During BCHF2015

On Fisgard Lighthouse at Fort Rodd Hill:

For a place so irrevocably tied with loneliness, it’s an unfailingly welcoming freedom and adventure that is always present no matter how many times I come. Maybe it’s the self dependence of finding your own routes or the instinctual simplicity of survival in an actually potentially dangerous setting. Whatever it is, it’s a happy place.

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A disjuncted journal entry:

I remember writing words like “unforgettable” and “once in a lifetime” and “so much fun.” I was excited in a young, just-won-the-biggest-award, can’t-believe-I’m-going kind of way, before I cooled down and thought like a grown-up, remembering responsibility and calmness despite exhaustion and everything else care-takers of children must remember. So I was prepared and cool-headed and professional going into the trip, except perhaps, with a slight sense of curiousity for where I would fall as a 19 year old chaperone and alumna.

And yet again, it is the people who make all the difference. And of course as important as the planning of events and activities are, it is the stuff slightly outside of our control, our guarantee, that make all the difference. The kids who get invited over here are intelligent, quirky, often mature. There must be enough difference in those things for it to make a difference.

There’s a sense of groundedness, a complete emptying of desperation when one finds the best friend. Two people casually sidle into shoulder leanings and head resting and speak of things outside the situation.  The banter is a million times better than when being along and hugs never need to end.

Thank you to the alumni for being my friends, for the chaperones for their character and wisdom, and the kids for their laughter and easiness and eagerness in everything.

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Post BCHF2015

Was it about good-byes? Or about the changing world? Or just a capturing of a small moment that brought on a slew of thoughts and ideas and funneled neatly into a singular, bow-tied conclusion? Whatever it was, at least it was fully formed and focused and finished. Fly free, unchained thought, fly free.

FWAP. It’s a tight sound, a thick sound, or at least, tighter and thicker than I thought a knife splitting flesh and bone would be. The chosen slab of meat shifts into chunks of pork ready for cooking and I try to erase the imaginative whisper of blood splattering and parts flying from my mind. The butcher has his tools – big blades, thick blades, skewers, hangers, and one long, thin metal stick sitting on the edge of table. A fly skirts across my attention. Then, another creature. A moth? It flaps its dimly yellow, speckled wings towards the butcher’s counter. Is a bug a nuisance? An infringement on cleanliness? An object to remove? My mind wanders to the array of knives and the precision I suspect the butcher can employ to remove this unlabeled disturbance. I watch as the bug lands on the one long, thin metal sitting on the edge of the butcher’s table and slowly walks along the beam. The butcher becomes still, a stillness that surprises and deems me unable to translate.

“Butterfly,”

he says. And all of a sudden, the creature is a butterfly and sunlight unfolds from its gently sun-kissed wings and the expression on his face is a soft smile, one of wonder and love and admiration for creatures that reminds me that butchers may or may not be killers or cutters but without a doubt they are men with hearts and moments of humanity.