Thursday morning, my husband woke up before I did. He showered and got ready for work, and part of my sleeping brain heard his annoyingly-cheerful process in snippets in between snoozes. (I mean, really: the man literally whistles while he towels off and puts on deodorant.) I must have fallen back to sleep for real, because the next thing I remember is him standing in the doorframe of the bathroom and saying, “Aim, isn’t there anything we can do about this?” and gesturing at his shorts.

Which were slightly wrinkled because I don’t iron.

I really don’t. Instead, I damp dry most clothes, and then I hang them up, and smooth them out with my hands, and usually that’s good enough. But that particular pair of shorts had been washed, damp-dried, hand-smoothed, folded when dry—and then put on the bottom of the clean-laundry basket, underneath roughly 5,000 towels, a hundred pair of underwear, and not a few pieces of running clothes. And then left for a few days before being hauled upstairs and put away.

(It’s a big basket.)

I didn’t really respond, just left him gesturing in the doorway while I went into the kitchen to make his lunch. Every work day, I make him a tuna fish sandwich, just the way he likes it, with a slice of cheese and some diced pickle stirred in.

And as I cut up pickles and drained out tuna juice (which is utterly revolting) I found myself thinking you know, no one makes sure my clothes are clean. No one makes me lunch. What would it feel like to have someone take care of me instead of being the one who always takes care of someone else?

I thought about my husband’s annoyance (and sadness although he’d never admit it) over a particular child who, upon finding out his/her father had wrangled quite the deal for some car maintenance for his/her car, uttered one of our very favorite comments: “can’t we ever buy anything without coupons?”

It’s exactly the same thing, I thought. They are each complaining about how someone else takes care of them.

I thought about a day back when I was teaching. That day, I had to go to a long new-teacher training after teaching all day. I wasn’t going to get home until after 9:00, and Kendell also had to be somewhere. In utter desperation, I asked my mom to help me. (I tried really hard, when my kids were young, not to ask other people for help. I didn’t like feeling like I was imposing my decision to have kids onto someone else.) That night when I came home, totally exhausted, I discovered that she had made dinner and fed my kids, got everyone to finish their homework, wiped off the kitchen cupboards, swept the floor, and folded the towels that had been sitting in the dryer for three days.

After I thanked her and she left, I lay in bed and cried. Not out of sadness, but out of the undeniably luxurious feel of being taken care of. I realized right then, in a way I hadn’t before, that love is best expressed by taking care of someone. Of course, my mom took care of me when I was growing up. She washed my clothes—she even made some of my clothes—and made me dinner and shuttled me around to gymnastics and dance. But it wasn’t really until that very moment, when I was buried in the tasks of taking care of so many people (not just my own kids, but my students as well) and she took care if me that I really, really felt my mother loved me.

So, in the happiness of that memory, I went back to my original question. How would it feel if someone else washed my clothes for me? Weird, honestly. What I wore would be influenced by what they chose to wash. I would be dependent upon their decision to do laundry or not to do laundry. I would feel less in control of my life. And someone making lunch for me? Or just cooking for me in general? I can hardly imagine. I’d like to think I’d be grateful and appreciative, but really: what if this person made something I didn’t like? I’m not the world’s pickiest eater, but I don’t like fish. What if the meal were fish?

I kissed Kendell goodbye and part of me wanted to spar with him over the wrinkled shorts, because part of me was still thinking how can you complain when I’m always taking care of you and you don’t take care of me? I’m glad I didn’t express those thoughts, though, because after he left I lay in bed for a few minutes, thinking about how he does take care of me. He always makes sure I have a safe car to drive by organizing all of the maintenance. He goes to work so we have what we need. (If we had to live on my librarian’s “salary” we would literally be destitute.) He rubs my back when it is hurting. He goes along with my crazy vacation plans, like, “Hey! Let’s go hiking!” He pays the worst bills (I don’t mind doing the credit cards but I hate dealing with the cell phone and internet companies) and regularly calls to talk them into lower rates. He makes sure our computer is always functional and fast and up-to-date. He talks me down off the wall of despair when I’m feeling like the world’s worst mother.

See, he does take care of me.

