I just got back from camp.

Where I lived in Maine, ‘camp’ is a place you go ‘upta.’ It’s often a small off-grid cottage tucked into the woods where you go to be alone, fresh water and flannel in tow. For me, though, camp has a totally different meaning. For me, ‘camp’ means friends and fiddles.

Think of something you love to do that puts you in a state of flow. Now, imagine being surrounded by hundreds of others who share your passion, all striving to expand their knowledge and skill, and actively seeking to find common ground.  

Look around at the incredible range of people with whom you have this singular love — all ages, identities, abilities, and perspectives. Their nametags reveal only their first name, instrument (all are welcome), and home state or country. Nothing else matters, because music comes first.

No one goes to fiddle camp to isolate (or, often, to sleep). You go to connect with old friends and forge new ones. You go to learn new things and experience the simple joy of playing music with others. Whether your aim is to dive into tradition or improvisation, there is no judgement here. It doesn’t matter whether you frequent the stage or still sound like a cat in pain (we all started there); there is space for everyone.

Fiddle camp bridges cultures, making space for past and present to align and create something magical and good. It’s a place where differences are valued, where we can push our own boundaries while gathering inspiration from others equally passionate.

Fiddle camp is a place for observation, connection, and sharing. We learn and grow by listening with open hearts and minds, and then we make the song our own. There is always another tune and another way to play it. All voices are equal.

In a world marked by division, this is exactly what we need.