Postcard from Vermont: I could tell you
I could tell you about the morning I spent sitting on our screen porch watching the sun sparkle on the lake while my two girls played on the floor of their bedroom, shared books from my mother's childhood and giggled.
Or I could tell you about the morning it was rainy and we'd all been up since 6 and the kids were bored with the toys here and I'd lost my temper with the whining several times and it was only 9:20 am.
I could tell you about swimming twice a day in the lake and how deeply joyful it is to watch the girls come to love it as much as I do.
Or I could tell you about how Z shrieks every time she sees algae or snails or dragonflies and how E is completely fearless of the water and gives me an anxiety attack every time she jumps at me from the dock with no warning, a tiny twenty-six pound missile.
I'm struggling in writing, as in life, with where to focus my eyes. There is so much fullness here, so much beauty. And there is so much challenge and frustration and imbalance. And somehow, on vacation, it all seems that much more acute.
I don't want to write arching platitudes, projecting into the world only the best, most polished parts of myself and my life.
Nor do I want to write only of the challenges, the darkness, leaving only evidence of my every misstep.
Maybe I could just tell you that I have returned from a two and a half week summer vacation with my kids at my parents lake houses and that would be enough.