Julia
Schwartz
May
17, 2002
Settled comfortably into a juicy patch of grass beneath the cool shade of
trees on a perfect summer day, I turn my eyes and my focus to a tree about 300
yards away from me across the front lawn of the Dover Town Hall, and the trees
behind it that are between the American Legion and the Dover Town Library. My
friends are seated around me, with a few other kids who are in my group for the
hour at my summer camp. At first I dreaded going to camp; I was terrified that I
wouldn’t find new friends, wouldn’t have fun, and wouldn’t have time to
relax. However, the analyst in me stepped back and told me that I should go,
because at the end of the year I was in the midst of, I would find myself ready
for serious therapeutic respite. Now in the middle of my proposed ‘healing,’
I realize that I have proved my theory and defeated my fears, for in this
moment, I am experiencing some of the most relaxing moments of my young life.
Running
through the endless grass on the Town Common, I feel my mind separating from my
body. Months of stress bottled up inside of me from a trying freshman year
finally break free. Chasing my friend Bea, one of my many new camp friends, I
feel myself reverting back into a sixth grader like Bea again: jubilant,
worry-free, unconcerned with the example I am setting, the person I am becoming.
As I sprint as fast as I can, I stop thinking about the people driving in their
cars on all sides, no longer concerned with who finds themselves observer to my
childish antics, and what they might think of me. I stop thinking about how as
the oldest by far in my camp art class, Drawing, Painting, and Collage, I should
be the most responsible. For the first time in a long time, my mind focuses on
one thing and one thing only: keeping away from Bea with the sopping wet
paintbrush, aimed for fire at my back. Exhausted at last,
Bea and I continue to work on our paintings, watercolor masterpieces of
the trees across the field. Focusing on my central element, I try to depict the
unique contrast between the regular green leaves and the yellow leaves, a
contrast like that between lemons and limes. In my attempt to mirror the
teardrop shape of the leaves, I have carefully chosen a thin brush to dot in my
leaves. So far, this technique works. In the background, I concentrate on
blending the pine and maple trees beyond the Dover Library into a subtle
backdrop. For some reason, I find great difficulty in getting my roots to look
natural; they all stick out like prickles on a briar bush. Easing back into
concentration born from renewed determination, my mind focuses on something
slightly different: getting each and every aspect of my painting to look just
like the scene waiting across from me does.
Sitting
under the gently swaying trees on this warm summer day, my friends and I
concentrate deeply on transforming a plain white sheet of paper into a soft
landscape that the heroine of a novel would step into and marvel at the wonders
of nature majestic before her. Jonny and Alex and Bea all draw different trees
than I, as well as from each other. Jonny, the CIT of the group, has created an
astounding scene of the trees behind mine. Not exactly born a natural, Alex
still concentrates on the initial elements of her painting, the single tree
standing out in loneliness against the surrounding paper, harsh and white. Bea’s painting is wonderful… but unfortunately, while
cleaning her paintbrush off, Bea has just dumped the entire 12-ounce cup of
dirty water on her painting.
Well, what a shame. Now more water than color, the spell of Bea’s
magical painting has ended, as if a spell a fairy godmother has cast has ended
for a lucky girl, causing her perfect day to melt around her. More importantly,
the spell of my friends’ and my concentration has ended as Bea, Alex, and I
collapse into another fit of giggles. It’s
really too much to ask three girls on a gorgeous summer day to try to focus on a
painting, and that only: too many other potential antics call our names more
urgently than our watercolors! Since Bea’s painting now turned into a soggy
slip of muddy color, and mine needs a chance to dry up a little so I can work on
blending some additional colors in, I give Bea a piggyback. I find myself amazed
at Bea’s weightlessness; then again, I don’t have so many other things
weighing down on me as well.
As
our time wraps up for the day, I turn back into the oldest, helping Jonny and
Anne pick everything up, finding the brushes strewn across the grass, and
stacking the boards we used, carefully avoiding ruining the still-damp
paintings. But in retrospect, I notice a difference between this me and the me
of the day before in the same situation: now, I walk barefoot across the lawn
and the street, carrying Bea on my back. My mind, once clenched into a tiny ball
of myriad concerns, has now burst open once again, hungry for life and eager to
meet new friends. No longer restrained by my own trepidation, I revert
once again back to tranquility and once and for all set the troubles of the past
year behind me.