Random Mussings
Recently, a thought-provoking idea was shared on a podcast hosted by Professor Scott Galloway, prompting listeners to engage in an intriguing thought experiment. He encouraged them to imagine a scenario where they could no longer communicate through writing, signing or speech. The reason for the communication loss is unimportant but could be due to any number of reasons, medical, accident or age-related, but the crucial point is that the inability to convey one's feelings to others is gone. This exercise prompts reflection on what one would say or wish they had said if faced with such a situation. He them takes the situation a step further. If you had lost the ability to communicate but then were told you could restore it, but for only 30 days what messages would you convey and to whom? and why aren't they being expressed now? Find the person and say it.
This concept resonated deeply with me, because of a conversation I had years previously with my Daughter. A conversation similar to an example that Galloway used to illustrate that we don’t know when the last time we will be able to do something is until after the last opportunity has passed. He illustrates this with the poignant example of a parent lifting their child for the last time without knowing it.. I remember once when I was carrying my daughter, she asked what I would do when I could no longer lift her. My answer was uncertain, "I don’t know," because at that moment, I could still carry her. But there will come a day where for some reason whether its lack of strength, my age, or one of our deaths (hopefully mine) that I wont be able to, and the last time I carried her will have passed unnoticed. Since then, I’ve made a point to lift both her and her sister as often as I can. (The are 10 and nearly 9) and I cherish every moment, aware that one day I will not be able to do this any more.
The notion of losing the ability to perform tasks we take for granted is particularly poignant for me. In January 2023, I could effortlessly run an ultra-marathon for over five hours. However, a sudden onset of ankle pain drastically altered this reality. From running 30 miles to struggling with a short walk, I faced uncertainty about my future abilities. Almost a year later, while I can run again with minimal pain, the journey to recovery has been arduous and gradual, highlighting the fragility of assumed capabilities. Would I have treated running differently if I knew it would soon be impossible?
So, I ask you to consider: what if this was your last summer at camp? If you knew you couldn’t return, what would you start doing differently? Would you train your successor, document the invaluable tasks you perform that are unnoticed, or change how you interact with your staff? Would you invite your family to see what you do, or perhaps write a manual for your replacement? Would there be a sense of relief that it was finally over?
Camp has evolved significantly over the last decade, with noticeable acceleration in the past few years. I often wonder how much longer I can keep this up. This idea that this is possibly my last summer should be a catalyst for change, affecting both me and my program, impacting the staff, parents, and campers I work with. I need to make it one.
If this is your last summer, will you go out with a bang or simply fade away?
