On Monday I wrote about my opinion of book banning. (To sum up: I am a librarian after all. Getting books to people is my job. Choosing what people read is not.) Today, a list of books that have at one point or another been banned or otherwise restricted that have influenced my life.

1. The Awakening by Kate Chopin. This book wasn't actually banned, but it was heavily censored. The reviews were scathing, calling the book immoral, unwholesome, and socially unacceptable. It describes a woman having an affair and exploring her sexuality. It wasn't until the 1960s that it was widely read. 

a summary, and how it changed me: The Awakening​ is the story of Edna Pontellier, a woman living in turn-of-the-century New Orleans. She is married to a fairly wealthy man and has two sons, but she is desperately unhappy. On a family vacation in Mexico, she meets and falls in love with another man. Back home in New Orleans, she begins withdrawing from her roles of housewife and mother, as well as her social obligations, eventually leaving her family.

I heard someone say she hated The Awakening because all it was about is a rich lady whining about how difficult her life is. I can see that critique. And my response to motherhood is nothing like Edna's. While sometimes it is complicated or painful or exhausting, I wouldn't trade my experiences as a mother for anything. But here is how the book influenced me: It illustrates the effects of how society painted (and still sometimes does) womanhood in an either/or light. Either you're a mother or you're not. Either you are entirely selfless or entirely selfish. Had Edna had the opportunity to have an and—mother and music aficionado, for example—then perhaps she could have found healthier ways of managing her problems. The Awakening encouraged my natural proclivities; I never wanted to devote every ounce of myself to my children, house, or husband, and Chopin's book helped me do this with less guilt. As it shows the devastating consequences of the social either/or construct of womanhood, The Awakening encourages me to see my life's roles in broader terms and to accept my need to be a mother and something else as well.

2. Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck. Banned because of language, racism, and violence. Isn't it odd that white people try to ban books because of racism? Which is usually perpetuated by white people? Also banned (in the school libraries in the county where the novel is set) for libel against how the government treated migrant workers.

a summary, and how it changed me: Steinbeck's novel is about Lennie and George, two friends who are migrant workers and find work at a ranch in Soledad, California. It is a short novel with fairly deep implications.

I read this in tenth grade and never thought about it much again, until I became a teacher and it was the book my high school had for tenth graders. Rereading, studying, and teaching Of Mice and Men changed me partly because it was my first time dealing with actual, live people protesting a book. I had many, many parents contact me with their concerns about tenth graders reading it. One parent even went so far as to tell me that I was an immoral person for teaching it; another told me that I didn't have to let the school district push me around, I could choose to teach something else.

Some parents complained about the language in the book; some about the violence and that ending. What I finally realized, however, is that what they were afraid of is that the book would lead their children to think in different ways. Of Mice and Men is a novel that expects you to wonder if "wrong" actions are always wrong. It asks you to think in morally grey areas. It demands both anger and compassion. And this sort of subtle, difficult thinking is objectionable to some parents because what if their children catch on that they could think about other things with the same not-black-and-white thinking?

My experiences with Of Mice and Men taught me that I​ value grey thinking. It is an important part of my identity to question things and to find my own understanding. I also learned that not everyone values those ideals, and this has to be OK (even if I don't understand black and white thinking). Sometimes living an examined life is painful and not everyone wants to experience that pain. But it will always be valuable to me.

3. Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. Can anyone overlook the irony of a book about book burning being banned? Too much swearing and contrary religious ideals are, it seems, the perfect reasons to not let anyone​ read something.

a summary, and how it changed me: A dystopian novel set in a society where it is illegal to own books. Firemen don't put out fires, but set them, burning books where they find them.

Aside from the fact that when I read this book as a junior in high school I immediately fell in love with the genre (which changed my life, too), Fahrenheit 451 can't help but change you if you let it. I already knew, when I read it that first time, that books were important. But this clarified it. Books aren't just important on a personal, individual level, but on a social level, too. Without books we are far less human. I have clung to that knowledge as it is starting to seem like books are less and less relevant: Those of us who know they matter need to continue sharing that knowledge. Sharing books. 

4. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. Does reading a book about a character who attempts suicide create readers who also commit suicide? (It is also banned because of the main character's sexual experiences, some profanity, and its not-so-subtle rejection of women's role as a mother and wife.) I would like to think not. Except, when my dad was hospitalized for depression and suicidal thoughts, one of the things his therapist told him was to avoid "dark" books. So perhaps a penchant for dark and twisty thoughts might lead one to reading dark and twisty books. Except—the dark and twisty was there in the first place.

I don't know.

Suicide is real and pervasive and horrible and I am not a psychiatrist so I cannot say for sure. But it seems that not talking about it, and not writing about it (and thus not reading about it) won't make suicide go away.

a summary and how it changed me: Esther Greenwood is a successful young adult who landed a summer internship in New York City with a popular women's magazine, but her depression turns dangerous in the weeks following her return home.

I discovered Sylvia Plath through the song "Bell Jar" by the Bangles. I'd listened to the song a few times, and then in a fortuitous (or wise, on my English teacher's part) twist, looked up "Plath, Sylvia" at the library after my English teacher recommended her to me. The card catalog and the song lyrics clicked, and I was hooked.

The moment in The Bell Jar that changed my life is when Esther is swimming in the ocean, perhaps trying to drown, but the "old brag" of her heart, "I am, I am, I am" doesn't let her. I cannot say my depression was as dark as Esther's (or as Plath's), but sometimes those words reminded me that I am, too. Right now: I am​. And that helped me keep being.

