When I was pondering my 2017 resolutions, I thought that what I really want to do is make time slow down.

Apparently, I haven’t reached that goal because look, January is already over.

I can’t say that this has been an awesome January. Well, in one sense it has: here in Utah, we’ve had quite a bit of snow. Snowy winters are my favorite. There’ve been several days when I literally only left the house to shovel the snow, and those are the best kind of winter days.

But there has also been this experience that has been awful. One of the most painful things I’ve ever experienced in my life. Partly I’m being vague about it because some of it is not my story, and because writing about it might make it worse, and because I am aching for the person making this choice. But part of it is my story, and if I could write about how painful this is without hurting the other person, I would. Except, maybe I wouldn’t because I’m feeling a huge amount of shame, in addition to the agony. I am ashamed that I assumed this person would love me.

And oh, does that sound angsty or what? Overdramatic much? That’s me.

I should just sum up: It’s been a difficult January.

To compensate, I have been furiously sewing. Kendell even asked me—“Why does it sound like you’re angry when you’re sewing?“ It’s just because of the walking foot on my machine.

It hasn’t been angry sewing (piecing and quilting, actually), but it has been a bit manic. A baby quilt in less than 24 hours is a little bit obsessive of me. (Remember how, in The Mists of Avalon, Morgaine makes the sheath for Arthur’s sword, and as she makes it she weaves not only magical protection into it, but also some of her soul, the part that loves Arthur? I kept thinking when I was making that baby quilt, I hope none of my sadness gets caught in the thread and the seams. I’m totally not losing it here.) But I finished quilting a monstrously heavy quilt, which has been waiting to be quilted since I wrote this blog post in, OMG, 2011, that I shall blog about soon, once I have the binding finished, which I can’t do until my Joann coupon is active because I need turquoise thread and who’s going to pay full price for turquoise thread? Not me.

Anyway.

Baby quilt, finished in less than a day. Mixed media quilt, quilted. And I also finally cut all the squares for my black and pink quilt. I’ve been buying fabric for this quilt for ages. Five years at least. Probably longer, considering it's been SIX YEARS since I started working on the mixed media one. After the snowy Saturday morning when everything exploded and I felt the darkest I have felt since 1989 (which was the first time I learned you should never assume anyone will love you), I needed to make something. So I gathered all of the fabrics from their spots, and I started cutting squares. I cut enough for 208 half-square triangles. I paired them all up, pinned and marked them, and I’ve pieced about half of them (which is, really, about one-quarter I guess).

Pink and black quilt has a good start.

I also made a few scrapbook layouts. I finished with Halloween and then I started on Christmas.

I worked a little bit more on setting up my scrapbooking space, but really, it’s stymied until I get more albums, and I am putting off getting more albums because, you know. Money.

But there was a little progress.

What I didn’t do: work out much. The first two weeks I was really good, but the last half of the month, not so much. I’d just rather continue getting chubby than spend time in the dismal rec center, pacing around while I wait for my turn on the one rowing machine there. Blog about my word for 2017. Talk to my mom enough. Avoid pity parties.

What I did do: eat too much sugar. (I swear to you: that little burst of happiness that comes when you bit into a dark-chocolate + caramel Ghirardelli square? That is the only piece of happiness I’ve had this month. Open, snap the corner, let the sweet burst of happiness spread over my body for 2.8 seconds. Repeat as necessary.) Swear too much. (There was one night—when the president announced he wanted to defund the NEA—that I sat in the parking lot with Kendell trying to string together a coherent sentence full of swearing that could express how vile that—is he even a person? Or a man? Let’s go with—individual is to me. I couldn’t swear hard enough. I did come up with a pretty vile metaphor, but I probably shouldn’t write it on my blog.) Argue with friends about politics, possibly making them ex-friends. (I didn’t mean to. I still like you as a person even if I think your stance on ____________ —women’s rights, education, cabinet members, immigration, public lands, and/or climate change, take your pick—is ridiculous/revolting/ridiculous/shallow/ridiculous/short-sighted/ridiculous. I should probably stop now.) Watch too much TV. (Despite the fact that for half the month, Dish Network was fighting with our NBC provider. Sometimes I stop and think about how strange watching TV is now and I almost can’t stand it. If it’s not on Dish, if it’s on Hulu or Amazon Prime or whatever, I’m lost. I have to get a kid or Kendell to turn it on. When do you use the Firestick? I have no idea. I just want to sit on the couch watching MTV and crying. Wait, it’s really not 1989, I can’t actually do that anymore because remember when MTV had music videos? That was awesome.)

Yeah.

I should be glad January is over. Except, I like January. Except, I am not feeling hopeful for a joyous February. Except, I want more snow. Except, I wanted time to slow down.

But, in approximately 18 minutes, it will be February whether I like it or not.

And whether I’m hopeful or not, February will also pass. Because if February comes, can March be far behind? (I don’t want March to come either. I don’t want to wander around under blue skies and on green grass, surrounded by flowers, pretending like I am OK. Nothing is OK, alright?)

I don’t want spring. I don’t want to have to brave the world in my chubby body without a heavy cardigan.

I’d just like it to stay January forever.

(This post inspired by a poem I stumbled upon tonight, “Snow” by Naomi Shihab Nye, which has the lines “How there can be a place/so cold any movement saves you.” Writing is my attempt to move in this cold place I find myself in.)

Yes, I know: we are 78% the way through January and it’s a bit late to be writing a year-in-review post. But, I still am writing it because, you know. I just want to. Tomorrow I am planning on writing another post that is probably late, too, but it’s OK. I’m late for this, I’m late for that, when I die I’ll be on time.

Actually, I mostly want to write it because last week, Kendell and I went out to dinner together and I all of a sudden was full of ideas for a question-based year-in-review post so I started taking notes in my purse notebook (what? You don’t have a purse notebook?) and he was like, “what are you writing?” and then I felt a little guilty for interrupting our conversation with my blog pre-writes, so hopefully this blog post will go viral (how could it not? It is sheer blogging genius) so I can stop feeling guilty.

Anyway.

2016 in Review:

• What is one of your favorite pictures from the beginning of the year?

Jake and Nathan went skiing at Sundance. I LOVE this pic!

• What kind of technology did you use?

At the start of the year, I had the Samsung S6, but when Haley’s phone was stolen in Paris, she took over that phone and I got the S7. It’s gold, which I wasn’t sure I’d like…but I do! Still using my Canon 60D, but it needs to be serviced as it cannot get the white balance correct no matter what I do. And, I still use my ancient purple MP3 player for music when I’m running. Oh, and, I discovered the happiness that is a Bluetooth speaker. I might own two!

• Did you go to any weddings?

Yes, my niece Hilary got married and we also went to a few for family friends.

• Did you go to any funerals?

Not this year.

• A favorite outfit or piece of clothing from 2016?

I actually bought myself some shorts this summer, which is notable because I HATE BUYING SHORTS. But they weren’t my favorite. I wore a lot of black, as usual, and my favorite new piece of clothing is the Tshirt I bought at the British Library in London, with a sketch from Johnny Rotten on the front. It makes me happy in 1 million ways.

• A favorite movie from 2016?

I didn’t LOVE it when I saw it…but I have grown more and more fond of The Witch. And I really loved Arrival. We didn’t see a ton of movies last year though.

• Did you read more or less in 2016?

