bennington.

i wake up so many times i can't even count, and each time i sink deeper and deeper into the plastic mattress provided for me by the good college.

in the morning, i have pulled the covers up around my face, and my feet are desperate for warmth.  i look at my phone, at the weather, at instagram, at facebook, at the lack of email i was hoping for.  i look at the clock again.  i close my eyes.

at some point, i simply throw the covers off and sit up, and then marvel at the dent left by my body on the mattress.  concave gloriousness, and my back is moaning in protest.  i grab the wall and stretch myself, hearing the pops of air circulate in my muscles.  i am sore.

i make my bed.  this is important.

i pull down the standard levolor shade and watch it spring back up, and then i see what the morning looks like.  today it is cloudy and cool, and the tiny birds that are housed in the strange apparatus across from me are full of excitement.  i wish i had my dad's eyes, or a pair of binoculars.  

off in the distance ican see cars on a small highway.  there is no sound to accompany this sight.

a few moments later i will get up and begin the proceedings to take a shower, hoping my door doesn't wake up those around me.  we can hear each other's alarms, phone conversations, footsteps across the old wooden floors.  we creak together.  it is an odd thing, brushing your teeth and standing in your towel while talking to your co-workers.  however, it is also comforting.

the white walls do nothing but soothe me here.  although i do catch myself thinking about pinning up some pictures.  i am inclined to draw or paint; neither particular skills of mine, but somehow this place makes me think that i am capable of such endeavors.

my brain sleeps hard; there is much needed to process at the end of every single day.

the wildflowers outside proliferate.  there are no gardeners calling the shots.  the trees break limbs themselves and the forest floor heals them up real good.  the women here don't wear make-up, mostly.  there is a simplicty to clothing, to hair, to footwear.  

teva sandals thrive here.  

the birds are louder than the machinery.  the skies open up whenever they damn well want to.  the paths to breakfast are covered with dew and soak my sneakers, and i happily sit in the wetness while i eat my oatmeal and say good morning to my colleagues.

dear james,

when i saw you yesterday at the eric carle museum i was a little high, i admit it.

i had just seen louise fitzhugh's original pen and ink drawings from "Harriet the Spy," which is one of my favorite books of all time.  i saw each one in all of its glorious simplicity and rendered with the care of someone who was truly blessed with understanding human beings.  i was pretty moved, to be honest; which means i cried a little bit in the small gallery, standing in front of Harrison Withers and Mrs. Plumber and Harriet in all of her spy gear and especially at the picture of Sport and Janie from the end of the book.

and then when i went into the gift shop, well, you saw what it was like there.  it is always hard for me to walk out of there without spending too much money, but then again, i always spend too much money.  when i first saw you i had already bought nine books and left but then i ran back inside to buy the "Charlotte's Web" tote bag as well, because it was still calling my name.

and the woman at the counter with the beautiful skin wanted to take a picture of my Harriet tatttoo and she did, and that made me a little bit buzzy, as well.

however, james, YOU were my main inspiration of the day.

there you were, in your wraparound, rubber blue glasses and buttoned-down shirt, holding a collage from the art studio.  you showed it to me so proudly, and then stated, 

"everyone should try something new now and then."

the whole store was listening to you.  we were all enthralled.

so i began asking you questions, and you began asking me questions, and suddenly i knew that your family was from texas and you were going to vermont later

(and i interjected that i was also going to vermont later as well)

and we shook hands and you said, "nice to meet you, holly."

and your mom said you should tell me why you are going to vermont (and this is when i guessed: homeschooled-christian-onthespectrum-sensory needs--but honestly, that is just some teacher bullshit that you don't have to worry about, james) and then you told me that you studied vermont and they had real maple syrup there and mooses! and then you said, in a whisper-secret voice, "do you know who i learned about who is famous from there?"

and i said, "who?"

and you said, "snowflake bentley." with a huge smile.  and then i couldn't contain myself, james, i just couldn't.  i said, "you know what?  i have TWO picture books about him!" and you said, "so do i!" and then i said, "and guess what?  because i'm an adult i can have some tattoos, can i show you something?" and i turned around and lifted my necklace and showed you my neck, where a bentley snowflake is part of my skin.

