As one might suspect…no WiFi at Wild Goose. So, tonight I play “catch up” with my written reflections, now that I have returned to civilization.
Friday, June 27
Our mini-van of carpooling children and adults pulled into Wild Goose with a shout of joy. The ride was smooth, Biscuitville offered a delightful satisfying breakfast, and conversation was inspired. But, the first glimpse of the opening day small point of light came for me when someone pointed out, “this is our tribe.”
Yes, yes it is.
My daughter and I went strolling, taking note of the quotes and signs by campsites. She was dressed in tween hipster gear, fedora and multiple necklaces with moons, peace signs, ruins, a cross and a peace dove. I never leave the house myself without putting a labyrinth, a piece of Celtic knot work, or a cross around my own neckline. So, I understand. We said hellos, stopped to read tent signs, took in all the happy enthusiasm of set up.
I felt inspired to write an opening poem this first night at the goose:
My tribe was arriving
In mini-vans and cars with crammed full hatches
Early birds all set up, hanging their welcome signs
And some of us piling in, finding our space of ground.
My daughter and I walked, saying hellos
Her hipster tween-ness of black skirts and Converse
With jangling necklaces of runes, doves, and moons
And my own labyrinth around my neck, marking my every step.
“This is my tribe”
Yes, without a doubt we are all connected
My tribe of questions, doubters, seekers and geese.
Those of whom who liberate this weekend,
The spirit of justice pulsing in our veins.