5. Harry Potter by R. K. Rowling. This series was concerning to parents because they thought it celebrated the occult, magic, demonism, and witchcraft. Which puts to point one of the main questions I have for book banners: Have you ever actually read this book you're complaining about?

a summary and how it changed me​: I'm not sure I need a summary of Harry Potter. But: The orphaned Harry Potter, who lives with his emotionally-abusive aunt, uncle, and cousin, until he discovers he's a wizard and can go to Hogwarts School of Magic. Friendships are formed, magic is accomplished, hijinks ensue, including the need to find and destroy the world's most evil wizard.

The excitement over Harry Potter started in about 1998, and I totally didn't even notice it. Haley was three, Jake was a baby, and junior chapter books just weren't on my radar. But then my friend had tickets to the first Harry Potter movie, so we went with her (and Jake lost his brand-new coat) and I tumbled head-over-heels. I bought the first four books (the hardback ones, with the Mary GrandPre covers) and read them to my kids.

Haley, Jake, and Nathan all loved to read when they were kids. But none of them loved the books that I loved when I was a kid, thus dashing my expectations of discussing, say, Anne of Green Gables with Haley or A Wrinkle in Time with Jake. I'm fine with this—I'm just happy they loved to read. But Harry Potter changed me because it gave me those books to share with my kids. It gave us those happy days of sitting together in the front room, immersed in Hogwartian adventures. Harry Potter brought us closer together as a family and gave us a shared language and story arc; it still makes us closer because it is still part of our shared language. 

There are many other oft-banned books I love. But these five have all changed me in ways that are immeasurably valuable. They have defined me, brought me happiness, helped me to understand the world better. Saved me, in some ways. Thankfully I live in a country that values free speech, so while doubtless people will continue trying to ban or censor books, hopefully they will not ultimately be successful.

This week is Banned Books Week, wherein books that have been banned in some way or another are discussed, as is the concept of book banning itself. One of the brilliant librarians at my library created this display

and I can't believe how it's got people interacting with and discussing books. The most common thing I've hear is some variation of "wait, this book has been banned? But I've read this book and loved it!" I've seen five or six people, seemingly strangers, gathered around the display, lifting the bags to see what's inside of them, and then discussing the books.

And checking them out!

This is deeply satisfying to me because it accomplishes the exact opposite of what an attempt to ban a book sets out to achieve: "protecting" the world from a story. Banning simply calls attention to the book; it raises awareness of it and inflames the reader's inner rebel. It creates a dialogue between the book and society.

People's attempts to ban books are both deeply offensive and deeply ridiculous to me. Ridiculous because of what I've observed with that display in the library: people lifting off the brown bags to find out more about something that someone would like to keep secret

The reason banning is offensive goes deeper than paradox, however.

While there are many books I just cannot abide (books that the populace loves), the thought of working that hard to keep a book from a reader just doesn't make sense. Much of the pleasure of reading is wrapped up in the pleasure of choosing: perusing a shelf (be it a literal or a digital one), picking what to read based on a cover image or the book blurb or a random paragraph that sucked you in. But also the choice to continue reading: do I stick with these characters, this plot? Do I choose to immerse myself in this particular world, or to return it and try something different? (Do I choose to flip to the back and read the ending because I cannot bear not knowing what happens?)

Not every book fits every reader. Not every reader will love every book. That's partly why we have so many: different tastes, different needs. Some people read to have their worldview confirmed, others read to have it challenged. Some read to find themselves and some read to find the Other (and some read to find the Self in the Other). Some read for the beauty of the writing and some read for plot; for some readers, the mystery is what reading is and for others, language.

Or some combination of all of those. Or maybe even none of those; I can only really explain my motivations for reading. But choice itself is part of the process. Book banners seek to limit choice; they try to say that their motivations for reading are the only universal reasons for reading. And, generally, it seems that the reading motivation of people who try to ban books is to find only the stories that mirror back how they think life should look. If it looks different from theirs, they perceive it as dangerous.

That is why banning books is offensive to me: it seeks to control. It seeks to say "only I have the answers." It says "there is only one experience, and that is the experience that I know." Book banning seeks to limit the perceptions of an entire society down to the beliefs of a few.

It is an impulse that is based entirely on fear.

Fear of the Other. Fear of difference. Fear of difficult experiences. Fear of truth, fear that the thing one believes to be truth is, in fact, false. And choices or actions that are based in fear rarely produce fantastic results.

Many banned books do include fearful content. They question faith, god, religion, belief, and spiritual ways of being. They discuss and describe sexual acts. They describe rape, violence, the lingering aftermath of racial and gender prejudice. They explore the strange and insular paths that some people find themselves on. They seek to bring these things to light not to praise them but to explore them. To understand them. This is because bad, difficult, painful, ugly things happen. Beautiful and magnificent and magical things do, too. Writing about them—reading about them—doesn't make them happen. But it doesn't make them not happen, either.

Sure—don't get me wrong. There are myriad books full of disgusting things. Full of violation and violence. There are books that explore the very darkest parts of humanity, with no other purpose than to admire the ugliness.

But I don't think that even those books should be banned.

Because just like the library patrons have been doing all week (well: for as long as libraries have existed), books and readers are about interaction. You sit still, reading, but you still act. You still choose. You are in control: keep reading, stop reading. I want to put that choice in my hands, always. I want to teach the power of that choice to my children and to the patrons I help at the library.

You can pick up a book and start reading it. For any number of reasons, you can fall in love with the book or you can despise it or even feel indifferent to it. But whether you choose to keep reading it—that is up to you. And you should make that choice for yourself.