It felt like I read less, but actually when I counted it up, it was about the same. It just was an underwhelming reading year. You can see my reading list right HERE.

• Five songs that will, whenever you hear them, instantly make you remember 2016?

1. “If God Will Send His Angels” by U2. I listened to this on repeat on election night.
2. “Closer I Am to Fine” by The Indigo Girls. I listened to a lot of their songs last year; I have loved this song since it came out in 1989 and the fact that it still doesn’t feel tired to me is pretty cool I think.
3. “Wish That You Were Here” by Florence + the Machine. This was on the Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children Nathan told me about it weeks before the movie even came out. “I never minded being on my own, then something broke in me and I wanted to go home.” Love.
4. “Love Yourself” by Justin Bieber. I know. I KNOW!!! How can a J.B. song be on my list? But Kaleb loved this song when we were on our trip in Ohio, so every time it came on the radio (and it came on the radio a LOT), we’d turn it up and sing along. One of my favorite memories is of driving on the narrow causeway road between Sandusky and Cedar Point in a rain storm, with the waves splashing and the sun a sort of bleary smear in the clouds, singing this song and laughing.
5. “Lazarus” by David Bowie. Yes on those hidden scars. How long has it been since a Bowie song has been on heavy repeat on my speakers? A long time.

• What did you watch on TV?

Way too much. The Walking Dead and that last, cliff-hanger episode is so wrapped up with Kendell’s cardiac arrest that I almost couldn’t watch the fall season. And then the fall season got here and it was so brutal. I might have reached my limit. I mean…I didn’t ENJOY watching it, it felt like it gave me PTSD, why am I doing this to myself? Because I love Michon? I don’t know. Also: Vikings, The Americans, Code Black (I am a sucker for medical shows, I confess), Call the Midwife. Sad that Penny Dreadful ended but solace in the fact that they wrapped it up well.

• What political or social events influenced your life in 2016?

The election, of course. So many famous people’s deaths. The Dakota Access Pipeline (just say no!).

• What did you do on Easter?

My sister took my mom on a trip, which meant we didn’t have our usual family party, which meant I was pissed off and annoyed but trying to hide it, and Kaleb was sad. Haley came home with some friends to eat dinner with us (we had manicotti because vegetarians) before going to the Color Festival; Jake, Nathan, and Kaleb had Easter baskets.

We always take a line-up-like-turtles picture on Easter, tallest to shortest. Wonder when Kaleb will start moving up the line?

• Restaurants you ate at often?

We’ve sort of developed a habit of going to Chili’s, especially in the late summer and fall. Now that Jake has moved out, sometimes it seems sort of pointless to cook for just four people. (Which is silly, I know, families all over the globe only have four members!) Also, Thai Village and Mi Ranchito.

• Your most memorable meal?

Dinner in Paris with Haley after wandering through the Louvre.

We just picked a cafe and hoped the food was good, at it was! I had a roasted chicken and then I ordered three desserts.

• Any health problems?

Where do I start? Kendell had a cardiac arrest and a heart valve replacement (his third). We found out that Kaleb’s aortic bulge has gotten much worse. Nathan sprained his ankle playing basketball and got a concussion when he fell while rock climbing. I sprained my ankle twice. Jake and Haley were pretty healthy!

• How did you celebrate your birthday?

I confess….I don’t remember. Hmmmmm. Haley came home for her birthday (the day after mine) so we celebrated hers with a family dinner (which sort of feels like celebrating mine, lol.) Probably we went out to dinner. Becky gave me a beautiful table runner she quilted. And I took this bathroom selfie:

Please note: I edited out my sports bra, which was hanging on the doorknob. You're welcome. Also, this is not the blue cardigan I lost.

• What did you make last year?

70 scrapbook layouts. Jake’s graduation quilt. Three baby quilts for gifts.

• What did you lose last year?

My basic belief that Americans will do the right thing. Oh, and my favorite blue cashmere sweater. (And by “lost” I mean “I forgot it was at the dry cleaners and when I went back five months later to get it, they had donated it.” SADNESS. It’s my own damn fault.)

• What did you find last year?

The Christmas dishes I bought in January and forgot about until December, when I found them in the wardrobe where I store some of our decorations. My oldest copy of A Handmaid's Tale. A pile of photos at my mom's house that I hadn't seen in years. I photographed them so I have copies, but then bam! Cardiac arrest the next day, and looking at them gives me trauma now. Here, I'll be brave and pick one to share:

Our family at my sister Michele's wedding. I was twelve, so this was 1984. I wanted to love that dress but it just made me feel flat-chested, lol.

• What is your favorite picture from summer 2016?

at Kendell and Kaleb's birthday dinner in June.

• How did your fitness efforts go?

So rocky. I am the heaviest I’ve been in a long time. Two ankle sprains, two major health events for Kendell, general discouragement did not help anything. But, on a bright note, I did finally solve my lower-back pain issue (by a series of needling appointments with an awesome PT and by getting a stand-up table to scrapbook on) and my hamstrings are doing better. This is the first year in I don’t even know how long that I didn’t run in any races. Hopefully I can get my ankle strong again so I can run more. I did do my weekly hikes of Y mountain nearly every Wednesday this summer.

• What is something new you did?

I went snowshoeing! I know, you’d think that, living in Utah, I’d be all over the snow sports. But I tend to love snow when I am looking at it from the warm side of a window, preferably with nowhere to go and holding something warm to drink. Anyway, Becky took my snowshoeing and it was awesome and now I own snow shoes! I just need someone to go with.

Not only did I get my own snowshoes...I bought my own gaiters. Those are ugly!

• What did you continue to do?

Be inspired by reading. Love making stuff. Overthink everything.

• What did you do outside?

Mowed the lawn almost every Monday throughout the summer. Rake the autumn leaves. Weed and prune.

• What did you do inside?

Turns out, when kid #2 moves out, you end up with an extra room. So, we moved Kaleb downstairs to Nathan’s old room, and shifted Nathan into Jake’s old room, and then I took over Kaleb’s old room for my…well, I don’t know what to call it. The room where I make stuff. It’s not quite finished yet as I lost my momentum before Kendell’s surgery, but I will finish it soon and maybe even post pictures!

• What did you do too much of?

Drinking my calories (pumpkin spice frappuchino with chocolate chips, I’m looking at you). Looking in instead of out. Yelling at Kendell about politics. Falling.

• What did you not do enough of?

Hiking. Kendell and I went on one hike this spring, and Becky and I did a fall hike, and yes, I did my weekly Y hikes, but there was definitely not enough hiking this year. I can’t tell you how badly I want Kendell to be healthy again. Not just for hiking, of course. But, for hiking.

• What experience did you have that you would like to write about but haven’t yet?

I had an essay published in a book called Baring Witness, which is a collection of essays about being a married Mormon person. (Mine actually really has nothing to do with the Mormon part. Just marriage.) I haven’t written about it because I am just not sure if I even should have published it. It’s raw and intimate and maybe too dramatic. But, what I really should’ve written about was the night in September when I got to go read my essay, at a little bookstore in Provo. It was slightly terrifying but so…well, “fun” isn’t exactly the right word, but I enjoyed it immensely and would like to do that every day of my life.

• What adventures did you have?

