I had no idea what to expect of the place or the retreat, and I had a keen sense that I was a stranger in someone else's holy land. Part of me kept wondering if this was a mistake. I reminded myself repeatedly that acting from a place of insecurity leads to regrets, that I needed to say "yes" to invitations once in a while.

When I made the right turn on to what my modern car still identifies as Boys Camp Road, when my tires crunched dirt and gravel, I finally let my right foot lift, slowed, and came over the last little hill of driveway. Ahead of me, between Kaufman and the Lower Units, I saw the lake, reflecting back to heaven the bright silver-blue of the late afternoon sky.

I wondered then, and wonder each time I arrive still, how many people have turned off the pavement, full of anticipation, full of insecurity, full of wonder.

You cannot clean an old wood floor.

Yet there I was, sweeping away, watching dirt and fuzz skitter about, often carried by the light current of air in all the wrong directions. The sand I was trying to sweep away mocked me, sliding into every crack in the wood floor of Esau. It was right there, visible, sitting just millimeters out of reach of the bristles.

As I walk from my car to my cabin, taking deep breaths of the fall air, my eye lands on something on the ground. It is white, and curved, marked with tears at the edges, and little streaks of black and brown.

It's a slice of birch bark, of course. Something I have seen all my life in northern Michigan. While there are few birches near home in SE Michigan, it's not like this tree is a stranger. Still, it seems startling to see it there, large pieces of its skin cast off on the ground. I almost pick it up. 

This particular piece of bark feels perfect in curve and shape and dimensions. I pause to look at it repeatedly for the next few days, each time, wondering if I should pick it up. And I pause to look up, to see the swaying trees, including the one this bark fell from.