Camping: Another Sketch

The wind is nice when it comes through the bottom of the rain-fly--through the screen sections of the tent. Most of the time it doesn't, though. So I lay and try not to think about how dirty I am. I'm wearing leg warmers, shorts, a t-shirt, and a jacket--that way I can't feel any part of my skin sticking to the sleeping bag. I try not to let any part of me touch any other skin--then I can feel the stickiness too. My arms are close to my body and my hands folded over my chest. (I'm laying flat on my back.) I keep my legs apart, and try to move my calves as little as possible because every time I do I can feel that the uncovered parts of skin stick to the sleeping bag. It's disgusting. I don't know when I'll get to shower again. It's a sort of hopeless feeling, laying there in my own filth realizing this is what I'm doomed to for an indefinite period of time. It's hard to get used to, harder than I remember. Between the two of us in the tent, the smell is not any kind of pleasant. I put in my headphones and try to pay more attention to how tired I am. The pile of clothes beneath my head is not always the best support, or clean, but it's not a rock, either. And this has become beautiful to me. Soon it will just be normal, peaceful in most senses.

As I adjusted from life in a host's home to life in a tent, this was a typical experience. I often remembered not only that life without a shower was once normal to me, but also that entire cultures live without showering as often as I do. Adjusting does seem to get harder with age. So I pray that I'll always be given the strength to put up with the difficulties of adaption in order to put myself through experiences and ways of life much different to mine. I'm not sure of a better experience for the human soul.