A Very Narrow Bridge

I grew up with a lot of anxiety.  I did not like living in my own skin, did not like who I was, and was convinced that everyone would be better off if I were dead.  More insidiously, I convinced myself that I was the only person in the entire world who felt this way, and that telling people about how I felt was just being a nuisance.

And then I found camp.  Where at home I felt mired in the muck of depression, every decision fraught and full of consequence, at camp I felt like I was flying. Who I chose to be at camp was embraced in total; it was the first time I had ever felt like my presence was helpful in building the community I was in. People would patiently teach me new skills; one summer I learned to sail, the next I learned to build rockets. My counselors were the older brothers I always wanted; they introduced me to new music, gave me cool nicknames, showed me tricks to help me get better at sports while also allowing me to sit on the side and read when I needed a break. At song session on Friday nights they screamed the words of Rabbi Nachman, and I screamed along. The most important part is NOT TO BE AFRAID.

As years went on, the value that I held in the camp version of myself varied more and more from how I saw myself outside of camp. At camp I became a leader, an emcee, a hype man. I was as silly as possible because I believed the sillier I acted the more campers and young staff would not be afraid to be as weird as they wanted to be, as my counselors had done for me.  The other ten months of the year I mostly stayed in my room and felt sorry for myself, but at camp I was a superhero.

My career took a hard left, and I spent a decade working my way up the restaurant industry. I slowly figured out something that should have long been clear; the people we are at camp do not have borders at the camp gates.

Getting to work full time at Greene, as I have for the past three years as the Executive Chef and Rental Business Manager, is the culmination of a lifelong dream. Jewish Camp gave me my wife, my son, my confidence and my empathy.  This summer my dad ran the camp mailroom and my son played in camp Katan. I could work for another 30 years and still not repay everything camp has given me. And so it is bittersweet to announce that I am leaving this role at the end of the summer. I am certain that I will never have another job that I find as meaningful, as engaging, or as full of joy.

This is of course L’hitraot, not goodbye – my son Solomon (Kibbutz ‘40) is already missing his time in Bruceville, and I foresee many family weekends in our near future. I am so incredibly excited for him to grow up in the GFC community – he’s already got the screaming part down, now I just need to teach him:

The most important part is NOT TO BE AFRAID.

Shabbat Shalom,
Eli Cohn-Wein