Later that day, Haley called me from the freeway. Right in the middle of rush-hour traffic, her tire had completely blown out. She was hysterical for a few minutes. I talked her through it and then I said, “let me call Dad and we’ll figure it out.” As I waited for him to pick up, I thought about how, just this morning, part of me had been thinking my husband doesn’t take care of me and then, when I needed help, my first thought was to call him. I didn’t even have to question it—I knew he’d take care of it. And, despite grumbling about all the traffic, despite a flat spare and tight lug nuts, he did. It wasn’t really him taking care of me, but of our daughter, but I still felt that same feeling, of knowing, by seeing him take care, that he loves me.

Later in the weekend, frustrated by a different teenager, I stood in his bedroom. I took a deep breath, stopped crying, and resolved to never again remind him that I take care of him. To not make the things I do for him become a source of resentment for me. I reminded myself that I take care of him—of all of my kids—not because I have to. But because I love them. Then I cleaned his room, all the way clean, wiped off the walls and vacuumed the floor and straightened out the book case. As I worked, I remembered: we love those we serve. And I hoped that one day, he will understand the language of caring, the words I tried to say by making his bed or making a pot of chicken curry.

Having someone take care of you makes you vulnerable. That vulnerability is why I tried to never ask for help, unless I was truly desperate, when I had little kids. It puts you in a place of needing and thus makes you emotionally exposed. So we criticize, or we just don’t say thank you, or we seem like we don’t notice.

But it’s also true that when someone is caring for you, you, as the recipient, are influenced by how they take care of you. So when I take care of my family by cooking for them, for example, they are influenced by my choices. I’ll probably never do a big fish fry for dinner. They won’t always love what I cook, and maybe instead of being bothered by that, I should remember the vulnerable place they are in.

Driving home, once we got Haley’s tires replaced, I thought about what the day had taught me about taking care, being compassionate, and receiving service from others. I didn’t want to forget or not be changed. So I nudged Kendell with my foot and then I thanked him. He thought it was kind of odd—why wouldn’t he help out his daughter?—but I think it is important. To acknowledge how we care for one another, without criticism. Just saying that, just saying “thanks for helping Haley with her tire” made me feel open and vulnerable in uncomfortable ways. But it also felt necessary, and I want to do that more often, as well as not reacting so sharply when someone criticizes the care I give them.

(But I probably won't start ironing.)

Mythology fascinates me. Not just the stories themselves—and not just the Greco-Roman myths, but Egyptian and Native American and especially Norse and Celtic—but the way they weave themselves into the world even now, after all of their believers are gone. If you pay attention, you can find references to mythologies everywhere, in music and movies and TV shows and even video games.

And novels, of course.

While I love novels that are centered in the mythological world (The Buried Giant or Lavinia, for example, or the short story anthology I read last winter and can’t stop thinking about, XO Orpheus), I also have an affection for books that bring some element of mythology into our contemporary world. Books like Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane or American Gods, or like Discord’s Apple by Carrie Vaughn, Ysabel by Guy Gavriel Kay, and Waking the Moon by Elizabeth Hand—are all technically in the genre of “urban fantasy,” but their own unique subgenre. I think to fully love such books as an adult, you need to have been a fantastical child, the kind who believed in fairies hiding in the peach blossoms and a house banshee lurking in the darkest corner of the basement.

(Which is exactly the kind of child that I was.)

Enter Scott Hawkins’s novel The Library at Mount Char, which I read about on Book Riot and then immediately requested my library purchase. It tells the story of Carolyn, whose family—along with most of her neighborhood—was destroyed by a bomb. After, she and eleven of the neighborhood kids were adopted by a man named Adam Black, who nearly immediately becomes Father to them. Father is the director of a rather odd library, and he makes each of the children into pelapi, a sort of student-librarians. Each of the twelve are given a different catalog to learn; Michael’s catalog, for instance, is the animal kingdom, and Jennifer’s is healing. Others are death, mathematics, the future. Carolyn’s is languages; not just French or Swahili, but all of the forgotten languages, and the language of storm and fire and even a little bit of lion.

The librarians are now in their thirties, roughly (because time works differently inside the Library). They are all experts at their catalogs. Father, however, is missing, and a strange force bars them, very physically, from entering the Library. They’re not sure what happened, but they are each wary of each other’s motives, not to mention of David, whose catalog is war and is the most likely to be staging a coup. But we see the story unfold through Carolyn’s eyes.