We readers are intrepid. We go all over the world, the universe, even to places that don't exist at all. We plunge in to and out of all sorts of different lives. The beautiful things help us see and understand the beauty in the lives we live, even if it is an entirely different sort of beauty. The questions that characters explore help us look more deeply at our truths and in this way understand them more fully. The difficult experiences either mirror our own or help us understand other people's sorrows. By choosing to read we choose to experience all of humanity and by doing so become better people.

In all of that reading there is understanding, but without the choice to read, none of the understanding can happen.

So go ahead. Don't be afraid. Lift the bag off.

Read a book.

(I know. I'm as surprised as you are that I've actually stuck with this goal of mine! Not only that but I've been taking more pictures just to make sure I have a few to pick from each week.)

Last week was a little bit crazy. Big mood swings and I had some awful headaches. On Friday I melted down completely. But we got tons of rain, and that meltdown triggered something in me, reminding me that I don’t have to be a victim to my mood. I know what I need to do and this week I just need to do it: run more, consume less sugar. Even if it rains!

My favorite picture from last week:

We took this selfie last Sunday. I love it because Kaleb is smiling! (He’s at that age where he hates having his picture taken and so he’s really, really hard to photograph.) That dress I’m wearing is the oldest piece of clothing I own; I bought it in 2003 when I was teaching, and I still love it.

Last Sunday was my week to teach in church. This is always difficult for me. I wrestle with church history and some of the doctrine, but I usually find a way to make a decent lesson. Last week I talked about the handcart pioneer disaster, which is near to my heart as I had ancestors who survived it. Mostly, though, I talked about how we can help to rescue the people we love. It is harder now, more subtle. More about loving and accepting and just…seeing what is needed rather than assuming that all of the answers fit everyone. I’m working on that. And I know in the end only Christ can save anyone. Even me. (Especially me.)

I did a little bit better with cooking this week. On Sunday I made sweet & hot meatballs (recipe at the end of this post) and on Friday we had grilled burgers and brown rice. OK…not much better. But a little bit. Places we ate out:  Pizza Pie Café, Costa Vida, and Mi Ranchito. I guess we did have leftovers one night, and sandwiches another night, so it could’ve been worse. Pizza Pie Café is a buffet-style restaurant, with pizza, salad, and pasta. (It’s where Jake, Nathan, and Haley have all worked.) When we were eating there on Monday, I asked Kaleb what his favorite pizza there is. (Mine is the chicken ranch, which is weird because I don’t really like ranch, except when it’s topped with grilled chicken and plenty of salty mozzarella I guess.) He thought for a second and then said “garlic knots are my favorite pizza.” Which made me giggle a bit!

I went to ballet barre class on Monday, and I ran only once. The cold weather snuck in and drained all of my running mojo. This week, I’m going to dig into some of my warmer running clothes and see if that helps me feel motivated. I have so loved running in the heat this summer that I’m sort of dreading running in the cold.

Nathan and Jake both had appointments with the dermatologist, but not on the same day. That’s three dermo appointments in six days. That means I saw the dermatologist more than I saw my own mother last week. We chatted about his awesome experience seeing the eclipse last month and I tried not to feel bitter that I didn’t go and see it too. (Maybe I should’ve just hitched a ride with my dermatologist? Seeing as how we’re besties now???)

It’s always good to spend time with Jake, even if it is bonding over wart-removal techniques.

On Monday, I mowed the lawn while Kendell went to the gym, and then when he got home I asked him to help me get an enormous weed out that was growing between our fence and the neighbor’s. Turns out there was an enormous hornet’s nest back there and he got stung twice. Not so fun.

Kendell and I went to see It. And then a couple of days later I bought a copy of the book. It’s been calling to me for a couple of months now, and seeing the movie finally made me give in and get the book. I read it when it first came out—when I was 14—and I don’t have the clearest memories of it, except I remember that I enjoyed it, plus a few snippets of images (Bill riding his bike with Bev on the handlebars is the clearest). I’m about 50 pages in and I’m discovering that I can’t re-read this in the same way I read it the first time, which is true of any book but especially true of Stephen King. I find myself reading to understand how he does it, rather than just for the adventure and terror. We’ll see if that keeps up or if I can sink down into the story.

Kaleb had two soccer games this week. The Thursday game was in Highland and the storm was coming in. It was so cold and windy. I managed to survive because I happened to have two cardigans with me, lol, but Kendell was in shorts and flip flops and he was freezing! Kaleb scored at each game; they won their Thursday game and tied their Saturday game, with Kaleb getting a goal about two minutes before the game was over to tie it up (which I didn’t get to see because I was at work). He is enjoying soccer so much more this year. It helps that his coach is pretty even tempered and balances out who plays which position, so Kaleb isn’t always stuck being the goalie. (In fact, he keeps it a secret from his team, that he’s really good at being goalie, because he hates playing that position!)

On Friday Nathan asked me to make him lunch (he comes home for lunch quite often) and I was so grumpy and sad that I said “nah, I don’t want to fix lunch” and so we went to lunch instead. (Oooops, add that to my list of places I ate this week!) We went to Panda Express, had a nice chat, and I left feeling a little bit happier.

Kendell and I watched the series episode of one of our favorite TV shows, The Strain. We also watched a lot of news together, and ranted about politics. Every day when we wake up, he’ll turn on the TV to check the news, a habit he picked up during the election last fall (I would rather have no TV on in the morning) and I always say “what fresh new way has trump ruined our world overnight?” It’s hard to believe we are living through such strange times, earthquakes and hurricanes and an enormous baby as the president of the United States.

