By Amanda Moreno

I went camping again this past weekend. I’m constantly aware at the theoretical level that escaping to the woods — or the ocean or anywhere that doesn’t have cell service and is surrounded by ‘nature’, really — is integral to my emotional wellbeing. But I always forget at some level just how much I need the retreat until I’m in the middle of it.

Photo by graywacke/A Landing a Day

Being in spaces where city noise is absent, where everything slows down, and where I can just laugh and sit and eat and be in silence or among good friends does something to my whole being that I just can’t get enough of. I think the groundedness these retreats provide are particularly helpful as a retreat from world events, and a return to re-centering.

This time around, the occasion was a good friend’s birthday, and it was a group of 12 humans I don’t know all that well. Going was a difficult decision for many reasons, one of which was that although my extrovert self has been reigning pretty supreme lately, the knowledge that my introvert self might not quite like adapting to strangers with fairly different lifestyles (mostly all monogamous couples) kept me non-committal.

That is, until I was sitting in my bedroom and heard the Blue Angels flying overhead, rehearsing for their yearly weekend shows. The thought of having to listen to war machines flying overhead in order to spend millions of dollars while people gawk upward forced my decision: to the woods I would go!

Alas, the camping trip was fairly perfect. Low key, laid back… but a few things really stuck out for me, only one of which had to do with humans.

First of all, there was the white noise of wind and river. The nighttimes were windy, and being able to listen to the intense rustling of the trees — at first distant and then just above and throughout the campsite — felt like it swept all that wasn’t working in my nervous system right on out. The wind transmuted it to joy or abundance or whatever light matter my being could imagine. The river noise was a constant backdrop, and frequently throughout my life I’ve been heard saying that there are three things that stop the monkey-mind chatter of my brain: the white noise of rushing water, dancing at a live show and sex.

Second of all, there were the stars. Oh, the stars! I will never get over the wonder that floods my whole body when I can look up, away from the light pollution of the city, and gasp at the magnificent sky above. I could see some planets, I could place some stars and I stood under the Milky Way in totally humble reverence for the vastness of the space we live in.

I am awestruck every single time. Not just at that vastness and how many little glimmering points of life there are, but at just how floored I am when I try to grasp the fact that those twinkling lights are massive three-dimensional objects that exist incomprehensible distances away.

A friend remarked to me as we stood in the pitch black, craning our necks to look upwards, that she is afraid that someday soon people will stop seeing the stars. Whether because of light pollution or inability to get out of the city, or just because we become so unaccustomed to seeing stars and incapable of seeing them — or even just uninterested — that we lose our concept of them and our ability to communicate about them. I agreed and felt a shudder down my spine.

We spend so much time looking down at screens or our own navels. What about the mystery beyond? Such a natural humility occurs when we tap into how much we don’t understand by doing something as simple as looking at the stars. A humility very different from the humiliation it seems too many people experience when trying to fit into a world that tries to define so much so concretely.

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Finally, there was a kiddo there with us. At five years old, he was a sight to behold and to hear. He was inquisitive and hilarious and full of piercing insights and fun little songs. Listening to his narrations of his own perspectives was incredible.

We’d be talking about something and spell it out — “There’s a B.A.T. flying overhead!” And we’d ask him, “What does B.A.T. spell?” And he’d respond, “B.A.T.!” Of course it does.

He’d sing little songs, and slide his trucks and his behind through the dirt. He immediately chucked his clothes off to go swimming in the river. He pronounced the marshmallows that all of the adults were so excited about roasting for him to be sour and icky, and pronounced the dog that accompanied us to be one of his best friends. Slowing down and seeing the world through the eyes of a five-year-old was the perfect accent to an already low-key weekend.

I returned to the city feeling calm. De-stressed. Stable. Quiet. I keep thinking about a world where things are calm. Not stressful. Quiet. I also keep thinking about a world where no one looks at the stars, be it because they can’t be seen or because no one cares. It makes me sad. I hope that doesn’t happen, while I know that it might.

In the meantime, however, I’m going to keep looking up. I’m going to keep enjoying my life in my urban wonderland while still seeking excursions out. And I’m going to keep remembering my little five-year-old friend, and his astute observations and singsong approach to curiosity and presence. Because there’s a lot to learn from that, and a lot to celebrate as well.