I’m purposefully being vague on the details because this is a book you should just read to experience, instead of reading about it a lot.  If you like books that work myth into the plot, books with superheroes (albeit with some strange powers) and questions about the origins of the universe and the dreams of lions, you will love this book. If swearing and violence are not your favorite, you will probably hate it (although its use of violence is partly to explore the impact and influence that violence has on individuals, and I’m not sure how else a writer could do that than by putting his or her characters into violent situations). If you like a mix of arcane knowledge, a setting that sometimes feels vaguely boarding-school esque, an exploration of memory and a bunch of surprises, you should read this. It is definitely an experience!

One of my favorite spots was when Jennifer explained a concept she calls a “heart coal” to Carolyn. They are talking about the woman who is hosting them at her house while they can’t get back into the Library. Her son, a drug addict, vanished years ago, decades even, but she still makes brownies for him. Jennifer calls this pining a heart coal, and says it is the thing that will kill the woman, unless she learns to deal with the reality of her life. A mix of regret, wishing to change the past, hoping for a miracle so that the person we love could let us love them again—that is a heart coal, and who hasn’t had one? But if she holds on to those feelings, the woman will die of them. It made me pause my reading, literally, and look up at the window in front of me. I am learning to look at my life as it really is, not how I want it to be (no matter how desperate that wanting is), but I am only beginning to know how to do this. I think I have some heart coals of my own to deal with.

I went into the book thinking it would be one way, and it wasn’t. I wouldn’t really classify this is as literary fiction, but it isn’t truly commercial fluff, either. Right in the middle, really. And some of the writing wasn’t amazing. I especially was bothered by the character of Irwin and how he always managed to find a way out of all of his difficult situations without ever having to be influenced or damaged by any of them. His defining characteristic—speaking like an uneducated southerner just to make people think he was stupid—might have been a good way for him to gain information, but it felt like a suggestion in a “how to write novels” book: Give each character a defining characteristic so that readers can keep each one straight in their head. And there were a couple of rough patches that felt new-writerish (this is Hawkins’s first novel). I wanted to spend more time in the library with Carolyn when they were all children, and some of the librarians were only vague sketches. The threats of malevolent beings who would be unleashed by Father's disappearance, also felt vague.

I wanted a little more store and a lot less violence.

That said, what I loved about Mount Char is how it reawakened that sense I used to have as a child, that something otherworldy was just around the corner if only I knew how to look. This novel’s universe explores the creation of gods, using references to general mythologies, but it reminded me of how that felt, wanting so badly to stumble into something that I needed but could never find. It left me with some powerful ideas about the world, memory, religion, friendship, loyalty. Some of those images are just remnants of the violence, like what happens at the enormous brass bull that I might never forget. But when I finished it, what satisfied me was its deep-down imaginative quality. I could compare it to some other books, but it is only sort-of similar to them. It felt like something readers don’t find very often: a fantasy (or urban fantasy or horror adventure or whatever you’d like to call it) derivative of nothing. 

My favorite YA novel about running is The Running Dream by Wendelin Van Draanen [insert long pause while I search my blog for the book note I remember writing, but it's not there and then I remember I wrote it for a local literary magazine, The Provo Orem Word, which I don't think exists anymore], and I don't think any other YA novel-about-running can ever hold a candle to it, so generally when I see one I just skip it. I'm hard-pressed to say, then, why I actually checked out On The Road to Find Out by Rachel Toor, except it just sort of felt like it was time to test my Running-Dream hypothesis.

How will I ever know if I don't read anything else?

On the Road to Find Out​ by Rachel Toor tells the story of Alice Davis, who's more than a little bit upset that her early-action application to Yale was rejected. To cheer her up, her best friend Jenni challenges her to make a New Year's resolution, and Alice decides her new goal is to become a runner. At first, the running is hard and painful and entirely miserable. But as she keeps at it, it gets easier (if never exactly easy). Once her mom discovers her new ambition, she takes her to the running store for proper shoes, and there Alice is introduced to a few other runners, and then she discovers the running community, and a whole new world opens up for her.

This is a book that is about running—but only sort of. Really, it is about Alice learning to look outside herself and see more than her own problems. Some of that she learns from running, but some of it she learns from life. One of my requirements to label a book as "good" is that the main character has to change in a significant way. Alice does change; she becomes less self-interested. She realizes that other people have struggles. She discovers what her future might be. But for me, she doesn't change enough. She never really is able to see the doors that her privilege open.