Anyway. Here’s to a week with fewer headaches and more running, fewer restaurants and more cooking! And here’s that recipe:

Sweet & Hot Meatballs

2 cups pineapple juice or 1 20 oz can pineapple chunks
1 15 oz can tomato sauce
1 8 oz can tomato paste
2 cups V8
¾ cup brown sugar
1-2 T chili powder
2 tsp liquid smoke
red pepper flakes to taste
prepared meatballs

Mix all of the sauce ingredients together, adjusting spices to your heat preference. Add meatballs (I just use the ones they sell at Costco…making my own meatballs sounds nightmarish) and heat through. Serve over coconut rice (which is rice with some portion of the water replaced with coconut milk).

I haven’t made these in forever and I forgot how much everyone likes them. Nathan came home from a date with Bailey on Sunday night and had a second helping before he went to bed! Yay for dinners that no one complains about.

It’s funny how one decision or experience can lead you somewhere you didn’t intend to go.

Last week, I was in Target and the Halloween decorations made me cry. Seriously: I was crying (albeit silently) in Target. Over Halloween decorations. The skeletons and pumpkins and black, glittery skulls were like physical representations of how quickly time goes, how fleeting this life is. All of my Halloweens with little kids are gone. I don’t even know what this year’s Halloween will look like. And while I want to try to embrace right now and find the joy in what is here, I can’t help it: I loved my days of having little kids at Halloween and I am sad they are gone.

So I decided, right then and there while I was standing in the Halloween aisle in Target, to make a Halloween scrapbook album. Nothing complicated: One group photo from each year since Haley was a baby, with a few list-style notes and the year. I started working on it the next day. Gathering pictures from 2003 and onward was fairly easy, as my digital pictures are pretty well organized (thanks to a husband who likes things neat and tidy on the computer!).

To get the photos from 1995-2002, however, I had to dig into my negatives. They are also well organized, but you know how sometimes a task that should take about 20 minutes ends up taking all afternoon because you get sidetracked? Yep—that happened to me as I flipped through the negatives. I found myself ooooohing over pictures I’d forgotten, and then I had to delve into my older scrapbooks to remind myself how (or if) I’d scrapbooked them. And then I just spent the rest of the afternoon looking at layouts. Reading the journaling, studying pictures, remembering experiences. Laughing at stories I’d entirely forgotten, or sniffing at some tender moments that the layouts made clearer for me.

When the kids came home from school that day, I was surrounded by photo albums, scrapbooks, negatives, and not a few crumpled Kleenex.

My heart was full. And soothed.

Later that night, lying in bed while waiting to fall asleep, I found myself thinking about how happy my scrapbooks make me. It makes me happy to be in the process of making a layout. And it makes me happy to revisit the memories. I always love my kids and am aware of my gratitude at being their mom. But looking through our photos and reading about our experiences reminded me of just how…layered, I guess, life is. We have had all of these years together, loving each other, disappointing each other, getting frustrated, having fun. Doing things together, big experiences like Disneyland vacations, and also small moments like chocolate chip cookie baking and skinned-knee bandaging. All of it, the good, the painful, the sweet, the difficult: it all works together to form our lives and our relationships.

It isn’t only about right now. Memory matters too.

And I am so grateful I have all of those stories down in words. I’m grateful I can revisit them. I’m grateful I can leave my own memories here, on paper, in case someone wants them when I’m gone.

But.

As much as I love & adore & am obsessed with scrapbooking, I’m keenly aware of how other people think of it. To some people, it’s “cute,” with all of the negative connotations that word suggests. To some people it’s a waste of time and/or money. To others it’s just baffling.

Amy’s weird little hobby.

Even though I think about scrapbooking a lot, and I spend a lot of time scrapbooking, I don’t talk about it much to people who aren’t scrapbookers. Even on social media, where I follow a lot of other scrapbookers, I almost never post about scrapbooking. (Especially on Facebook. For some reason it’s easier on Instagram.) It’s almost like it’s a thing that causes shame—my dirty little secret, as I’ve written before.

So there I was, curled up in bed in the dark, listening to my husband snore and thinking about how much I love my hobby. How much happiness it brings me. And how much I want to share that happiness with the people in my life who don’t scrapbook—and how, right there, I bump into resistance. Into embarrassment.

And I decided: forget that. (Actually, I used more colorful language in my head!)

Scrapbooking is cool. Sure, it can be kitschy and more than a little bit twee. But it’s also just cool. Patterns and colors and textures. Fonts and typesetting. Design elements. Large textual treatments and tiny little details. It’s artsy and beautiful and important.

And all of those people—friends and family members and coworkers and social-media strangers—who think my hobby is silly?

I decided I don’t care.

It brings me happiness. It brings me a sense of peace. It scratches my creative need. It gives me a space for writing our stories. It reminds me that my life has been full of meaningful experiences. It reminds me, over and over, of how much I love this family and this life I have been given.

Go ahead. You can think I’m silly. But while you’re thinking that, I’m feeling a little bit sad for you. Because you don’t get to revisit memory in these many different ways. You don’t get to feel this particular sort of happiness that scrapbooking makes me feel.

And you have no justification for owning twelve exacto knives.

And that, sweet friends, is how I went from weeping in Target over a plastic cat skeleton to rejoicing in my hobby of choice.

You just never know where life is headed!

The first thing I do in the morning, after dragging myself out of bed (I can’t remember the last time I woke up not tired!) and taking my morning meds is to wander out to the kitchen and look out the back door at Timp. I’m certain many people in our valley think this way, too, but I think of Timp as MY mountain. I’ve stood on its summit, I’ve traversed its highest ridge; more than that, it is a constant positive presence in my world, always there in the background with its moods and weather and changing beauty.

This morning when I said hello to Timp, the south side was outlined with morning light, while clouds were just starting to roll over the north half. I stood looking at it for a bit longer than I really had time for—needed to get kids up and make breakfast and get them out the door—but it felt so…apt. A vivid representation of how I have been feeling lately, light being overcome by darkness.

