feeling of pride I felt blossom in my chest the moment I reached the top of the hill and the burrito my patrol tried to roll up in and the round of truth or dare we played and keeled over laughing at and the deafening silence at midnight when we stared up at the stars and were awestruck of the universe and the constellations we pointed out to each other and the friends that became family and the campsite that became home and the songs that became anthems and the violet bracelet made of spirit cord that I will never take off and the 150 hours we spent together and the 6 days we cherished as a closely knit group and the gratitude and admiration I felt the last day we had and the roaring in my veins the hike down to the parking lot where we'd return to our own separate lives and the tears that spilled over my eyelashes all the drive home and the shaking I tried to control as I sat in the backseat and thought of the memories I would always keep and the knuckles I used to dry my red eyes and the hand I used to tightly clutch the signed stave like it was a life boat and I was drowning fast and the body that didn't feel like my own as I lay in bed and looked through the pictures I'd took and let my tears stain the cotton pillow.

Before

    Before I turn 80, I want to fly to New York and climb to the top of the Statue of Liberty and look out at the city and throw confetti out the windows. I want to buy a brand new house and paint it with friends and decorate it with things I bought from thrift shops and have tea parties on the balcony. I want to go on runs and swing on swings and drink lemonade from $10 plastic bottles and let the wind attack my hair. Before I turn 80, I want to cuddle up in front of a fireplace and type up a manuscript and send it to an agent and have my very first book published. I want to go to a concert with friends and scream until my throat burns and cry when my idol sings her last number and be in awe. Before I turn 80, I want to feel good about myself and not cringe every time I look in the mirror and be able to walk out the door without eyeliner and lose 10 pounds because I want to not because I'm being pressured to do so. I want to connect with friends and recall old memories and laugh until I cry and do meaningful things and run around the mall playing tag and get yelled at by grumpy old men and burst out giggling when they turn their backs. Before I turn 80, I want to live, not survive.

8:08

It's 8:08 pm. I feel trapped, like there's an invisible barrier around me. It's like the world's knocking on my door, begging me to come with it and explore its four corners. But I'm padlocked inside an iron cage, with a window too high for me to look out of and a door that leads to nowhere.

There are other prisoners with me, teenagers with tired faces and bags under their eyes. I see the glint in their solemn gaze, the wanderlust trapped behind closed doors. I feel the obligation to comfort them, but I don't.

It's 8:14 pm. I want to slip out the back door and become one with the shadows and listen to the whistle of the wind and feel the cold winter air. I want to hike to the top of a mountain and sit beside a flickering campfire and roast a marshmallow and look out at the city below me.

It's 8:16.