I liked, but didn't love, this book, and thus my first experiment has proven my theory: The Running Dream still stands as my favorite YA book about running. What surprised me is how lonely it made me feel. I always hear about how warm, friendly, and welcoming the running community is. Alice definitely discovers that. But it's not a thing that I have experienced in my 15 years of running. Aside from my sister Becky (who doesn't live close enough to run with) and a few casual acquaintances, none of my friends are runners, so for me, running is nearly always a solitary experience. 

I've grown used to that and honestly I think I would struggle if I suddenly had to run with another person all the time. But when I do feel lonely is when I go to a race. Nearly all of them I've gone to by myself, and for the actual running part, it's what I like best. But honestly, at every race I dread two things: the bus ride and the wait at the start. I'm always the awkward girl wandering around (or riding) by herself. At first I thought "running community" and imagined I'd make all sorts of friends by running races. Unlike Alice, I haven't had that experience. Instead, the social aspects of running feel, to me, like I'm the perennial new kid at school—everyone else has already made their friendships and no one needs a new one.

Which sounds fairly pathetic of me.

Anyway, in the end, what I think I will take from this book is the reaffirmation of one of the reasons I am, like Alice, a runner: because it is a thing you do that takes you out of your comfort zone, and it's there, in discomfort, that you are able to find some of your own truths.

I have driven past the turn off to Canyonlands National Park several times in my life. It’s only ten miles or so north of Moab, after all, but we’ve just never managed to actually take the turn. I didn’t even really know what the draw might be—it doesn’t really seem to have a theme, like Bryce (those gorgeous hoodoos) or Arches (the arches) does. And it seemed confusing and enormous, with two entrances that each seemed like their own destination. But when we planned our impromptu southern Utah getaway, I had to choose: work all day and then drive to Moab, or drive early to Moab and go somewhere? (There are lots of places near Moab I also haven’t gone to.)

I decided to use the vacation time and finally visit Canyonlands.

Throughout the day, I found myself thinking about Yosemite. The landscape is nothing similar, of course, but I remember so clearly, when we first arrived and then hiked to * dome, how different the spirit of the mountains felt. In a sense, a mountain is a mountain: there are trees and steep uphills and lovely downhills, places where the sun is scorching and other spots that are shady refuges. But each mountain has its own spirit; the Sierra Nevada range feels entirely different than the Wasatch.

What I realized in Canyonlands is that each desert place also has its own spirit. It isn’t really about theme so much as that tug each one has, the color of the light and the dryness in the air and the shape of the vista.

Canyonland is quite a vista.

But it is a little bit confusing. And of course, only having been there for one day (and not even an entire day), I don’t know many of its secrets. But here is how I made sense of it and chose the hikes we did:

You can’t see both sections of the park in one day. Well, technically you COULD enter both sections (you can’t drive within the park to each section), but you really can’t experience both of them in a day, unless all you want to do is drive a lot and then look. Both sides have paved roads and long dirt roads that require 4-wheel drive. Make your choice based on what you want to do.

The Islands in the Sky side (40 minutes north of Moab) has a combination of long and short hikes.

The Needles side (90 minutes south of Moab) has mostly long hikes.

We went to the Islands in the Sky side because that entrance was on our way to Moab and because I thought we might have the time or energy to also go to Dead Horse State Park at the end of the day. Once we got into the park (Canyonlands is one of the few national parks that only charges $10 to get in, although the park ranger told us that will go up in the fall), this is what we did:

Stop at the Visitor’s Center. It’s a small one and we just bought a fridge magnet (the souvenir we collect wherever we go), but if you walk across the road, you get your first taste of what Canyonlands feels like.

You can see the Shafer Trail Road from this overlook. If you know me at all, you know exactly what I said when I saw that. (“I want to run on that road!”) This is where I started to get an idea of how starkly beautiful Canyonlands is—what its spirit feels like. We climbed around on some of the boulders here, and it was the second-busiest place we visited in the park. (Don’t be fooled though…by busy I mean “the least-busy national park I’ve ever been to.”)

After admiring this view, we got back into the van to drive to our next spot. Not five minutes past the visitor’s center, we spotted a coyote! I have never seen one in the wild so this was thrilling to me. It crossed the road, so we stopped to let it go and then admired it until it vanished into the bushes.

