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.