and you said, from behind me, "you have a SNOWFLAKE!"

and then you hugged me.

your parents were trying to pull you away, because they were shopping and on vacation and they needed to keep you moving, so when you went to the other side of the store and i stood in line at the register i thought it was over, our little moment.

but then you kept talking to me, and peeking at me, and telling me that we could meet in Vermont.  that we would probably see me there.  you told me that you would be at ben and jerry's later--would i be there?  and that when you got to your hotel, you would draw me a picture and send it to me.

six years old, you told me.  of course.  i am the flame for six-year old moths like you.

so james, even though we did have to wave goodbye (eight times) and even though i probably won't see you in vermont (although maybe i will--maybe we are fated to be together again) i wanted to tell you something.

people will probably have a tough time with you, james.  they won't understand everything about you--your enthusiasm for life, your gregariousness, you wide-open heart--and they just might throw some judgments your way as you get older.  (and i did already in the gift shop, and for that i am sorry.)

you, my fifteen-minute friend, are a treasure.  your light is undeniable and powerful, and you will bring great joy to this world.  you probably will change it for the better.  you will be a force to reckon with, and you will create new and wondrous things that will make this world shine brighter.

you, james, are simply fantastic.  and if someday you are stuck between thoughts or people or finding it hard to trust yourself or wondering how to connect to the next moment of your life, just know that i am in your corner, james.  i will remember you always and hope that you somehow can feel me pulling for you.

thanks for making my acquaintance and keeping me very occupied while waiting in line, and thanks for showing me your art, and thanks for reminding me that there is hope, always hope, just simmering in a small child.  i can always count on that, can't i?

hope you love vermont, james.  i'll keep my eye out for you.

love,

your friend holly

fragments.

driving to target to return the second fan of the season

still marveling at the stone walls along the way

listening to local radio ads and trying to find the accent i used to have

it's hard when you're not local anymore.

watching my daughter ease herself through her first major injury

--toenail smashed in door--

breathing through her pain like labor

then later chasing sticks in the backyard, hobbling around chanting 

chumash songs.

s'mores again, damnit.

using my mom's stamps and hearing how happy that makes her.

looking at my toenails and wanting someone else to paint them.

knowing i have to pack but avoiding that process because it seems momumental.

family secrets spilled like salt on the table, with limited reaction all around.

driving by the flower beds i helped to plant that one summer when cars still honked at my ass.

humidity wrapping me up in its embrace.

the sounds of people walking in this house

creaks of floorboards and wood 

waking me up from slumber and soothing me back to sleep.

my lips burning from too much sun.

sharing space with a dear friend 

wonderful in her steadfast kookiness

knowing i will be like her someday, and

then realizing i already am.

thank god.

talking like a teacher and knowing i am one.

cutting the back of my hair without looking

and trusting the dull scissors

blinking my eyes closed for longer than i need them to be.

the Red Sox game in the background like classical music.

pebbles stuck in the bottoms of my running shoes

fishing them out brings such sweet satisfaction.

anticipatory flighty thoughts that 

worry my soul

but still my heart.

the feel of my daughter's hair after swimming;

thick with salt and clay-like in its bendability

the thought of a brush repellent.

succulent cucumbers

from my father's garden

picked by my kid with glee

and i miss them already.

superheroes.

four ragamuffin kids on their grandmother's front lawn.  two barefoot, one in sandals, one proudly wearing his black socks and sneakers.  all posing without prompting, simply because their underwear told them so.

underoos.

of all that is sweet and holy, has there ever been a better kind of undergarment?  the silky polyester, the matching tops and bottoms; i mean, it was heaven.  1979 kind of heaven.

i remember being so shocked and excited by the fact that my supergirl top was sort of like a bra, but not.  it felt powerful.  i remember my cousin melissa inhabited the body of Wonder Woman; elbows up and back, ready for action.