Hike to Mesa Arch. This is a small hike, about a half-mile loop right to the top of Mesa Arch. It is an easy trail that kids could do. This was the busiest place we
stopped at in Canyonlands and I confess: I was wishing the crowds would go away. It was harder to enjoy with all the shouting, laughing, and selfie-taking. Still, I am glad we did it because it was a beautiful spot. You can walk right to the edge of the canyon here, and look out across the carved desert.

Stop at the Green River Overlook. Just past the Mesa Arch trailhead parking lot, three roads converge. Go right onto Upheaval Dome Road, then take the first left for the Green River overlook. There’s no hiking here, it’s only an overlook, but it is worth stopping to see. You can see many prominent landmarks from this point, and there are some signs explaining what you’re looking at. Read the signs and admire the view—it’s beautiful!

Hike Whale Rock. Just a bit past the Green River overlook is the trailhead for Whale Rock. I wish I had taken a picture of this rock formation, because it does look like a whale, right from the trailhead parking lot. This is a 1 mile round-trip
hike on a good desert trail: some sandy spots, some boulders, and then a climb up the slickrock following cairns. The top of the rock is rounded but wide enough to walk on comfortably. I sat on the top and drank some water and stretched and was entirely content! My guidebook said there were hand rails to help you get to the top, but we didn’t see them. They weren’t really necessary as the scramble wasn’t a steep slope at all.

Hike to the Upheaval Dome Second Overlook. The trailhead for this hike is at the end of the road you’ve been driving on. There are two overlooks into Upheaval Dome, which is a dramatic crater with white cliffs rising from the bottom. It’s not much of a hike to the first overlook, and it’s crowded, so we
went to the second overlook. I loved this hike and am so glad we did it. Once we got away from the main trail, we saw two other groups, and they both turned around before making it to the overlook. I love having a trail to myself! It had
sandy, boulders, cairns, steps carved into slickrock, a dry wash, and an amazing view at the end. I keep thinking about this spot and wanting to go back, down into the crater. It was beautiful and wild and a little bit menacing. This trail is about .85 miles one way if you stop at each overlook, for a round trip of 1.7 miles.
(I think this might be my favorite photo from Canyonlands)

Hike to Ruins on Aztec Butte. This trail takes you to three different ruins. If you take both spurs, the total distance is about 2.5 miles. From the trailhead (same road that Whale Rock trailhead is on, just further south), the trail goes through a sandy meadow. There were a few wildflowers left when we were there, wilted but still pretty, and it was filled with that smell of hot pinyon pine that is what desert smells like for me. (Such a different piney smell than a Christmas tree!) After you’ve gone around the meadow, the trail forks; each trail is an out-and-back to a different ruin and both are worth seeing. The left fork takes you to this grainary:

The right fork takes you to Aztec Butte. It is a scramble to get up to the top. I’m not afraid of heights but I am, I’ve figured out, afraid of steep angles. (Meaning, I can stand on the edge of a cliff and feel exhilarated, but if I have to hike up or (especially!) down a steep slope, I’m terrified.) We had totally underestimated how hot, exposed, and long this hike wasand didn’t bring any water with us. There was a couple a little bit in front of us, and they heard us talking and gave us one of their water bottles. It was, to quote the woman, “hot as water straight from the kettle,” but it still revived our flagging muscles! At the top of the butte, you can walk straight up to this ruin:

The couple, who was from England, and Kendell and I talked for a little bit. They were very friendly and admiring of our country. It’s always interesting to me how many people from other countries visit our national parks. It made me a little bit ashamed of myself when the woman said “you must come here all the time” and I had to confess I’d actually never been there.

There is another ruin on Aztec Butte, but I didn’t find out about it until I got home! The images online make me think I missed the best one. It’s built into a cliff with an arch, and to get to it, you find the cairn on the north side of the butte, and then drop down to a small ledge on the side of the butte. I’m mad at myself for missing this!

The round-trip if you see both ruins is about two miles. Take water! There isn’t any shade, and the scramble to the top of the butte will take it out of your legs. I did take some time to sit by myself near the ruins, imagining what it would be like to live and try to survive in such a place.

Hike to the Grand View Point Overlook. This is all the way at the end of the main Island in the Sky road. If you only take one hike in Canyonlands, it should be this one. The trail goes right along the edge of the mesa. Right to the edge as
in, if you tripped you’d fall in. It was beautiful. Part of the trail was stone steps, some of it wandered through bushes, some went across bare stone. From the parking lot, it is a one-mile hike to the overlook, almost entirely flat, and the views are simply breathtaking. This was where I finally understood exactly why
people come to Canyonlands.  In fact, I feel a little bit haunted by it and want to go back—I want to hike some trails that go down off the mesa. I want to hike the Syncline trail into Upheaval Dome’s ragged canyon, see the Zeus, Moses, and
Aphrodite formations (quite a hike unless we came in the truck, which I don’t want to do), and get myself into the river—Green or Colorado hold different but equal draws for me.

