Letters from Gold Arrow Camp
Earlier this week, I returned home to a mess of letters from my fifteen-year-old son—the first received since he’d ventured to summer camp seventeen days prior. The camp has a series of thoughtful policies regarding modes of communication; campers are only permitted to send handwritten letters, and parents can craft daily emails that are then printed at 4:00pm Pacific, sharp, and shared with their respective campers over dinner.
I was delighted as I took the paper pile in hand—two for me and four to be delivered to his girlfriend. I smiled at the implicit reminder of his age and my place.
As I tore into the first envelope, I realized they’d been drafted with the intention of being sent at the pace of passing time. One letter noted an issue with the local mail system.
And there was some anxiety in his haphazard teenaged scrawl.
In the heart of his first “real” relationship, colloquially and figuratively, he was expressing worry over their time apart. I wanted little more in that moment than to soften his concern—to explain the painful and/both of these points in time.
We can long and love and know uncertain sadness, all at once.
The clock read 3:58pm. I called the camp office. Processing the sounds of impending connection, I realized I’d soon be met in voice by another seemingly cognizant adult. I took a deep breath, aware of the potential in being too much. Connection, an inviting voice chimed, “Gold Arrow Camp, how can I help you?”
I explained my desire to let my son know all was well—at least, it would be, in time. It always is. I was relieved when the staff member offered to hold on printing the day’s emails until 4:10pm.
Minutes later, I hit “Send” on an update message. Another wave of relief.
And then, I cried.
These moments uncover the punchiest truths of parenthood. One day, I may not have the opportunity to reach him; my intention may not serve its purpose, or may not be welcome. This is possible, and it would need to be okay.
More and more, my son is becoming the brilliantly aware, independent human I’ve always hoped to raise. This comically convoluted collection of emotional instances is life, and life rarely gives us simple joy.
And we wouldn’t want it—simple joy. Not really. We thrive in complexity, as much as we feign otherwise through absolute statements and our incessant building of binary systems.
Life is receiving a stack of summer camp letters and realizing that blip of a state is but one among many—many states that will hold different details and resulting emotions.
It is love, embodied. And it is fucking gut wrenching.