I have a partly-written essay about my wild night in Paris on my own, but I am going to try to submit it instead of posting it on my blog. But it was equal parts terrifying and life-affirming. Kendell and I had an adventure in the Uintas this fall before his surgery. Nathan and I had a pioneer adventure together.

Nathan DID NOT want to go on the pioneer trek. But as I had been asked to go as the photographer...I made him go with me. It was HOT. He hated it. But I loved it and I'm grateful he would go with me.

• What vacations did you go on? (I think an adventure is often different from a vacation, don’t you?)

Ohio and New York with Kaleb for his 11-year-old trip. Europe with Haley. New York City with Kendell. All awesome trips! I usually (NEVER) travel that much.

Me and Haley in Amsterdam. I would really like to revisit Amsterdam, but with more time.

• What new thing(s) did you acquire?

We had to replace our furnace and air conditioner last January. That was exactly how I wanted to spend $5,000! BUT! My heating bill in December was FIFTY DOLLARS less in 2016 than it was in 2015, so that was awesome! I got a new pan set. I probably bought too many new running clothes (definitely, considering how much I actually ran last year). Bookshelves and that stand-up desk in my scrapbooking room.

• What firsts did you have?

A lot of my firsts have to do with traveling: first non-Italian European vacation, first time in Ohio, first time to sleep in a hotel room by myself. I finally saw a Van Gogh, a Degas, a Vermeer, and many other paintings in person. My first essay was published.

• Did you reconnect with anyone?

Yes! An old friend I hadn’t seen since high school showed up at the library one day just to say hi. I hadn’t seen him since I was 17. It was awesome to reconnect.

• Did you do anything with old friends?

I got to have dinner with Elliot in January which was awesome. I saw Chris twice.I went to lunch and on a walk in the canyon with Brooke. 

• Did you make any new friends?

I got together twice with some new scrapbooking friends.

• What surprised you last year?

Waking up to find my husband dying. Oh, wait, “surprise” sort of suggests something good, right? OK. How much having Jacob move out influenced my laundry. I do way less laundry now. Noticeably less. I don’t remember feeling like that when Haley moved out. (Not that I don’t miss him, I do! I just didn’t expect the drop in loads.)

• What did you dress up as for Halloween?

I went as a skeleton. Kaleb was the Hulk and Nathan was…well, “goth” because he dressed in all black, lol. 

It was warm enough for bare feet, at least for pictures.

• Where did you eat on Thanksgiving?

My mom’s new house, our first big family party there. I made rolls, cranberry mousse, and dessert.

• What was different this Christmas than any other year?

I had no believers left. Jake didn’t sleep at our house on Christmas eve. The Great Garbage Disposal Leak of 2016. Almost all of the presents were under the tree before Christmas Eve. I didn’t make any fudge.

We always take a family picture at my mom's on Christmas day. My friend pointed out that this is the year of hair: Haley's is dramatically black, the boys all have long hair, and Kendell has none. Mine's just normal!

• What person did you talk to the most?

Aside from Kendell, Becky. Aside from Becky, my friend Julie.

• What is your favorite picture from the last quarter of the year?

at Ellis Island. I'm smiling but deep down I'm just frustrated we couldn't get tickets to climb all the way to the top of the Statue of Liberty.

• What things are you proud of from 2016?

Jake got a 4.0 his senior year and graduated from high school. That was an awesome day! Kendell finished his degree in July. Haley traipsed through Spain for a month. Nathan made several difficult decisions this fall in a thoughtful, grown-up way. Kaleb worked really hard to be personally vested in his grades (instead of relying on me to worry about it) and to get in shape.

• Did you have any major life changes?

Jake moved out. I can’t…I can’t. There is so much sadness there right now for me. I miss him and I’m not sure I didn’t fail him. I look at other mothers and they seem to have such strong relationships with their adult children and mine feel sort of…damaged and difficult. This has changed something in my core self. Is “noticeably sadder than last year” a major life change?

• What was your greatest sorrow?

That my relationships weren’t strong enough and that my ankle continues to fail me. I need to run.

• What was your happiest moment?

Definitely watching Kendell wake up from his coma. I don’t think I wrote about this either, but when they brought him out of sedation, the doctor had prepared me that there would likely be NO response. Within less than fifteen minutes, Kendell was awake. He gestured with his hand (he was still intubated) and I figured out that he wanted a pen, and after some squiggles he was able to write “I can’t breathe.” Oh my. Even now, remembering it? I almost can’t breathe. I was so scared. A close second was Jake’s graduation day. He worked hard to be there.

A rare photo of Kendell not scowling. This was the night of Nathan's prom.

• What did the universe teach you in 2016?

People die. No really: people die. I knew this but I know it so much better now. This has made me both more terrified and also more brave. You have to be good at loving people, at saying it and expressing it, because you don’t know when your chance will be gone. Also, it is true: if you don’t have your health you have nothing.

• Did you manage to get a good family picture? Will you share it?

Our Christmas card photo. Not sure if it's "good," my camera was already misbehaving, but we're color coordinated and everyone is smiling!

(and I am putting a copy of the questions without my answers as a comment, on the off chance that you A—haven’t already reviewed your year and B—would like to use my questions. And if you do, please, leave me a link, or tag me in Facebook or on Instagram (amylsorensen), I promise I’ll come read yours!)

I have a confession: I have not been to all three of my church meetings since the beginning of November.

My excuse was Kendell’s surgery; I didn’t want to chance bringing home any germs whatsoever.

Really, after the election I was so disappointed in my fellow Mormons, 61% nationally and 45% in Utah, for voting for Trump, especially after so many before the election were not going to vote for him. I just did not want to go and sit in a congregation who, as religious people, could feel comfortable choosing someone who only “shares” one traditional Mormon value, being pro-life. (And I put “shares” in quotes because let’s be honest here: does anyone really believe that Donald Trump cares one bit at all if women get abortions? He cares about votes and he used “pro-life”—a term that is rhetorically ridiculous anyway—as a way to get votes.)

But this isn’t a political post.

This is a post about finding answers in church.

Don’t get me wrong: I am still bitter about all the Mormon Trump voters. But a few conversations and some carefully-read Facebook statuses have reminded me that my little congregation has fewer than 45%. And after almost three months of only sporadic church attendance, I felt I needed to go more than I needed to object by not going.

So, I went to church this morning. All three meetings. And I paid attention. I went with a prayer in my heart, one of those prayers that, if uttered, would be a combination of a keen and the word “please.” I don’t even know how to name the help I need right now, as recent events (and I have now turned from political to personal) have ripped my heart out and left me absolutely stunned and in mourning (but which I can’t blog about, I’m sorry).

The answers I found at church were not solutions to these events. Not one thing has been solved. I still don’t know what to do or how to fix this problem I’m being vague about.

The answers reminded me, though, that the only thing I can shape, influence, or change is myself, because I only get to make choices for myself and how I will react.

And they gave me a little bit of peace.

So much of what I am trying to cope with has to do with choices, and with boundaries, and with knowing how to choose to act within or outside of those boundaries. In one of today’s classes, which was about reading the scriptures and nothing even close to my issues, the teacher reminded us that God does not force himself inside of our personal boundaries. He gives us a way to find Him, but he doesn’t make us come to him. He waits until we are ready to have Him enter our personal space.

I wish I could explain exactly how direct an answer that was to my “please.”