By the end of the day, we’d hiked nearly eight miles, which isn’t a ton of distance for us, but enough to make us tired. It was, in fact, the perfect way to introduce ourselves to Canyonlands. I hope I can go back soon.

Last night, I took Kendell by the shoulders and shook him (as much as I can "shake" my husband!) and said "do you know what happens tomorrow? Tomorrow I will have an empty house!" and then I burst into tears.

(goofing off with cousins at a family party in June)

Because while I will appreciate the quiet, I wasn't ready. Because while I am glad they are back to schedules and homework and tasks and actually using their brains, I wanted more time with them at home. Because this year, I didn't want summer to end.

(model faces on one of Haley's visits home)

Not that it didn't hold its many challenges. There were plenty of arguments and chore wars and some pretty intense discussions about choices, the future, and consequences. (Parenting teenagers is not for the weak of heart.) I have had plenty of moments when I have sat on my back porch and questioned every single choice I've made in the past 17 years and wondered how I managed to make such a mess of things. Or I've been so mad I couldn't sit still.

(Kaleb's 10th birthday family dinner)

And it hasn't been the summer I wanted it to be. Jake and Nathan both had lots of scout adventures, but when it came down to us taking a family vacation, I couldn't get anyone to commit or want to take time off of work. Then I decided, I don't care, they're going anyway, this is Jake's last summer before he graduates. So I planned a beach vacation on the central California coast, starting in Cayucos and ending in San Francisco, with a day of driving the Big Sur highway, a zipline excursion, an afternoon in Muir Woods, and of course tickets to Alcatraz, with maybe a stop in Yosemite on the drive home.

(Jake works at Pizza Pie Cafe, and they were one of the entries in the parade. You should see him toss pizza dough. It's pretty amazing!)

But I waited too long. Alcatraz was sold out, all of the non-scary hotels along the coast were booked, Haley decided she couldn't afford to miss that much work.

(on Pioneer Day, Utah's state holiday)

So there wasn't a family vacation this summer. (Even though the one I planned would have been awesome.)

(This is on Father's Day. It took awhile to get them to stop goofing off, but I love the photos I took of them laughing together.)

Back in the first week of June, when summer was just starting, what I wanted was for our family to draw closer and get stronger. I also wanted to make some good memories. I'm not sure I accomplished that. It was more complicated and messy. But as I sent Jake and Nathan off to high school together this morning, I realized it doesn't matter what I wanted to do. My chance at an idyllic summer is over. I didn't do all of it—but I think we are a little bit closer and stronger, despite the rough and complicated bits. Or maybe even because of them.

(Kaleb played lots of soccer this summer!)

What I realized this morning as summer ended is that what I want is to hold on somehow, to everything that is fleeting, to the structure of my family right now before it changes again, and the activities and vacations are the way I try to do that. But it is also (or perhaps really) in the small moments—the time we laughed at a joke we probably shouldn't, or someone was unexpectedly kind, or we talked about nothing really important—that matter most to me. That is what life is, really, not the vacations or the extravagant outings, but the time we had together, where ever it happened.

(It isn't a successful summer unless we both FIND a snake in the yard and TEASE Kendell with it!)

I just find, here at the end of summer, myself in the mental space I have been in for all of these years of raising teenagers. Wishing I could be better at it, somehow. Doubting my ability to be the mom my kids actually need. Wishing they could step into my heart somehow so they would know my intentions. Wondering if I have really shown them that I love them, if they can ever even know that. Wishing my heart could be still and I could just be confident, somehow, in feeling I had done anything right.

(Kaleb and I had an adventure at a new man-made pond in my hometown. I taught him how to float on his back,)

The extra week of summer I feel like we needed could hardly have accomplished that anyway.

(Nathan is the grill master!)

