Come & Take It Live
Article Brought Back Memories
RECEIVED Mon., Nov. 24, 2008
Dear Editor,
I just finished reading the long article in the Chronicle about what happened out in Lost Pines, and I have to tell you: I'm in tears [“Campfire Horror Story,” News, Nov. 21].
I had the opportunity back in about '97 to help facilitate a drum circle out there, and it became, for me, one of those events that changes the track of your life without your conscious awareness.
I had been on the road traveling for a while; had landed in an intentional community near Lost Pines; had been out to Hawaii for a while; and had just returned to Texas when someone asked if I could help with a drum circle out there. I said sure and arrived at Lost Pines to be offered dinner in the dining hall, and one of the boys was assigned to me as my guide. I can't remember his name, only that he spoke very quietly and proudly of the fact that he had recently earned his "graduation" from the camp in the form of a four-month Appalachian hike. He showed me the campsite and explained how things were run and the expectations placed on all the boys. He showed me the site that he and the other boys had prepared for the evening drum ceremony. It was beautiful. Majestic stumps had been placed all around a giant fire pit, wood was stacked and ready to burn, and the boys were eagerly awaiting the evening.
Two things I'll never forget: first, the complete and utter abandon with which the boys participated in our ceremony – faces painted, looking like warriors – they placed their "majic" sticks (sticks into which they had symbolically placed their fears, angers, and pain) into the fire, shouting as the sticks burned. Second, the love and trust that most of the boys I interacted with seemed to feel for the staff and for one another.
I personally spent 10 years living outside year-round, sleeping on a second-story screen porch even when the temperature dipped below 25 degrees, cutting wood for the wood stove in winter, and playing guitar by lamplight for my children at night. The only person who would ever wonder at the appropriateness of children living outdoors all year is a person who has never awoken to the majesty of a forest at dawn or felt pain begin to diminish in the softness of a breeze or the companionship that develops around a campfire at night. That person should ask my children if they believe their new life in the city is a comfort. My daughter will adamantly tell you it's not and that she longs for the woods and has spent four years trying to adjust to the sound of cars at night that has replaced the sound of coyotes, owls, and frogs; she'll tell you the television has stolen her mother from her and that there is no longer music in our home in the evenings.
I've now been working with at-risk youth in the city of Austin for the past four years as a drum instructor and have recently been awarded a grant from the city … and whenever I feel the pain of 60-hour work weeks, the continuous drone of "comfort," and the total disconnect from the natural world around me, I remember those whooping, howling, laughing, crying lost boys of Lost Pines … thank you, Bebe Gaines, for the work you did there.
I just finished reading the long article in the Chronicle about what happened out in Lost Pines, and I have to tell you: I'm in tears [“Campfire Horror Story,” News, Nov. 21].
I had the opportunity back in about '97 to help facilitate a drum circle out there, and it became, for me, one of those events that changes the track of your life without your conscious awareness.
I had been on the road traveling for a while; had landed in an intentional community near Lost Pines; had been out to Hawaii for a while; and had just returned to Texas when someone asked if I could help with a drum circle out there. I said sure and arrived at Lost Pines to be offered dinner in the dining hall, and one of the boys was assigned to me as my guide. I can't remember his name, only that he spoke very quietly and proudly of the fact that he had recently earned his "graduation" from the camp in the form of a four-month Appalachian hike. He showed me the campsite and explained how things were run and the expectations placed on all the boys. He showed me the site that he and the other boys had prepared for the evening drum ceremony. It was beautiful. Majestic stumps had been placed all around a giant fire pit, wood was stacked and ready to burn, and the boys were eagerly awaiting the evening.
Two things I'll never forget: first, the complete and utter abandon with which the boys participated in our ceremony – faces painted, looking like warriors – they placed their "majic" sticks (sticks into which they had symbolically placed their fears, angers, and pain) into the fire, shouting as the sticks burned. Second, the love and trust that most of the boys I interacted with seemed to feel for the staff and for one another.
I personally spent 10 years living outside year-round, sleeping on a second-story screen porch even when the temperature dipped below 25 degrees, cutting wood for the wood stove in winter, and playing guitar by lamplight for my children at night. The only person who would ever wonder at the appropriateness of children living outdoors all year is a person who has never awoken to the majesty of a forest at dawn or felt pain begin to diminish in the softness of a breeze or the companionship that develops around a campfire at night. That person should ask my children if they believe their new life in the city is a comfort. My daughter will adamantly tell you it's not and that she longs for the woods and has spent four years trying to adjust to the sound of cars at night that has replaced the sound of coyotes, owls, and frogs; she'll tell you the television has stolen her mother from her and that there is no longer music in our home in the evenings.
I've now been working with at-risk youth in the city of Austin for the past four years as a drum instructor and have recently been awarded a grant from the city … and whenever I feel the pain of 60-hour work weeks, the continuous drone of "comfort," and the total disconnect from the natural world around me, I remember those whooping, howling, laughing, crying lost boys of Lost Pines … thank you, Bebe Gaines, for the work you did there.
Sevylla del Mazo