Even though it is a hard answer to cope with. It means waiting, outside. It means trying to be patient, like Christ has been patient with me. It means I cannot fix, or help, or do, but only try to send love through space and into a heart. It means the keening of my heart will continue indefinitely.

Maybe I did learn, a little, what to do. Maybe I just don’t know how yet.

Two of my answers came through hymns. We sang “Now Let Us Rejoice,” which is a Mormon hymn through and through, written by one of the early saints after a particularly trying experience they had as they crossed the plains. I’ve likely sung it one million times in the past twenty years, but this time, this time. I couldn’t get through the third verse, which has these words:

In faith we'll rely on the arm of Jehovah
To guide thru these last days of trouble and gloom,
And after the scourges and harvest are over,
We'll rise with the just when the Savior doth come.
Then all that was promised the Saints will be given,
And they will be crown'd with the angels of heav'n,
And earth will appear as the Garden of Eden,
And Christ and his people will ever be one.

This experience I am vagueblogging about is one I can only witness. Much damage has already been done in the making of space. It has been made clear that my help is unwanted and unhelpful, and even though I love this person, the only thing I can do is watch. And I very much will have to lean on Christ’s shoulder to do this. These are some days of trouble and doom for me, darker than I know how to cope with, and I think we are only at the beginning of the scourges. I’m not particularly good at this—at relying on Christ. But with this situation, it is all I can do. So that promise at the end—really, I don’t want crowns. I just want to be one with my people, in the way I had imagined but am not being allowed to right now. That is what I want.

The only way out is through and I think there will be a long road of stumbling in the dark for me.

So I will try to remember to lean on Christ’s arm. Maybe even cry on His shoulder.

The other hymn that moved me was “Count Your Blessings.” Especially these words:

Amid the conflict, whether great or small,
Do not be discouraged, God is over all.

I mean to count my blessings in this blog post. To write a long list of everything I am grateful for right now. Perhaps I will do that tomorrow. But tonight, I think I needed to write this instead: I am having a hard time. With my family, with my faith. I didn’t want to go to church, but I did, and I found help there. It wasn’t the miraculous, everything-is-fixed sort of help. But it was miraculous in a small, gentle way. My answers were this: give space, lean on Christ, remember there is light even in this darkness.

The keening in my soul is still loud and sharp. I am still unable to articulate what might need to happen for things to get better. But, I went to church with a prayer in my heart, and I found some things that brought me the smallest bit of peace and knowledge. A little bit of light to illuminate my next few steps. And that will be enough to keep me moving, if not exactly forward, at least not backward. At least I am not standing still.

Last night at the library, we had our book club meeting. We talked about the book My Grandfather’s Blessings by Rachel Remen. This is a non-fiction book where she discusses the things she learned from her grandfather, who was a rabbi, and how she uses those things in her work as a doctor, especially as she tries to offer comfort, knowledge, or understanding to the dying. I read and loved this book about ten years ago, when a friend gave it to me, and I wanted to re-read it for the discussion but didn’t get around to it.

During the discussion, it hit me about how this really IS a book of stories, and how much stories matter to us as humans. With stories we share histories, but we also teach, and assuage, and heal; stories in the mouths of others keep us alive after we're gone. As this recognition resonated with some of the topics that are important to me, namely the power of story and how important it is for each of us to record our own stories in some form, I couldn't let today go without writing this blog post.

Last Sunday, we were eating dinner and the conversation turned to dogs. I mentioned something about Britteny, the dog I had as a kid, and how I loved having a dog when I was little but I don’t want one now. Nathan said “I didn’t know you had a dog!” so I told him about Britteny and about our poodle, Ziggy, and the story of why he had a horizontal scar across his nose. As I told the story, I felt a strange combination of emotion: that childhood happiness of running around in the back yard with your dog, but also the sadness remembering her death, and also a bit of surprise. I’m certain I’ve told Nathan the story of my dad putting a rubber band around Ziggy’s nose because he was teasing her, and then he forgot it was there, and how bad he felt when we figured out what was wrong with her.

How did he not remember that story?

But then I thought about how, when I was a little girl, my favorite thing was spending the night at my grandma’s house. She had a little trundle bed, and she’d make it up with the Grandma Amy quilt. She’d lie in her bed and hold my hand in the dark, and she would tell me stories about her childhood and her parents, Amy and Nathan. I loved those stories—they were romantic and old-fashioned and sweet.

But I can’t remember the details of a single story.

I remember how hearing the stories made me feel, safe and loved and as if I were a part of something bigger than just my own life. It was something startling and magical to my young mind, that I could be cocooned in a quilt made by the great-grandma I didn’t know but was named after, touching something she made and left behind. Those memories are intrinsic to my very being; they shape me and influence me even forty years later.

But I wish I could remember the stories.

Relying on memory to preserve story is how human history was transferred. But it is a faulty, unreliable mechanism. And we have technology now that allows us to work around the vagaries of memory.

It’s called the pencil.

It is so important that you write down your stories. Whether you have kids or not, whether you think anyone will care or not. Maybe it won’t be the people you imagine, but someone will take value from your story. And no one else—no one—can record your story. Someone in the future could write down what they knew about you, but that would be their interpretation of you.

Only you can tell your story.

Maybe it is incredibly conceited of me to think that some progenitor of mine will be interested in my story. Maybe they’ll all think Wow, grandma Amy was crazy. Maybe they will just be busy living their own lives and not really care about the past. I don’t know.

What I do know is my own particular sadness that none of my ancestors wrote down their stories. If somewhere in the future there is a great-something grandchild who has that same need to know that he or she is a part of a much larger life than just the current one, then my craziness will mean that person doesn’t have to feel this sadness.

One of the patrons who came to the discussion shared this quote, which was also underlined in my copy of the book:

Every great loss demands that we choose life again. We need to grieve in order to do this. The pain we have not grieved over will always stand between us and life. When we don’t grieve, a part of us becomes caught in the past like Lot’s wife who, because she looked back, was turned into a pillar of salt.

Grieving is not about forgetting. Grieving allows us to heal, to remember with love rather than pain. It is a sorting process. One by one you let go of the things that are gone and you mourn for them. One by one you take hold of the things that have become a part of who you are and build again.

This made me think of a recent conversation I read in a scrapbooking group I belong to. The discussion was “do you make layouts about the hard or bad things that have happened to you?” This isn’t a new topic, it is a conversation that comes up over and over, but I am always surprised by the people who say no. “I only scrapbook the happy stuff,” they say, or “I don’t want to remember the bad things” or, even “why would I? Why would I focus on the negative?”

Of course, I’m not the memory-keeping police, and people can do what they want. But, for me, I don’t only scrapbook about the happy, fun, positive stuff. I include the harder things, too. Scrapbooking (and sometimes just writing in my journal) about difficult things is part of how I choose to be alive; it ties in directly to what Rachel Remen said about grief: loss demands that we choose to live again. Not looking at the hard things clearly, pretending like they are not there—that is how we tie ourselves to them. That is how we get caught inside of the hard things.

It is how we turn ourselves to salt.

So yes: I do make scrapbook layouts about myself.

A few of the layouts I've made about myself.

I also keep a journal. And a blog.

And yes: I write about the hard stuff. I write about the good stuff, too. But I think all of life makes up our stories, good, difficult, sad, joyful. All of it. And if we believe that our stories are important, we will come to also see that all kinds of our stories are important.