my brothers were all smiles and goofiness, but i think melissa and i knew that we had changed into some other form of girlness, some kind of magic had overtaken us and we were a force to be reckoned with.  couldn't stop us then.

there is something about finding the photo that you really needed to see tonight that makes you feel as complete as you occasionally feel.  just seeing your grandmother's writing on the back of the kodak-processed film is enough to get you through the hot, humid night.  enough to soothe the melancholic burrs stuck all over you, because how could you not feel empowered after seeing yourself in such a stance?

summer when i was eight years old, when i could still run in underwear in my grammie's front yard, dodging the bean pods that had fallen on the ground from the tree by the street.  sweet golden summer when i could have saved you, and me, and the whole goddamned world.

squawk.

yesterday we left the lake and i got to spend a few hours with one of my oldest and dearest friends.

what, if anything, is better than standing knee-deep in water next to each other, telling tales and sharing stories?  laughing with the same rhythm we had as sixteen-year olds? combined with the gratitude of making it this far together?

nothing, i tell ya.  nothing.

today we took a walk with my dad to a nature space in franklin; a plot of land set aside for people to enjoy just down the road from my parents' house.  we walked by the pond and saw osprey and mushrooms and turtles, and since we were with my father we found out that the osprey were teaching its young to hunt, the mushrooms were chicken fungi 

and proliferate after heavy rains, and the turtles were two different kinds: baby snappers (longer necks, bumpier backs) and baby painted (shiny backs and very colorful underneath).  all the while my children climbed trees, hid under branches and yelled loudly to each other, preserving the sanctity of the wilderness around us.

we walked by a family and met their dog, and then alex said, "take care," as we left.  we then heard the four-year old boy ask his father, "dad?  does everyone know those words?"  "which words, buddy?" "the "take care" words?"

yes,  we do.  we all know the words.  we don't always follow the instructions.

tomorrow my husband and son will accompany my dad to the golf course where his grandfather and father played, where my dad himself learned how to play with his brother along with him.  this golf course is in the central part of massachusetts, the blackstone valley, where the people from both sides of my family are from--where they put down roots that remain to this day.  the owner of the golf course knew my great-grandfather and remembers when my dad was called "jackie lash".  

my dad could not be happier with this outing.

is it like this for everyone, this submerging into nostalgia when one is back among one's people?  as much as i try to be here, be now, be in this moment, i cannot seem to escape the feelings that suck me into remembering how things used to be.

then again, i look at my father, who loves to describe the old days, and longs for times that were simpler and more happy.  so perhaps it is in my blood.

i know i've said this before in this blog.  this is nothing new to me.  or you.  if you read this.

this is the moment that i'd love to just write: blah blah blah.  what is the point of sharing, if i share the same thing over and over again?

the blue jays in the trees surrounding my parents' house are loud and full of themselves.  

they remind me of myself, sometimes.

damnity.

this vacation stuff agrees with me.

i am a bit sun-kissed, a bit wind-blown from my day at the lake.  we went to an island for lunch, made s'mores, saw bald eagle nests and babies, dipped ourselves into the clear, cool water.  i layed myself belly-down on the dock and stared between the wooden slats at the tiny waves, making myself very, very small in the process.

i was tiny and young and little, all at once.

never mind that getting into the water without a ladder has become a challenge in body function; jumping up from a prone position never looked less graceful, but hey, it is still my body and it still works.

this morning, before the picnic, i went for a walk/run.  basically, i walk fast and run every once in a while, but i admit that running does not get me off.  running feels like a chore, whereas walking feels like a respite.  when i run, my gait does not find a rhythm or a gentleness, but when i walk, i feel like i'm on some olympic team, and i'm not ashamed of it.

it's always a challenge for me when i walk fast past two really-in-shape women who are runners.  i feel deflated and defeated, like they won some race i couldn't muster up enough energy to enter.  this thought seeps into my brain, and then the next knee-jerk thought of "fuck that!" comes right on its heels.  nevertheless, it remains a challenge to be confident in the face of faster, skinnier exercise.

