Camping as Spiritual Practice

I camped with my daughter and twenty of her friends this weekend.
It rained.
A lot.
It was wet.
It was cold.
It was glorious.

It was a smorgasbord of Holy Senses.
Stars crisp in the night air.
Clouds fanning like bird plumes.
Some trees bare, reaching heavenward,
some quietly disrobing, leaves spattering colors on the forest floor .
And the quiet of rain splashing on tent top
or the rough and tumble of an engorged stream.
The scent of coffee wafting from a camp stove,
Chicken soup simmering in an iron pot,
Blending with the stench of wet dog.
Warm smiles curled on cold lips
Frosty bottoms perched on wet logs
Godde shared our laughter as we laughed at ourselves.

It was wet.
It was cold.
It was glorious.
It was my prayer of thanksgiving

And I would do it again
in a heartbeat.

 

 

 

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