Wouldn’t you love to know how your grandmother felt about WWII, about the invention of the washing machine, about the birth stories of her children? And wouldn’t you also love to know how she coped with her heartaches, endometriosis and miscarriages and infidelity and not-enough-money and failing hearts and painful knees?

All of it is worth recording.

And It doesn’t matter if you think scrapbooking is the dumbest hobby ever. You don’t have to scrapbook to record your stories.

You don’t have to be the world’s best writer.

You don’t have to write down your entire life history, starting with your first breath and working forward to today.

You just have to write. No—not have to. Get to. Pick up a pen. Pull your keyboard closer. Start with a memory, write it down, save it somehow. Just don’t trust to memory.

Write it down.

(And while we’re at it—get yourself into some photographs too. Your image matters as much as your stories!)

This morning in the shower I was thinking about healthcare and health insurance, the probable repeal of the ACA, and my fears for the future. (This isn't a post about health insurance.) I have a husband and a son who will need cardiology appointments for the rest of their lives—which leaves me terrified that the changes that are coming will include lifetime caps.

I thought about what life is teaching me right now, which is especially that what happens to one person in a family happens, to some extent, to everyone in the family.

What I really did was lean against the shower wall and cry for a while.

I thought about all of the people I know who have healthy family members. I mean…every single person in their family is just, you know, healthy. Colds and stomach flu, sure. But life-changing, terrifying illness or disease?

So many people live without that.

And I’m not sure you can even know until you suddenly don’t have that just how lucky you are to have it.

It influences everything in a family. And for such a long time. I don’t think, for example, that Kendell has ever gotten over his younger brother’s death from leukemia. And not just his brother’s death. Kendell’s frame of reference for childhood is having parents who were never home. They were always five or six hours away at a hospital, taking care of their ill son. So, now that he is a parent, he doesn’t have an image of what a healthy family looks like.

That happened almost forty years ago, but it’s still influencing not just him, but me and our kids, too.

But who had much time for crying in the shower, especially this morning when I realized that Kaleb’s science fair is in two days and we had literally not done one spec of work on it. I needed to hurry so I could buy a few things before work, so I was ready to get it done after work.

I thought about this all day, though, especially after I posted a self-deprecating Facebook status about feeling like the world’s best, most-fantastic mother ever. Am I a failure as a mom because I suck at completing science fair projects? (I had this problem last year, too.) Is the science fair just the world’s dumbest school assignment or does it only illuminate what I try to keep hidden, usually: my motherly incompetence?

One of my friends, who I adore and admire, said something that kept my thought process churning: she wrote about how, when she was a kid, her dad helped her with her science projects, and how those were some of her favorite memories, and how the project could just be about making good memories with my kid. (That is why I send Kaleb over to her house, so he can see what real moms function like.) I love that she has that memory with her dad. But I don’t, with mine. I don’t think my dad thought of helping me with my homework ever, that I remember.

Because it’s not just leukemia or bad hearts that happen to an entire family. It’s also unemployment, and a changing workforce my dad did not ever adjust to. It’s his undiagnosed, untreated depression. It’s his own father’s death when my dad was only 16, and his mom, who was fairly cold and distant and controlling. And their unhappy marriage. And it’s my mom’s issues that grew from her parents’ unhappy marriage, her attachment troubles and fear of gaining weight and disappointment over not being wealthy. And who knows what else?

All of the bad stuff in my parents’ lives influenced me. And in turn it is influencing my own kids, in ways I might not even realize.

Thinking about this all day made me want to go home and stand in the shower again and cry some more.

Because this is not the mom I thought I would be.

I thought, when I started having babies, that I would be the same kind of mom as I was a student (back before everything fell apart). The student I was in, say, fifth grade, whose history notes were a perfect chronological outline. The student who memorized every single Spanish vocabulary word in eighth grade, and who understood math with no problems, and who could rattle off all of the Greek gods and goddess’s names, with their corresponding Roman aliases. The one who got straight As and praise from teachers and awards from city councils.

I know some moms like that. Their houses are clean and they don’t teach their kids anything about procrastination besides how to avoid it. They are room moms and volunteer at PTA functions (I avoid PTA functions not really because of the time involved, but because I feel socially incompetent among so many other women) and never miss a parent-teacher conference. Their sons all earn their boy scout advancements and arrows of light and Eagles because their mothers help them. (My sons did all get their arrows of light, but only because their leaders helped them. My relationship with scouting is fairly complicated.) Their daughters admire them because they can do girl things so well—because they can show up at a PTA function and fit right in with the other moms.

When I first started this motherhood journey, I thought I would be an A mom. And A+ mom, even.

But I have failed in so many, many ways. Fs across the board, just like my junior year of high school.

Part of me wants to excuse myself. Part of me thinks of what might be reasons for my failures: my husband’s unhappiness and medical problems, my own issues with my parents. I guess I could tell myself that of course I spaced the science fair because I’m still trying to cope with the lingering fallout of yet another heart crisis, and add to it Jake’s current troubles and the holidays which are joyful but also stressful and my ankle not letting me run and , yeah, I have had a lot on my plate.

But how much does Kaleb have to suffer for what is happening to me?

An A+ mom would be able to keep all the shit together.

And I, dear friends, have none of my shit together.

Families without health problems: they’re everywhere. Families without all this lingering baggage: seems like they are too. I could name ten A+ moms right now.

They exist.

But somehow, not in my family.

So my thoughts churned and churned all day long. So much churning, in fact, that I had to switch desks at work because I felt like one more effing Internet problem would send me right over the edge. No one wants a weeping librarian, or a raging one, especially when all they came in for was to print a boarding pass. 

And I came home, and I helped Kaleb with his science fair project. We kept it simple: we did an experiment with vitamin supplements. I made him read a book about vitamins and then write what he learned. We watched to see which liquid the pills would dissolve in (turns out, water and ginger ale are the quickest), we took some photos. Tomorrow night, I have to work late so Kendell will have to help him put the poster together.

And I know: I’m not an A+ mom. I taught him to wait until the very last moment. I didn’t even have him watch me get the pictures ready to print, but just sent him off to the shower while I adjusted things in Photoshop. He made zero startling scientific discoveries (probably we could ask the doctor or a pharmacist “what liquid is best to take with a vitamin?” and he or she would tell us).

But, there was also this: we laughed together. We had a good time. He was happy to stay up late hanging out with me. He fulfilled all of the requirements of the assignment, even if the effort was fairly low. He squished a vitamin capsule all over his hand and it made him gag (who knew my lustrous lavender-colored vitamin capsules were full of brown goo?) and then laugh some more.

That’s all I can do. I can only bring my imperfect self to this responsibility of motherhood. I can apologize for my mistakes. I can (and do) anguish after they’ve all gone to bed, or all gone out into the world, when my mistakes gleam clear in my memory as I stare into the dark.

I know I have been an imperfect mother.

I know I haven’t managed to leave behind this terrible baggage, but lug it around with me everywhere.

I haven’t been enough to balance out Kendell’s baggage either.

But I will keep trying—at least. I might be late for everything and pass on my bad habits and mess up most things that I try.

But what else can I do, but be willing to cry in the shower and then dry off and go out for science fair supplies?

This is the third January I've put together a list of all of the books I read the year before. I've found it useful several times at work, so I think I'll keep doing it. Plus, it's sort of satisfying to see all of the reading on one page. 