I wrote a bit this last winter about my struggles with depression. It started early last fall, as the stress of yet another surgery for Kendell finally caught up with me (seriously…in 12 months he had three serious heart issues and by the last one it was just…brutal; a bitter, boiling stew of fear and sadness and worry and wishing it was different and feeling bad for his pain but not being able to fix his pain and…everything else.) It got worse even while he recuperated, but then it got really, really bad. Sometimes depression is manageable until there is one thing that triggers it and then it isn’t manageable. And there was a great big triggering event—or experience, I guess, that started in December and went on and on and on.

My depression has been better since about the middle of April, partly because the trigger has gotten better. Partly because I was managing my exercise more. Partly because of meds.

As fall approaches, though, I have been feeling like this morning’s view of Timp. Still partly in the light, but the darkness is encroaching again.

Last winter, when I finally dragged myself to the doctor because I just couldn’t manage anymore, he thought my symptoms—the tiredness and lack of energy and the fact that I was gaining two pounds a week—might be because of an adrenal tumor. You’ll understand how desperate I was when I say: I hoped it was a tumor. A tumor I can understand. It can be managed with surgery.

It could be fixed.

Then after all the tests he found there was nothing wrong with me, physically. Heart, lungs, blood, hormones, even my adrenal glands: all normal. Except I was making huge amounts of cortisol. His suggestion (along with a Prozac prescription) was that I do things to manage my stress better. He suggested that I take up exercising (I already exercise) and a creative outlet (do writing, scrapbooking, and quilting not count?). He suggested meditation. Tai Chi. Yoga. Seriously. I think I looked at him with a mix of bafflement and frustration on my face because he literally put his arm around my shoulder. He said “Many people wrestle with this. Your body and your emotions are more connected than you think. I can’t find the way for you to manage your stress. You have to find it.”

So I took the Prozac, and really: it has helped. It’s helped in strange ways that deserve their own blog post, but partly it’s helped by letting me care a whole lot less. Without overthinking and overfeeling everything, I have been able to start separating. What I need to change about myself from what is not in my control; what really helps me (exercise, creativity and—a new discovery—sunlight and heat) from what doesn’t (caffeine and sugar, namely); who to share my energy with and who to preserve it from.

But I don’t think I have figured out enough. Or maybe the depression is stronger than the Prozac. Or maybe I am letting feeling and thought overwhelm me again. Because this season which I usually love, autumn which I live for, doesn’t feel orange and creative and beautiful. Instead it feels…looming. A harbinger: if fall comes, then winter is not far behind. And last winter was dark. So dark. I almost feel like winter is stalking me, waiting patiently to pounce. I’m not sure I can survive another Narnian winter.

I didn’t take a picture of Timp this early morning. I needed to wake up the kids and my phone was in my bedroom anyway. When I returned to looking out the window, after everyone had left, I saw that the light was gone and the clouds were getting serious. There’s a storm coming, and I hope it is a wild one. I want to stand out in the wind and rain and see if the weather can blow away my darkness. Or maybe just standing in the storm will remind me that storms don’t last forever. Maybe the weather in fall—dark then bright, hot then chilly—can be a metaphor I can cling to. Maybe it can remind me to seek out the light, or to wait patiently for warmth to return.

Or maybe I need to learn how to bend with the wind.

To end, a snippet of a Stanley Kunitz poem that has been repeating itself in my head:

Blue poured into summer blue,\A hawk broke from his cloudless tower,\The roof of the silo blazed, and I knew\That part of my life was over.

Already the iron door of the north\Clangs open: birds, leaves, snows\Order their populations forth,\And a cruel wind blows.

When I was getting ready to go running the other day, I was searching through my drawer of exercise clothes for a specific skirt I wanted to wear because it matched the shirt I'd picked out. It took me a few minutes to find it because the drawer is so full.

I might have a small problem with buying running clothes.

While I was running—in between trying to calm my heart after a dog either chased me or just wanted to run with me (I'm still not sure) and shooing away bees (and trying not to panic again; bees are not my favorite) after I got too close to someone's beautiful garden of sunflowers, zinnias, and lavender—I was thinking about just why that is. Why do I love buying running clothes?

(And not just any running clothes, but cute running clothes.)

I came up with a few reasons (or are they justifications?) and thought I'd write them down, in defense of my (two) (bulging) drawers of exercise clothes:

1. They motivate me. Maybe because when I first started running in the summer of 2000, my "exercise clothes" consisted of two pair of cotton stretchies and some cotton t-shirts emblazoned with computer software slogans (I even still had a few old WordPerfect Ts then!). But now, I've got tech fabrics that breath, in pretty colors and patterns. You know I love running, yes? But it's still hard sometimes to make myself get out of bed, skip breakfast for a little while, and hit the pavement. Knowing I can pick out and wear something cute (and non-cotton) just makes it easier.

2. They are fun to shop for. Doesn't matter whatI'm shopping for: regular clothes bring up all my body issues. Pants? My out-of-proportion waist-to-hip ratio. Shirts? My broad shoulders. Dresses? Dresses are a nightmare to shop for if you're LDS, and plus: pregnancy irrevocably alters your belly; doesn't matter how many ab workouts you do, your skin has been stretched like a nearly-popped balloon and it's just not going to be flat ever again. Cardigans? Even for an avowed cardigan-loving librarian such as myself, cardigans are also tricky because while I like to wear them because I'm self-conscious about my bat wings (aka teacher arms, aka church lady arms, aka my saggy triceps that insist on sagging no matter what I do) at the same time I have to find the ones that don't accentuate my bat wings. Swimsuits? OMG, does anyone like buying swimsuits? My issue with them is my chest. It's the only part of my body that can reasonably be called "small." And swimsuits just look awful on my small chest. Shoes? Come on.​ Have you seen my bunions?

