It had been thirty years
since I last came
to this wooded camp.

I was living in the city then
going to church
with hundreds
of young men and women
artists and businessmen
trying to find themselves
in their crazy twenties
in a crazy city.

I was trying to find something then too,
God, friendship, myself, meaning.

I was awkward.
I was other.
I only fit in,
around the edges.

What would the camp be like
for me
thirty years later?

Then,
I came,
seeking
a blessing.

At this retreat
we came
to practice
pronouncing blessings.

Blessed are you
o road,
that has carried
so many school buses
and church vans,
so many hopes
and fears
to these
hallowed woods.

You’ve been repaved
so many times
over the past
three decades,
May you continue to be
a path
to those who seek.

Blessed are you,
o acorns.
Your ancestors
were buried
by forgetful squirrels
when I was here last.

May your descendants
continue to fall
punctuating
the reflections
of other
retreatants

Blessed are you
o squirrels
running from tree to tree
following ever bending
paths,
performing
leaps of faith
we wouldn’t dare.

Your great great grandparents
leapt from tree to tree
the same way
years ago.

May your faith
and playfulness
live in your grandchildren
and continue to inspire
those yet to dome.

Blessed are you,
o buildings,
so many the same,
though renovated,
and some new.
May you continue
to shelter the seeker
and provide memories.

On the deck,
in quiet meditation,
we looked at the trees
the way
I’ve sat
and looked
at paintings
in art museums.

By the lake
I’d often swum
a piece of bark
rested
on the outdoor altar,
it’s probably now been moved
during a Eucharist.
What does this alter
have in store
for me?

Perhaps,
I’m finding,
what I was
truly looking for
three decades ago,
not some great insight,
friendship,
or goal,
but the beauty
of always
finding
and always
being found,
the beauty
of always
blessing,
and always
being blessed.