I read the fewest books in 2016 I've read in some time. Two medical crises and three big trips are likely the cause of that. I also felt like this year was somewhat disappointing...I read a lot of books that I liked, but very few that I absolutely, completely adored. Also, I managed to write about many more of the books I read, so that makes me happy.

Anyway, enough rambling, here is the list, in alphabetical order, with links to the reviews I wrote and comments because I can't resist!

All the Rage by Courtney Summers. This was the hot book for awhile, if it isn't...weird? offensive? potentially triggery?...to say a novel about rape is the hot book? Anyway, I thought it was just OK. Speak remains the touchstone of such books.

Almost Famous Women by Megan Mayhew Bergman. A collection of short stories about women in history who were associated, somehow, with someone famous. Just my style!

Ariel: The Restored Edition by Sylvia Plath. This year at the library, I became the collection developer for the poetry and essay sections. When I discovered that we didn't have a copy of Ariel it was one of the first things I ordered. Then I ordered a copy for myself. The original Ariel is out of print and I have dreams (literal ones) of finding a copy in a used book store. That didn't happen this year, despite going to some used book stores in London (and New York!) but I'm still hoping. (Yes, I know, I could probably find one on the internet. But I don't want to just order it. I want to find it, you know?)

Baring Witness: 36 Mormon Women Talk Candidly about Love, Sex, and Marriage edited by Holly Welker. I might be a little biased, as this book includes an essay by me (!), but this is some excellent writing about the issues many of my friends grapple with as women in a faith we have a complicated relationship with.

The Best American Essays and The Best American Poetry. I'm actually still working on these...but as I started them in 2016, I'm putting them here. This is one of my favorite yearly reading experiences, and I'm working on buying every BAP and reading them all.

Dreamer's Pool by Juliette Mariellier. Wanted to love this fantasy more than I actually did, but it was a good companion during Kendell's October surgery.

Exit, Pursued by a Bear by E. K. Johnston. The more I think about the premise of this YA novel—if a wealthy, popular cheerleader with access to mental health and supportive parents is raped, do her circumstances make the rape easier to deal with?—the more I get annoyed, because the book is suggesting that yes, all of those things do make it, you know, sure, unpleasant, but without all of those troubling side effects. I'm just not sure I agree. 

Faithful by Alice Hoffman. Not my favorite book by her, but it was cool to read after being in New York City.

A God in Ruins by Kate Atkinson. A follow up to Atkinson's Life after Life. This one focuses on just one life, but I still loved it.

The Gracekeepers by Kirsty Logan. Set in a world with sharp divisions between the people who live on land and those who live on boats. 

The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood. Please note: I've read almost every Atwood in existence, but this is the first time I've actually written about one of her books! I'm not sure...this might be the seventh or eighth time I've read The Handmaid's Tale. It is a book that changed my life.

The Hour of Land by Terry Tempest Williams. I still want to write about this one. And I want to write and submit, somewhere, about my own experiences in our national parks. 

The Last Kingdom by Bernard Cornwell. This is the first Cornwell book I've read. I love historical novels and this time period (the Danish invasion of England), so I enjoyed the story, but it also felt like a very manly read. It made me realize how much I tend to lean towards women in my fiction.

A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman. Someone told me it's not pronounced "Ove" like "stove" but "OOVAY" like...well, what English word rhymes with that? I can't think of one. Then I was embarrassed I've been saying it wrong.

Me Before You by JoJo Moyes. I resisted reading this because everyone was reading it and you know how that makes me feel. But my book group read it, so I read it, and I liked it more than I thought I would. I'm glad it ended the way it did.

A Much Younger Man by Diane Highbridge. Another SDBBE book I would've never read without my reading friends discovering it for me. A quick story about a woman who falls in love with her friend's teenage son. 

Night Sky with Exit Wounds by Ocean Vuong. I read his poem "Someday I'll Love Ocean Vuong" in The New Yorker and, oh my. I fell in love. Poems like his are why I love poems anyway. "Your father is only your father/until one of you forgets."

The Night Strangers by Chris Bohjalian. I read this combination witchcraft/ghost story in October and loved it. I posted a pic on my Instagram and hashtagged the author, and he actually left a comment. Which was thrilling!

On Trails: An Exploration by Robert Moore. Why haven't I written about this? I love trails, not just because I love hiking but because I love the actual trail itself. This explores that fascination, the history and the philosophy of trailmaking.

Oral History by Lee Smith. This was my book group choice this year. I haven't got it back yet, so I don't know what the others thought of it. I read this in college and loved it, so much that I was hesitant to read it again because what if it disappointed me? It didn't. The concept of how family history stories can touch upon each other and influence us even when we don't really know the stories...that is haunting to me. 

The Passage trilogy by Justin Cronin. I read this over the summer; I took book 1, The Passage, to Ohio with me, and lugged books 1 and 2 (The Twelve is the second) all over Europe. I finished the third, City of Mirrors, in August, and then when we went to New York in October I was thrilled to see the painted ceiling in Grand Central Station. The ending was SUPER disappointing, but it was still an unusual and interesting take on vampires.

Pax by Sarah Pennypacker. The only junior fiction I read this year.

The Persian Pickle Club by Sandra Dallas. A pick by my book group friend. Good timing as I needed to read it for the library! My Inner Book Snob would like me to say that this was, you know...fluffy and light. But it actually was really good and looks at several women's issues in a nice way. Plus, quilting!

Power Made us Swoon by Brynn Saito. Another poetry book that is exactly the kind of poetry I like. "What works is singing
from the cave of the self/where memories of knives/and clouds shaped like tiger faces//live together like children/unaware of their potential."

The Raven King by Maggie Stiefvater. I finished off two series this year with disappointing endings. I'm trying to decide if my disappointment in the ending means I shouldn't recommend them? I don't know. I did really, really love the characters in this series, but the ending...not as disappointing as The Passage trilogy...but I was expecting more. At the same time I will miss those characters.

Runemarks by Joanne Harris. A adventurous YA retelling of the Norse Ragnarok myth. Love!

The Sacred Lies of Minnow Bly by Stephanie Oakes. A haunting YA about a girl who escapes from a back-woods cult...and spends some time in jail as a result.

Scythe by Neal Shusterman. Hands down, one of the best YA fantasy/dystopia-esque books I've read in years.

The Sleeper and the Spindle by Neil Gaiman. This was my favorite book I read this year. Even almost a year later—I read it in February—I can't stop thinking about it. I bought a copy for Haley and one for myself and I would like every woman I know to own a copy, as its message (there are always choices, even when you feel trapped) is fairly powerful. Maybe it's just what I am needing to learn right now.

The Spell Book of Listen Taylor by Jacklyn Moriarty. I'm pretty sure I mentioned this book in a blog post about something else...but I can't find it. Anyway, this was an unusual and quirky novel I had never heard of. Thanks Britt!

Swing Time by Zadie Smith. My first Zadie Smith novel. Don't be swayed by the buzz: this isn't a book about dancing, not really. As long as you don't expect much actual dancing, you will enjoy this!

Unbecoming by Jenny Downham. My review of this book is mashed down at the end of a blog post about why I read fiction, and I stand by what I wrote: people who think reading fiction is a waste of time because it isn't "real" are not reading the right fiction. 