I still have all of those body issues when I am trying on running clothes. (You should hear me grouse about my over-the-sports-bra back fat.) But somehow, it doesn't matter. Because I know I'll be moving my body in these clothes. I'll be outside, running or hiking, or even in the dingy gym lifting weights. I won't be working or doing the dishes or wandering around Costco (or, heaven forbid, sitting by a swimming pool) in those clothes. I'll be doing something good for my body and my psyche and so I can only look on those potentially-mine running clothes in a store or online as future happy companions.

(But I do feel compelled to say: I'm a careful shopper and I only buy stuff that's on sale.)

3. They remind me of being a gymnast and a dancer. I can still do a proper cartwheel—hips square, toes pointed—just like I learned when I was seven. I still sometimes move through the five dance positions—arms and feet—just to move my body in that way. But I only used to be a dancer and a gymnast. Part of the fun of those sports was leotards—all colors, different fabrics, and my running clothes feel the same. The feel of a tank strap on my shoulder, the flip of a little skirt at my hip: they make me feel like a runner just like my leos made me feel like a gymnast. You’ve got to run in something, and I choose the pretty stuff because it reminds me how it felt to be nine or 12 or 16, when my body really was strong and powerful. When I could fly.

4. They make me feel like a runner. I know—I already wrote that sentence. But I mean it in a different way. I don’t have the compact body that people tend to imagine when they think “runner.” Those tiny swishy running shorts (or the booty shorts) and the itty bitty singlets; the low body fat percentage and chiseled jawline and thigh gap? None of those images match up with my body. These thighs will not abide tiny shorts and these abs prefer a shirt with a little bit of looseness. I am strong and I am flexible, but I am not chiseled or waifish or compactly lean. But when I pull on a running skirt, when I slip a running tank, even when I put on my running socks: I feel like I am a real runner. Even if I don’t look like one.

5. They bring me confidence. Sometimes I think we runners forget that what we do is remarkable. We cover ground many miles from home, using just our feet. There are a million bad things that could happen, a careless driver, a twisted ankle, an angry dog. But we don’t let the possibility of bad things happening stop us from running. You must have faith in yourself to be a runner; you have to have confidence. That builds with each completed run because each time you prove to yourself that you can run your surety that you can continue to run grows. But for me, confidence also comes from wearing something cute and functional. Maybe that is shallow of me? Maybe. It’s also true, though: if I like what I’m wearing, I feel like a more confident runner. And more confidence equals more miles, which equals a happier (and healthier) me.

6. They have pockets. Well—the best ones do. If you want to see me get into a crazy, ranty lather, ask me about pockets on women’s clothing. Running clothes especially. Do all the clothing designers think we’re running with our man running friends and that they can carry the keys? It makes me nuts. I’ve accumulated not a few pair of running shorts that work with my body composition, but I almost never wear them anymore. Because my running skirts (from Skirt Sports) have two pockets. And not those tiny little “pockets” that most brands have, the ones that might hold a key and six peanuts. Pockets that are big enough for my cell phone (because oh my gosh I hate running with an arm band), keys, and more than one package of nutrition.

So yes: I confess to owning too many running clothes. But they don’t go to waste. I use them. I wear them out on the sidewalk and on the trails, I sweat in them and dash through stranger’s sprinklers in them. Sometimes the thought of putting on something cute is the only thing that gets me out the door. Sometimes I fall but I always get back up, and part of that is because of cute running clothes. If they help to keep me running (and thus happier and more able to cope with whatever life throws at me) then they are worth every penny.

My favorite picture this week is one I didn’t take. But let me describe it for you: It’s got me, Kaleb, and Kendell, plus Jake, Nathan, and their girlfriends (Elena and Bailey). We’re at Red Lobster and half of them are blissed out on all-you-can-eat shrimp while Bailey, Kaleb and I are pretty happy with our steaks.

I didn’t take this picture because A—the lighting inside the restaurant was bad and B—sometimes taking a picture turns an experience into An Event, especially for my kids who hate having pictures taken. And I didn’t want it to feel like An Event, even though, really, it sort of was. Going to Red Lobster for all-you-can-eat shrimp is a tradition. Kendell and I started doing this in 2002, with our friend James; we took Kaleb along a couple of times when he was a baby. It’s since evolved…we’ve gone with other people, and it was the thing we had planned for Kendell’s mom’s birthday, the day after she passed away. But sitting there with my big kids, missing Haley, and with the extra girlfriends…it just really made me think about how our life is changing and how it will continue to change.

It was a good night.

I didn’t take a whole lot of pictures this week because I was sick for most of it. I had a cold that wasn’t really too bad on the actual cold symptoms but totally knocked me out as far as energy goes. And the fever and joint paint were pretty miserable. Wednesday was the only day this week I didn’t take a two-hour nap. But I’m finally feeling better.

Kaleb had a soccer game on Saturday. He scored two goals, and his team won 3-1. He is so much happier with this year’s team and coach, who has been able to see Kaleb’s strengths (even if he’s not the fastest runner, he has a powerful kick and a good aim, plus an instinctual understanding of how to move on the field). Playing forward this year and contributing goals has re-energized his affection for soccer. Plus, it was a beautiful day to watch a soccer game, sunny but not hot and with a tiny breeze.

Kendell had an appointment with the dermatologist, who is helping him with the keloid scarring from his incision, and I finally got Nathan to the podiatrist to pic up his orthotics.