 

why does vanity continue to play such a part in my daily life, goddamnit?  aren't i over myself yet?  do i really care this much?  

blech.

i look down at my legs after a fast three and a half mile walk and i imagine the muscles bulging--and they are there, truly--but the cellulite and aged skin taunt me from the surface and it really makes me feel small, but not in the good way that i felt when i was on the dock today.

i am not small.  i am big, large, tall-ish, broad-shouldered, wide-hipped, full-bellied, and getting stronger all of the time.  this i write to remind myself, and you.

i don't have time for this bullshit any longer.  who does?  who has the time left to make oneself feel like crap, or to ignore the very beauty in each finger or toe that is hers?  i certainly don't.  i have lots to do, people, and can't be bothered with this take-down attitude any longer.

it is enough for me to be worthy of all the goodness i can muster for everyone else.  i need it too.  there is only so much i can divvy out without letting it come back to kick me in the ass.

so.

tomorrow i leave lake george, and head back to my parents' house.  i am in preparations for my yearly trip to bennington, trying to get my brain around the deep thinking that is required there, trying to gear up for the next phase of this summer work time.

this vacation has become nothing short of a renewal for me; reinvigorating myself with the simplicity of movement and fresh vegetables and silence and laughter and strengthening my biceps and flossing my crooked, tightly-spaced teeth.  

this is my vacation, and this is my work, and it is more important than you can know.

sitting on the dock of the lake.

this is my office today.

i'm at lake george with my in-laws, and everyone is out mini-golfing.  i have nothing against mini-golfing, but given the choice between sitting here reading, listening to the quiet waves and trees above me, or the raucous, blustery behavior of four cousins enjoying each other, i'm gonna choose the dock.

it's beautiful here.

i went swimming today, picked tiny blueberries by the water's edge; the sand beneath my toes soft and warm and silty.  looked under the amazingly clean water (and by the way, lake george enthusiastists: way to keep your water pristine!  seriously!) and saw the mussels making their way along the lake bed, leaving behind trails that map their sideways journey.  watched my daughter beam light as much as her nine-year old body could emit; so much happiness from the simplicity of each moment.

i am grateful for all of the maple trees singing to me right now.

i just read one of my best friend's scripts, and i am in awe of these people in my life who are so talented, who have so much to offer the world by digging deep into themselves and finding a story within.  seriously.  to have such friendships, such love, such awareness of the world?  i don't know how to truly cement my gratitude in words.

there is a mama duck and her two teenage babies in front of me now, just bobbing along in the afternoon sun.  hello there, fellow earthlings.  my name is holly.

as we drove on the mass pike yesterday, some of the most beautiful highway ever created, i found myself wondering about a life i could live out here.  thinking about all of the years where heartache ruled the days; where longing and crushing sadness played themselves out over and over again in conversations in parking lots and small bedrooms with smaller children between us.  how is it that i gave up on that desire, that obsessive wanting to be. somewhere. else?  to be in the northeast?  to be back among the trees that i grew up on and the sounds i recognized and the accents that i slipped into like the coziest pair of winter socks?  how did i let that go?  

the answer, of course, is much more complicated than a simple description i could offer here; plus it's not just my story to tell.  the answer is still unfolding, because it is just my life.  and the reality of being a mother and a wife is that it is also not just my life, isn't it?  it's not just me.  

i feel like whenever i get to these big, pondiferous questions in this blog i come to a standstill, because i am not equipped to deal with the larger ideas of the universe.  i have nothing to hold onto except for whatever is inside myself at the moment--no philosophy or religion to get me through each crisis--so at these times i feel woefully inadequate to fully articulate and flesh out these thoughts.

all i know right now--all i know--is that these places back here in the northeast corner of this country offer something to me that no other place does, at least not that i've found yet.  right here is solace and comfort and recognition and peace.  silence profound and moving, voices raised together with unmitigated joy.  i love it here.

this is the chair i'm going to sit in for the next twenty minutes.  i'm going to sit, and breathe, and be here.