When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi. An exploration of how we could make dying better in our country, and what it means to really live. Perhaps a strange choice for reading right after my husband almost died...but, actually, not. It made me feel peaceful about the choices we have made and reinforced that, had the outcome been different, I could have made the choice he wanted me to make. 

A Wild Swan by Michael Cunningham. A set of fairy tale retellings with gorgeous illustrations. (But definitely a grown-up read.)

You Will Know Me by Megan Abbott. A new Megan Abbott novel is cause for celebration. I adore her books, and this one is about gymnasts. Swoon.

Did you read anything on my list? What were your favorite books last year?

Last year when I was putting away my Christmas decorations, I posted a picture on Instagram of my swaddled-in-bubble-wrap nativity. I remember thinking as I wrapped the pieces, what will 2016 bring me?

This week, when I was putting away my Christmas decorations, I was struck by the colors of the pieces on my front-room floor. This nativity is the one that is called, by various people in my house, “the ugly nativity,” “the brown nativity,”
“the kitchen nativity” and “Leola’s nativity.” I don’t think it’s ugly, and to me it’s more golden than brown. It belonged to Kendell’s grandma Leola. About six months or so before she died in 1998, we drove up to Burley, Idaho, where she lived, and helped her clean out her house as she was moving to a care center. I inherited a few things from her that day—some canisters I still don’t have room to display in my kitchen, a handful of Christmas tree ornaments, and the nativity that no one else wanted. I love it, especially Mary’s face, which is beautiful and delicate, a Madonna done in plaster of Paris. I don’t know if Leola made the nativity or bought it—I don’t know if she loved it or thought it was ugly, too (I hope she loved it)—but I would like to think that it makes her happy that her granddaughter-in-law loves it and every year wraps in bubble wrap and boxes it in the same padded box as her other favorite nativity.

Just as in January of 2016, as I put away nativities I wondered what the new year would bring. I always have this feeling when I am putting away seasonal decorations. How will I have changed when I see these things again? How will my life be different? Will good or bad things happen?

I cannot say that 2016 was all difficult things. It held, in fact, some fairly awesome experiences. But it also held some really difficult experiences. And if I am honest, I face 2017 with trepidation. I feel like I have lost my ability to hope for good things to happen. Or even to at least hope that bad things don’t happen. When I packed away the nativities last January, I never would’ve imagined that Kendell would almost die that year, or that Kaleb’s heart would get much worse, or that Kendell would have to have another open-heart surgery.

I didn’t imagine, either, that in 2016 I would go to Paris, London, Amsterdam, and Brussels. That I would have a little European adventure with my daughter. If I had imagined it, I wouldn’t have been able to foresee how deeply moved I would be not just by finally seeing a long-anticipated painting (Brueghel’s “The Fall of Icarus”) but art by Degas and Monet and, most of all, Van Gogh (who I already loved but now am slightly obsessed with). And I certainly never could’ve foretold that the trip would end in near disaster, when Haley’s phone was stolen out of her bag not two hours before she needed to catch a train to Spain. Our little trip to Europe gave me some of my sweetest memories but also one of my least-favorite ever, of myself running through a metro station in the 18^th arrondissement, shrieking for the police in Spanish (because that was all my head could find, the Spanish word for police in France) like an idiot or a crazy person. I hate that memory of myself; it fills me with shame because I went to Europe with Haley mostly to keep her safe, but I failed.

Some of my best memories mixed with one I wish I could forget, all in one week.

As I was wrapping the nativities in bubble wrap, the UPS man thumped on my front door, delivering a package from Amazon---the 2017 calendar for my kitchen. I took down the 2016 one and flipped through it, remembering: snow storms and rain storms. My first time snow shoeing. A well-traveled hike and a brand new one. Injuries, both mine and Nathan’s. Nathan’s basketball season. Jake’s high school graduation. The two quilts I made during the year. Holding my baby niece at one of my oldest niece’s weddings. Running. The night in Ohio with Kaleb when we ran barefoot through the amusement park so we could make it on his favorite roller coaster one more time. Climbing the stairs in the Statue of Liberty. Closing the door on my mom’s old house, the house I grew up in, for the last time, and the feeling the next day when I realized I’d forgotten to get my dad’s pink rock out of the front yard and now it was too late. Sewing Jake’s graduation quilt in the kitchen of my mom’s new house so Jake wouldn’t see it before I finished it. Soccer games. Getting a pedicure with Haley. Shoveling snow with Kaleb. Shoveling snow with Nathan. Running with Becky. The day an old friend surprised me by showing up at the library to say hello. Lunch with my oldest friend Chris. The night I read my first published essay to a small crowd in a small book store. Walking through the desert by Utah Lake with Nathan. Fighting with Kendell over politics and then laughing at ourselves for how passionate we each get about it. Lunch and a walk on the river trail with another old friend. Birthdays and our 24^th anniversary and movies and shopping and laughing.

The old calendar reminded me that there were such hard days—but also such good days. The lows were terrifying this year—but the highs were pretty good as well.

So then I flipped through the new calendar, and my heart changed. I can’t explain it, but I am full of fear for the days 2017 will bring. How will I have changed when I turn the last page to December? Why am I filled with foreboding?

When Kendell had his cardiac arrest in April, many people told me that I was a hero. That I saved him. I usually joke that it is a pretty damn sucky thing that I saved his life and he still won’t let me get a cat. Mostly because I want a cat, but also to cover up what I really feel about that night. I want to say that I learned that things will turn out OK, and that no one leaves until it is their time. I want that to be what I take from it. But deeper down, what I feel is a sort of annihilation. I wasn’t really a hero. I just happened to wake up at the right time. There was such an impossibly tiny period of time when I could manage to do anything to help him, and that I was able to grab those seconds and use them feels like a fluke, not foreordination. Not heroics. It feels like I used up all of my luck in those seconds, so now I have none left to spend on other times when timing is crucial. What I learned is not hope, but terror. Anyone can die at any time, and what if next time I don’t wake up? What if next time—and not just for Kendell but for all or any of the people I love—I’m not even there?

Kendell not dying taught me that people die, a knowledge I thought I understood before but now know in a more intimate way than I could’ve imagined, that long-ago January day in 2016 when I put away the white nativity.

I am terrified of what will happen between now and when I see the nativities again.

So many days in a year. I am thinking about resolutions, of course, like most people do in January, and there are all the usual ones, write more (which really means submit, actually submit, instead of writing and hiding and never trying), lose weight, read more, love more. But what I would really like to accomplish is just to slow down time. All those days in boxes on the calendar—and they will fly by no matter what I do.

And they will hold what they hold, good or bad, predictable or not, and so many of the experiences I will be powerless to control.

I hung up the new calendar and went back to packaging up Christmas. I thought of Leola, who I didn’t know well but who was kind and good and whose daughter (Kendell’s mother) loved her. Whose hands had once touched the same camel and donkey and Mary and Jesus and wise men as I was. Who wasn’t here, but who had given me these objects and so, in a sense, is still here. I thought about the other people who are gone but who I still miss, my dad, my grandparents, Kendell’s parents. People who had their own days, their own happinesses and struggles, who all succeeded and failed in their own ways, who I didn’t ever tell enough that I loved them. Who are gone, except for I remember them, except for I can touch what they once touched. I finished wrapping all of the pieces, I put them in the padded box, I clicked the lid shut.

