dancingthroughchaos

‘If you can’t fly then run, if you can’t run then walk, if you can’t walk then crawl, but whatever you do you have to keep moving forward.’ – Martin Luther King Jr

Somewhere around 1972, my Dad won a national camping competition promoted on the back of a cornflake packet.  This proved a number of things: 1) somebody, somewhere does actually win these things, and 2) when they do, they don’t always know what to do with the prize. 

This competition required identification of a number of different types of tent rather than simply the ‘Complete this sentence is no more that 15 words: “I like camping because…”’ formula. The famous cereal manufacturer – we’ll call him ‘Mr K’ – had appealed to my Dad’s academic brain.  Clearly there were right and wrong answers here; the judges decision (always final, of course) was not dependent on a mere whim but would have to be based on hard facts.  Thus inspired, Dad scuttled off to the local library and poured over a number of encyclopaedias until he had tracked down each canvas construction.  Sure enough, he won and some months later the prize arrived and we were suddenly inundated with camping equipment including a large family tent, a smaller igloo tent, 4 deck chairs, 4 camp beds, 4 lilos, 4 sleeping bags, a compact gas stove, stackable pans and various other paraphernalia.  This all brought a number of further challenges: 1) we were not heretofore a camping family, and were about to be compelled to road test the stuff 2) thanks to a large vegetable patch, our garden wasn’t big enough to erect the ‘family’ tent, which threw us on the good nature of our next door neighbours and their garden, where we wrestled with the instructions until the result looked at least vaguely related to that of the smiling jumper-matching family on Mr K’s packet. 3) A ‘family’ was clearly designated to be group of four and as there were five of us, whose jumpers did not remotely match, this was not destined to end well. 4) My Dad felt that such abundance was not conscionable and consequently gave the bigger tent away to a disaster relief agency without us ever using it – phew!  We did, however sleep in the igloo tent on many occasions.  5) And possibly most importantly, taking a tent down is easier than putting it up as you realise it must be a) dry and b) fit into bags of such ridiculously minute dimensions that you can’t believe you ever got them out of there in the first place.  ‘Why would the manufacturer add this cruel blow to the whole escapade?’ we wondered multiple times.

Camping is still not my holiday of choice.  I feel I paid my dues through several years of Bible weeks and a super basic excursion in China which was my last muted ‘hurrah’ in this genre of accommodation.

I know that constructing any campsite demands focus and a methodical approach; deconstructing it requires an equally systematic approach combined with diligence and energy, but also a mind-set that is focused on moving to the next destination wherever that may be.  It appreciates what has been but recognises that times and circumstances have changed, and that it is time to move.  Back in those post competition-winning days, I’m glad to say the next settlement was usually ‘home’, and the thought was always very reassuring to me.  I’m rather a nest builder by nature, so my current lifestyle is completely counter cultural; I do not have a physical ‘home’ to go either back to or on to, so the metaphor applies somewhat differently.

Breaking camp is all about moving forward, whether that’s physically or emotionally.  Going home (if you can) is one thing, but generally ‘going back’ is a retrograde step.  I must also admit that I’m someone who could all too easily wallow in the past.  I love reminiscing, re-telling family stores, reviving old jokes, pouring over family photographs which prompt so many of the, ‘Do you remember when…’ stories etc.  This is all well and good, and even invigorating for an hour or two from time to time, but it’s not a healthy place to live.

Having been ‘camped out’ in rather a holding pattern regarding my health for the past five-six months, I’ve now come to the end of my treatment (hurrah!) and am quite ready to move on.  I don’t want to go back to ‘normal’ partly because I’m not sure what that is/was anyway, and partly because I recognise there is a new season of some sort ahead.  That’s true for all of us to some degree.  Even if we ever arrive in the post-Covid world, the idea of going back to ‘normal’ is beginning to repulse people.  There are aspects of life we hanker after for sure: hugging our family and friends, and sharing celebrations with unlimited numbers of people, for example.  More people are deciding they never want to go back to the confines of office again; that most meetings can be done remotely, and that while queuing returns to its traditional place as one of our national past times it is rather nice to peruse the supermarket shelves without the crush of jostling multitudes.  Having more time to read, pursue hobbies and activities with our nearest and dearest has brought a breath of fresh life into some family relationships.  If you’ve been on your own, I appreciate it may be a different story.  However, we will all be looking for a ‘new normal’  in the days ahead just as we did in Cape Town during the drought that threatened to bring us to ‘Day Zero’ and a drastic lifestyle change a couple of years ago (https://dancingthroughchaos.wordpress.com/2018/05/31/the-new-normal/).

I don’t know what this new season holds or where it will take us, particularly given that commercial flights are currently very limited putting South Africa beyond our reach.  I do know that I am fitter and healthier than I’ve been for some time and intend to keep it that way.  I also don’t have a physical home, so once again I’m challenged to dance through the chaos, break camp and move on to take the next ‘adventure that Aslan sends’.  Bring it on!