a story about my dad.

yesterday my dad told me a story about himself that i'd never heard before.  

this is unusual.  my father loves to tell stories, and chances are that i've heard them multiple times.  i'm not complaining; this is just the way it is.

we were sitting around my parents' pool on the warped and rotted picnic benches that have served my family since 1988.  i had cut some mango for lunch, and my mom was making appropriate mango-slurping-noises in appreciation.  and then this is the story my dad told me:

"i was in panama (where he was stationed in the Air Force) and just got off a three-day long shift.  i was so hungry, and i couldn't wait to eat--so i sat down under a mango tree and pulled two or three of them off and started tearing them apart.

and there's nothing--nothing--like eating a mango right from the tree--

anyway, there i was, so happy to be eating finally, when suddenly i felt this huge creature jump on my back.  i look over, and there is a fruit bat the size of a large cat on my shoulder!  one wing/hand is holding onto my back, and the other is on my shoulder... and i'm freaking out, really!  this was long, long before i was the nature guy that i am today...

(at this point my mom interjects that my father must've been 19, but he insists he was more like 21.  they argue for a minute, as they are wont to do.)

anyway, i look over at the bat, and there's his little dog face and his little tongue, and he's just lapping up all the mango juice that i've just spilled all over myself, happy as can be.  i'm trying not to move, trying not to move at all, and then suddenly as quick as he arrived he's gone.

and i go back into the barracks and the guys say, "hey lash, what's with you?" and i try to tell them what just happened--"i just had a bat the size of a chihuahua on me!" but they all laugh it off.

bats are amazing."

i love this story.  i love bats; they are my favorite flying mammals.  bats will be my next tattoo, left arm, design to be announced at a later date.  

i love this story because it made my dad happy to share it with us, and seeing my father happy is a good thing.

i wish the bat population wasn't in peril.  just as an aside.

i love this story and i love my dad.

sum sum summatime.

here at my high school house, sitting on the old blue couch, listening to the sounds of screaming in the backyard as my kids and their cousins desperately try to destroy my husband in the pool while my mother eggs them on.

ah, summer.

s'mores in the backyard over the fire pit.  milo gloating about his nearly (truly) perfect roasted marshmallow.  the mosquitoes floating by, buzzing hellos in my ear while i swat at them like a madwoman.

making and cleaning up dinner.  for everyone.  drinking water from the tap with glee.  planning my escape when i can; walking the neighborhood this morning and being incredulous at the numerous patches of shade for me to find on the sidewalks.

hello, clouds, you sexy things.

farm stands, Red Sox broadcasts, my mother admonishing all of us to turn off the lights, the crispness of this morning's towel after a shower.

this, because my mother loves to hang-dry her clothes.  

the towel made a snapping noise as i unfolded it.  i kid you not.  it's a brand-new kind of exfoliation.

massholes in their cars, god bless 'em.  my daughter beaming at her life and scat-singing "shade of blue" with her cousin.  inviting her grandfather to a tea party in the garden, and being so grateful to be here among the trees.

taking breaths when i have to, which is every minute.  choosing blessings over battles, which is because i am older now.  laughing without thought, which is a defense mechanism and my favorite kind of armor.

this is me in the state where i was born.  i am familiar to it, and it is kin to me.  state of place-state of purpose.

four things to do everyday: exercise, meditate, floss and write.  vacation goals that scream for me to meet them with bravado and passion.  the flossing especially.

this is the first full day here, the one that always makes me swell with love for this place of places.  

in a few days i'll start to miss my people back where i am known through and through, back where brown skin is everywhere and the smell of carnitas fills the air, back where my dogs greet me each morning with love and licks and where my cat demands immediate attention. back where i belong, let's be honest, because Los Angeles is mi familia now.

but still, for tonight, as i sit here listening to the kids still shouting (wondering which adult back there will finally tell them it's time to get out and take showers and go to bed), occasionally looking back through the window in hopes of seeing some bats tonight--for tonight, i am going to allow myself to sink into this massachusetts state of mind.