2017 is here. So many days. Even the shape of the numbers fills me with dread. But I have no choice. I can’t freeze time. I can’t even slow it down. All I can do is live it. All I can do is try to find joy, to savor, to survive what is difficult. To hope I am in the right place, always. To run if I can, to create, to write. To try.

The year will pass.

What will it bring?

I own a fairly impressive collection of running clothes. Through careful shopping and a bit of good luck, I right now have three nearly-new pair of running shoes. And don’t get me started on my obsession with affection for comfy running socks.

But I’m not sure I am still a runner.

Last January and February, I put in a bunch of work on my legs and back. I wanted to finally conquer my hamstring and sacroiliac pain. I went to two different physical therapists, one who did traditional work on me, and another who both analyzed my running gait and used a technique called needling to help eliminate my chronic pain.

They were both useful, but the thing that helped the most was the gait analysis. I learned I needed to change three things about my running movement: over striding, shoulder hunching, and standing too vertically. Each month I added a new change. The hardest was definitely the over striding. I’ve been running, save for a year-long break during my pregnancy with Kaleb, since 2001. Fifteen years of moving my body in a specific way has created a very stubborn muscle memory in my legs, and changing it has been difficult. The way I did it was with playlists that have a one minute metronome recording between each song. The metronome pace is the one I match my feet to. At first I felt like I was running like a mouse. Not even running, but scurrying. But as I worked at it, it started to feel better. The constant pain in my hamstrings started to ease off. At each appointment with my running analysis PT, I got better and better at hitting the correct pace without needing the metronome to guide me.

Easier to implement was the shoulder hunching—I hadn’t realized how much tension I was holding in my shoulders, but as I practiced keeping them away from my ears, running simply felt better. And then, the last change: a slight forward lean instead of trying to pull myself completely vertical (or even leaning back too far). The PT explained that by doing this, I was putting all of the work of my core onto my lower back. By leaning forward slightly at the waist, I force my abs to engage and carry part of the load. Again, at first this felt awkward; images of Quasimodo filled my head as I tried it. But the effects on my lower back pain? I’m not kidding you—it felt like a miracle. My back pain started on March 12, 2011 (the day after the Tohoku earthquake that led to the tsunami that caused the nuclear meltdown in Japan), after I went to a spin class and didn’t set my bike correctly. I battled it for five years and in the end, there were two simple solutions: a stand-up desk for scrapbooking (a post for another day!) and a slight forward lean when I run.

Both PTs also worked on my left ankle, which has continued to bother me since I sprained it at Ragnar in 2013. It felt more reliable and less likely to twist again.

All spring, my pains diminished. I felt stronger and stronger. I started building up my mileage again. My two favorite runs in 2016 happened on vacation: a run along the paved path next to Niagara Falls and a run along the Seine, across the Isle of Swans and to the Eiffel Tower. I ran happily all summer, rebuilding a solid base of 4-5 consistent miles 3-5 times a week. I kept my metronome recordings in my playlists, I concentrated on my forward lean and low shoulders.

I ran pain free for the first time in years.

And then, in September, on a perfectly ordinary run on the river trail in our community, a divot in the road took me down. That pesky left ankle wasn’t, it seems, as trustworthy as I thought, because really, a little sunken place in the road shouldn’t cause me to stumble, but it did: I sprained my ankle again, cut my knee open, and limped back to my car (luckily I only had about a quarter mile to go).

I started up PT again, mostly to take care of my ankle but partly because I wanted something magic: to be strong enough that when Kendell and I went to New York City in October, I could go running. We stayed near Roosevelt Island and I wanted to run around the whole thing. But, despite PT and tape and exercises and patience, the ankle just wasn’t quite ready.

Plus, autumn is my favorite season for running. I did a lot of walking, with little bursts of running mixed in, but it was discouraging. Slowly I started increasing the bursts of running, until I was finally mostly-running for three miles. I felt like I could trust I was recovering—and then disaster hit again.

The day before Thanksgiving, my mom asked me to come over and help her with some things. I was just about ready to leave for a run when she called, so I changed my route and just ran to her house. When I was almost there, I had three minutes left for my goal time, so I decided, on the spur of the moment, to turn on the street that’s just before her street; I’d run two minutes one way and then turn around for another two minutes and exceed my goal by sixty seconds! I was deep in thought, as you get during some runs, pondering the troubles Kaleb has been having with friends, so I wasn’t being as attentive as I should’ve been. I turned the corner down the new street and the sidewalk was covered with nuts that had fallen from the tree in the corner yard. And instead of stepping onto the road and avoiding the mess, I just plowed right through, pondering Kaleb, wanting to finish my run, feeling actually pretty damn good.

You can see where this is going, right?

Yes, my friends: I was taken down by a windfall of pecans. (I actually don’t know what kind of nuts they were, but I’ve decided that pecans are less embarrassing than walnuts. Sexier, if you will.)

At least this time I managed to avoid also cutting my knee open again, but the ankle sprain was much worse than the one in September. In my head, a mental image has formed of the tendons covering my ankle: instead of a thick, white sheaf, they are thin and tattered, like antique lace.

And I confess to being fairly discouraged.

All the work I did during 2016? I’m back to starting over. Except, I don’t have any spark to start again again because those two sprains were so close together. Two in two months.

And because, if I am honest, I am afraid to run again. Not because my ankle my hurt—I am OK if it just hurts. But because I am afraid of falling again. I keep thinking of all of my summer runs on Squaw Peak Road, which were so gloriously difficult it makes me cry to remember them. And then I picture my ankle twisting and then I’m tumbling down the steep road instead of running. “I want to run again,” I think, and then my mind replays that shocked feeling, the torque of the joint, the thud of bone hitting cement.

I’m afraid to run because I am afraid of falling.

So here I am again, in January. I keep buying running clothes and socks. I keep thinking about running. I am trying to keep my fitness levels consistent by going to the gym and working out. But the elliptical machine, the rowing machine, the lateral trainer, the stair climber: they move my body. But they don’t move me. They are drudgery where running is joyful (even when it is painful). My ankle is still swollen and stiff and untrustworthy and weak.

And I find myself doubting myself. I am almost 45 years old. Have I reached the time I have always dreaded reaching, the day when my body says enough, no more running? Am I to be, for the rest of my life, a non-runner? A person who used to run but doesn’t anymore?

I can’t bear that. I never want to reach that time.

Because running isn’t just exercise for me. It isn’t just about a cute running skirt and my favorite Brooks and some comfy wool socks. It isn’t about my mile time and the distance and the calories burned. I mean—those things matter. But what I love about running, what I need from it, is how it makes me feel. It is how I feel when I am within the act of running itself, outside in the wind or the heat, next to trees and grass, under the blue sky. It is seeing a new road and then figuring out when and how I can run there. It is the feeling of growing stronger. It is the confidence of knowing I can run for hours. It makes me feel alive in my body and it keeps me out of darkness and I can’t abide imagining life without it.

So I have to find a solution. I am not sure if I am a runner. Right now, I’m not because I am not running. But in my heart I am a runner. I just have to find a way to work through the fear of falling, and a way to make my ankle strong again, and a way to believe in myself. I’m not sure exactly how to do it, especially the fear part. But I must. Somehow. Because I am not myself if I am not a runner.