September 2, 2024
It’s the same joke every time: “to be alone in nature, we need all this?”
This, followed by a sweeping gesture at the mounting stack of bags of equipment and bins of gear we assemble for our few days in the woods. In the bags and bins, a portable bedroom, kitchen, furniture, which we tote from our urban basement past the suburbs, up a mountain road, to a gravel covered square with nothing but a fire ring and a picnic table, which we will convert to a temporary home through our wit and wilds, and years of investing in R.E.I. Every time we camp, I’m shocked anew that preparing for the simple joys of nature is such a frantic, time-consuming march of checklist review and tucking tools into boxes.
But reframe this is an exercise in evaluating what we could shed and still live well, all our boxes and bins aren’t much. No electronic entertainment, no complex meals, no soft couch to sink into. (We might have brought toys or games but forgot them; they weren’t on the checklist!) I’m proud we got it all together in good time, content in the choices we made and thoughtful, if thorough, packing that allows for the breath of air camping affords, once we’re finally in place. At least for a few days very little of the trappings of normal comfort feels necessary. Happiness doesn’t seem reduced by the deprivation, despite the stiff camping back the first morning. Our kids thrive here, offering us perhaps the best-behaved 48 hours in recent memory.
Too soon the inner peace is scattered by the jumpy dogs of envy inside me, on the lookout for a comparison to sink their teeth into. As we begin unloading and setting up camp, I spy a nearby campsite with no more than a simple tent, small car backed in, picnic table clear of any clutter. Suddenly, I’m sheepish all over again about our stacks of gear. Why can’t we manage to be simple like them? How have they figured out how to make this work, without all the work? Why do we need so much?
Up the road I spot a totally different set up, a canopy outstretched from a small RV, creating a friendly little patio, on which two reclining chairs are perched, strand of twinkle lights overhead, an inviting outdoor living room. I can only imagine how well-supplied their ride is. They’ve figured out how to have it all—the comforts of home, and the breeze in the trees, the crackle of the campfire. Why can’t we have something with some charm and warmth, such a nice setup?
Why can’t I be more like someone else?
Even out in the woods, the dogs of envy inside me are hungry for a fight, welcoming any excuse to compare. Camping, with it’s clear display of how other people live, is easy fodder. If I don’t step in to command them otherwise, they’ll snarl and whine at the tricked out gearheads and minimalists alike, irrational envy craving simultaneously two mutually exclusive goods. They’re convinced some other life, some other way, is better than what I am and have, determined to growl and grasp at any evidence that fits their confirmation bias. They feel no need to adhere to logic, which would whisper of the insanity of expecting you could have or be everything at once, or that it would be good if you could. The more unrealistic the better—then there is no need to take action, simply snarl.
After all, envy isn’t really about being sated through attainment of the desired end. It’s all bark and no bite, you might say.
The envy rears up again at departure, when sites around us pack up faster than we do, all traces of their temporary homes erased in the time it takes me to get each of my kids breakfast. (Of course, my envy is just as pleased to fixate on the people who get to stick around, enjoying the peace and beauty while we have to head home.) My envy simultaneously disregards rational evidence: their kids are older, we chose to savor the morning fire—and wields comparison as a shield to defend myself from my own accusations of inadequacy
But sometimes another voice surfaces above the din of their yapping, inviting me to look at others with a different lens: not as competition to compare myself against, but as a neighbor I might love, and be loved by.
This voice is quiet but beautiful, steadfast, clear. It is not angry or afraid. Down, boys, it tells the dogs, and can speak with an authority they cannot help but obey. It points me to the campsites next to us, where two different friends are solo parenting for this camping weekend. Maybe the dad with two boys and noodle cups would like to share a meal with us, his kids entertaining mine while we wait out a rain storm. Maybe the mom with her daughter could use a hand packing up her tent, while her daughter lends mine some sparkle sneakers.
In these small acts we settle into the warmth of friendship growing, and the dogs of envy walk away, disinterested. Or maybe they just needed to know, more than feeling better than, they are enough. And this need, pressing and legitimate, is finally sated not by attaining or shedding but by connecting and receiving.