On Friday, Kaleb went with a friend to the carnival at one of our high schools, and then to the football game. I'm not really sure how I feel about this—him doing adolescent stuff! I mean, it's great. I'm glad he's developing friendships and doing fun things. But sometimes I'd like him to just be three again. I'm trying to remind myself to just live in the now and be OK with what is. And it is exciting to see him growing up.

I meant to go hiking on Saturday morning but we got a lovely downpour of a rainstorm, so I ran instead. (Thought the trails would be super muddy.) My only other run this week was with Becky on Thursday. We went on a trail by her house because in September it’s lined with sunflowers. So pretty! It was so nice to talk while we ran.

Nathan is knee-deep in prepping to take the ACT. I’ve been helping him with the English sections and Jake came over on Tuesday to help with the math part. Plus he’s working quite a bit on his self-portrait for his AP art class. He is not loving being back in school. Senior year…classes are easier than junior year but man is it hard to put forth the effort. He’s loving his art class though! And his Spanish class, and he really loves his English teacher. (Awesome because last year’s English teacher was…not awesome.)

Haley got some great news this week about an opportunity at work. She is so busy that we don’t hear from her a lot, so it’s so nice when she has time to chat. Love that she is thriving in her last year of college!

While I was sick, I spent a lot of time working on organizing my photo folders because I was long overdue on doing a back up. This lead to quite a few reminiscences over adorable pictures, which lead to looking through scrapbook layouts, which lead to a list of stories I still need to scrapbook. I know the non-scrappy people in my life don't really understand this part of me. But even though it might seem silly or childish or whatever, I love it. I love making layouts and I love looking back on our memories.

Becky and I met for a super-quick lunch on Friday. I only had an hour so she went to the restaurant first and ordered. I was excited to share one of my favorite restaurants with her, Thai Village. Even if we only had less than 30 minutes to spend there together.

Which makes me realize that we ate out way too often this week: Red Lobster, Pizza Hut, Costa Vida, and Wallaby’s. I really need to start cooking more often but I’m having the hardest time finding any motivation for it.

Maybe that can be my goal for this week: actually cook!

How was your week?

And…what was the last meal you cooked that your family actually liked?

I’ve been thinking for a while that I want to start documenting more of my everyday details here on my blog. I used to do this quite a bit but I’ve slowed down as the popularity of blogging has also slowed. But I love having the details down, so I’m setting myself a goal. And let’s be honest, I’m perfectly aware of how bad I am at following through with a goal like this. But I’m going to try to do the following:

Every Sunday, post my favorite picture from the week before and write down some details about the week.

Here’s my pick for the week of September 3-9, 2017, from Labor Day:

Haley spent Sunday night at our house, after dropping her friend Dani off at the airport. We had breakfast for dinner that night (pancakes with blueberries, hash browns, and bacon). I was hoping Jake would come, but he was recuperating from a cold.

Nathan and Kaleb also had a cold this week; Kendell caught it on Thursday and I caught it on Friday.

On Labor Day, we got up in the morning and did one of my favorite things. Kendell drops me off somewhere in Provo (I decide where before, it’s not random!). He drives to his work gym and works out there, and I run there to meet him. For my Labor Day route I ran through the cemetery and stopped at my dad’s grave. There might’ve been some crying. I’ve been feeling like I’m starting to spiral down again, and so I stood by his grave and had a little conversation with him, asking him to send me…something, I don’t know. Something to help. Anyway. After running, we did some grocery shopping, I prepped for dinner while Kendell showered, and then we went out to do some yardwork. Kendell mowed, I pruned a whole bunch of dead stuff out. All of that time, Haley, Jake, and Nathan were at the mall together! For dinner we had burgers (Haley had a salmon patty), pizza pasta salad, and watermelon. I meant to make some pumpkin chocolate chip cookies but it didn’t happen.

This week we discovered that our favorite little Mexican place to get take-out nachos from, El Azteca, closed down. Sadness!

On Tuesday, Jake and Elena came for dinner. We had roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, and watermelon. The meal kind of made me laugh—I should’ve cooked some veggies but I wanted to eat the melon before it went bad. Kind of didn’t go together but everyone seemed OK. We ate that meal out on the patio, too. It’s lovely to have the weather start to cool off.

Kaleb had a soccer game on Wednesday and Saturday. He scored his team’s only point on Wednesday. They lost on Saturday and he didn’t score any points.

Stuff we watched on TV or discussed: the approach of hurricane Irma; all of the wildfires in the west (Montana, Washington, Oregon, California, Idaho, and Utah all have fires), the earthquake in Mexico, the situation with North Korea.

I didn’t exercise much past Monday because the air is so smoky. Zero hiking!

On Friday Jake had an ortho appointment and I went with him. After he came over and hung out at our house before he had to be at work. I made him breakfast and then we talked about physics. (like…what was here before the universe? and…how can you conceptualize the fourth dimension?) He even went to Target with me. It was so nice to spend time with him.

For my lunch break on Saturday, Kendell picked me up and we went to Costco, where Nathan was waiting so he could fill up his car. We wandered around Costco together and got some pizza. Just a regular activity but it made me pretty happy.

I finished The Last Neanderthal and started reading The End of The World Running Club.

Sore throats, coughing, and bad air aside, this week held some great moments!

When Haley was little and I was pregnant with Jake, I had a conversation with a dear friend that troubled me for many years. We were talking about motherhood and babies; I was expecting and she had a newborn. I’ve forgotten the crux of the conversation, but I will never forget something she said: “The only thing I’ve ever wanted to be is a mother,” she said, her face happy as she patted her son, who was slung over her shoulder in that milk-drunk contented sprawl that babies have. “I don’t want a career or anything else. I just want to be a mom.”

