When I was younger, my parents would send me to camp sometimes in the summer. The camp they sent me to eventually became one of my favourite places in the world, a place that's so filled with magic and wonder and happiness that it's the place I go in my mind when I meditate, when I need to centre and find peace.
It wasn't always that way. When I was young, camp was a little bit scary. 2 weeks away from home? Away from my parents, from my books and my friends and my music and TV and familiar sights? This was a Big Deal. How would I get through it?
One year I became particularly obsessed with the worry that I'd forget the music I loved. It was a rustic camp, where we slept in cabins and few of the building had electricity and while music wasn't forbidden, exactly, there was too much risk in bringing along a Diskman and CDs. (Yes, back in the dark ages, pre-MP3 player.) So some of the counselors had music, but not the campers. And I liked music that wasn't that popular. 2 weeks without being able to listen to any of it? I was sure I'd forget the lyrics, or the tune, or something.
Fearful that this terrible musical amnesia would come to pass, I spent the week before camp writing down the lyrics to every song on every CD I owned. Just in case. I put all the pages into a three-ring binder, to keep it all together. I reminded myself every day to pack it, when the time came.
I forgot.
And I didn't forget a single song anyway.
No comments:
Post a Comment