The lake by my home is large and is filled with secrets. I’ve avoided writing about it because it’s taking me a while to truly become acquainted- despite the instant connection when I drove down the hill coming from the northern end of Austria and sighting her turquoise rooftop for the first time. But I feel like it’s not an 'it', it’s a 'her', and not in the pink-and-roses kind of female way, in the giving-birth and raising-children kind of way- real and natural and powerful and with a strong sense of ownership of a role in the world. But I feel like I can semi-begin on writing about her now. I’ve seen her at her best and at her worst. I’ve seen her in the early morning hours and way past bedtime. I’ve seen her filled with little bronzed bodies and completely alone, with a yoga class lying flat-backed on the dock stretched from the lakeside into her ribcage and even with fireworks bursting over her head. I sat with her in silence during a shower of falling stars through to 1am, the only thing we could hear being a couple sitting on camping chairs on a jetty not so far away, talking in hushed tones while watching the show in the sky. She’s magnificent and diverse and her colours change with the weather and the intersection of light and shadow and time and temperature. I have so much left to learn about her, but I have the time to do it, and every day is something new. She’s a mystery that so many have tried to solve in the past- painters and musicians and poets alike. Mahler wrote his second and third symphonies on her shores. Almost every single one of Klimt’s landscape artworks are depictions of what he saw in the many, many summers he spent here. The list goes on, and I’m gladly adding my name to it. I've been staying up late creating and waking up the next day with a head full of ideas. This place is inspired. It’s inspiring. It’s nice to be here, and it’s nice to have this part of me back again.