Her comment troubled me because not only was that not how I felt (or ever had felt), it is what our culture (we are both LDS) tells us we are supposed to feel. An ideal LDS family, it seemed to me then, was one with a husband who had a fantastic job that paid for a big, beautiful house and provided enough money that the wife could be a stay-at-home mom, happily raising her children. (Who would all grow up to also have this ideal life.)

While I did want to be a stay-at-home mom, I also had other aspirations. I wanted to finish my education. I wanted to travel. I wanted to be a mom and other things. And I had always wanted that; when I was a little girl playing with dolls, I never just mothered them. I took them to imaginary places. We went on airplanes together. I got them dressed and took them to the babysitter and then picked them back up. (The “babysitter” was another doll.) Even as that very little version of myself, I wanted to be a mother but I also wanted to be other things.

And the fact that I wanted that AND felt, to my very-young and still-learning-about-being-an-adult self, to be wrong somehow. Like the aspiring part of me was someone I had to tamp down and control.

But life has a way of teaching us what we don't know we need to learn.

My "mother's day" photo this year, a few days late: me and my kids at twilight on a beach in Hilo, Hawaii. Non-awesome exposure because the sun was almost down, but a photo I love and cherish anyway.

I did get to be a stay-at-home mom, something I wanted desperately to do when my kids were young. I feel blessed that I had that time, even though it was difficult.

When I had to start working away from my kids, because of financial difficulties, I was devastated. Angry and frustrated because I thought I had chosen what I needed to choose in order to continue to be blessed in that way. I always felt lucky to be a sahm, even though I always had those aspirations, because I wanted to have that time with my kids, have those experiences that can only come when you’re at home all day with small children. It was difficult and sometimes I felt lonely and lost, but I never resented it. When I had to give it up, the devastation came because I didn’t get to continue having those moments. I wasn’t ready to stop being a stay-at-home mom, and those years of working full time as a teacher were difficult.

But they were also rewarding. They taught me that I could find happiness and satisfaction in many different roles. They gave my children some positive experiences that shaped them in ways I couldn’t have. They also taught me the value of choice, of considering my options and striving to choose what was right not just for my family but also for myself. They taught me the value of my aspirations.

During my time of being a mother, I have also been a student, a writer, a teacher, and a librarian. I have been a person who makes things and who teaches other people how to make things. A runner, a hiker. Even a traveler (although not nearly enough).

Now I am in what I am starting to think of as the post-minivan time of motherhood. We only need a car with four seatbelts, and car seats are a thing of the past. It’s been years since I had little ones; I’m in the middle of teenagers and new adults. And I still have aspirations. I still have many things I want to do: write successfully to a wide audience; travel to many more places; hike as many peaks as I can. Inspire more people to love books and libraries. Run another marathon or two or five, run even more half marathons. I have even started to imagine myself becoming active in local politics. And: I plan on continuing to take care of my children, even if they are no longer children. I hope their futures intertwine with mine, I hope they find good spouses and I hope their spouses want a relationship with me, too. I hope my kids become parents one day. If they want. More than anything, I want them to find lives that they love, lives that are ideal for them. I want them to choose the things that will bring them the deepest happiness which is, I’m convinced, not based on fulfilling someone’s idea of what is ideal but their individual and unique versions of ideal.

And I hope through all of that to be a mother to them.

A few days ago, I had a conversation with a dear friend that’s been troubling me a little bit. It’s such a different format of conversation than the one I had twenty years ago with my old friend (who did, by the way, achieve her desire: she has a large family and has been able to stay at home with them), over Facebook, so I could write the exact crux of it. But what matters is her concern: what will she do with herself when her youngest child heads off to school? Who will she be? How will she bear having those days of actively mothering her little kids come to an end?

What troubles me is that she only feels sadness about this new chapter in her life, not excitement. Don’t get me wrong: I, too, was sad when Kaleb headed off to first grade. But I was also excited for the time I had to pay more attention to myself. I’m troubled for her—that she might mourn too long, or always look backward instead of focusing on what is here before her. Motherhood is a blessing, but it is not the only thing that defines us. It troubles me because our culture sometimes focuses on motherhood without acknowledging that we are all, also, other things, and that the intense work of mothering small children always comes to an end. They grow up. What you will be when that happens is up to you, and that choice is also a blessing.

Our conversation, though, also helped me to understand again a knowledge I am continually relearning. When I look back over the shape that my life has taken over the past 25 years, I do feel blessed. Lucky, even. But I don’t have that ideal LDS family. I don’t have the big, beautiful home on the bench (preferably near a temple). I have adult children who aren’t interested in the church. I have my own struggles with my faith. But between the opportunities God blessed me with and the choices I made, I have been able to find my own ideal, too. Or at least, I am in the process of creating it. I won’t be finished making it until I am finished with my life.

This is what I didn’t know when I had that long-ago conversation with my friend: her desire to be a stay-at-home mom wasn’t bad, and my desire to be a mom and something else was also not bad. Like motherhood itself, my aspirations for an and are God-given. They are part of who I am and to deny them is to deny how God made me.

I cherished my days as a stay-at-home mom. And I am cherishing my days right now, in my post-minivan world. I am a mother and I am many other things, and that, for me, is the ideal. And I think it should be everyone’s ideal: find who you are. Choose who you will be. If that choice is staying at home, do that if you can. If that choice is being a mom with a career, do that. The ideal image of the perfect Mormon family is only that: an image. Perfect is what you create for yourself.

Perfect is the act of choosing, with all of the attendant messiness that happens after. Perfect is embracing who you are. Perfect is knowing that is ideal.