One of my friends says that the first day of school for kids is the equivalent of Christmas for moms: all the wishes finally fulfilled. There have been summers when I have felt that way, too. But as time runs out on summers with kids at home, the first day of school is less and less a reward for me. More and more, it is a reckoning. Did I do enough? Did I tell them I love them? Did I show them any happiness? I tried. I both failed and succeeded. I can only keep trying—to hold on, to savor, to show them I love them in my imperfect ways. To hope it will have been enough.

(My favorite day this summer, when we all went to Lagoon and had a great time together. These people—my family is who matters most to me. Always.)

Last year, when I read The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, I finished it and cried a little and told several of my like-minded readerly friends they should read it, too. I didn't ever imagine returning to that world, so I was entirely surprised when I spotted The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy on the new book display at my library.

I wasn't even sure I needed to return to Harold's world.

But I loved Unlikely Pilgrimage so much I decided to check it out.

This isn't exactly a sequel; instead, it's a companion novel. You could read either one first without spoiling the other. Love Song​ tells the story of what Queenie is doing while she's waiting for Harold to make his pilgrimage and of her perspective on their shared history.

Queenie to me feels like a quintessential English person: plucky and intelligent and a little bit awkward. (I mean that in a good way.) She graduated with a literature degree but ends up working as the accountant in Kingsbridge through a series of disappointing choices. The relationship she forms with Harold Fry is not anything she expected; it's also much different than the one Harold thinks they have. Queenie loves him, in very quiet and nearly-unnoticeable ways, and seeing their relationship from her side is enlightening.

Once Queenie, who is living in a hospice in northern England, receives Harold's first postcard—that he is coming and she should wait for him—she begins writing a letter to Harold that tells the story of her younger life, her experiences with him, what happened after she left Kingsbridge, and how she is living at the hospice. It is a beautiful, sweet story, but not treacly: there is heartbreak and secrets and unexpressed love and an almost unbearable loneliness. But seeing how Queenie builds herself a new life, even if it is nothing like she wanted, was so powerful to me. At one point, she is contemplating giving up, and she thinks of a hotel door. She'd been unable to open the door and had to find someone at the hotel to show her how. It didn't push or pull open, but slid to the side. "Sometimes," she writes, "the way forward takes you by surprise. You try to force something in the familiar direction and discover that what it needs is to move in a different dimension. The way forward is not forward, but off to one side, in a place you have not noticed before."

I have to remember that. It feels like a clue I will need some time soon in my life.

I loved this book. I think I loved Unlikely Pilgrimage as much for its walking as anything else—taking the journey with Harold. I loved Love Song in an entirely different way. It is a story as much about living as it is about dying, and it is more about writing than moving. The two work together perfectly, so if you have read The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, you absolutely must read The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy​.

(This post is linking up to Stephanie Howell's blog with her blogging prompt to Blog Your Heart. She is one of my favorite bloggers!)

What I am feeling right now:

peaceful. Last week, Kendell and I spent four days hiking in southern Utah. My kids kept joking with me that hiking 8-12 miles a day is not a vacation, but to me it is the perfect trip.We wandered, we scaled scary angles without falling, we stood on mesas and on the edges of sandstone fins. All that time in the red rock desert refilled my tank. It gave me a deep-down sense of happiness and peace and calmness. I'm still refreshed.

depleted. ...refreshed on a spiritual, self-based level. But physically I am still recuperating. I'm still trying to replenish my glycogen levels and freshen up my muscles. This wouldn't be a problem if I didn't have a half marathon to run next Saturday. I did ten miles yesterday, and while I finished without really struggling, I could feel how tired my body still is.

unsure and a little nervous and determined. This jumble of feelings all go with that half marathon next weekend. My hamstrings still hurt and my ankle is still bothering me, so I am still taking walk breaks on my longer runs. (I have worked up to running 9-10 minutes with a 2 minute walk break, unless the run is 4 miles or less, and then I just skip the walking.) My longest run before the race will be yesterday's ten miles. And I'm unsure: will something drastically painful happen on the race? Will my ankle be able to handle all the downhill? Should I try to run the whole thing, without any walk breaks? But I am also determined. I don't care about my time. I just want to finish so I can remind myself that I can do this. That even with all the physical struggles I've had this year, I can still run longer distances. Maybe muscle memory will pull me through. Maybe I will walk the last three (flat) miles. Maybe I will surprise myself. But I will finish!

thankful. This week, we went to Lagoon, which is an amusement park here in Utah. All six of us, plus an extra cousin. It was such a fun day. Not, for me, only because of the rides (and I confess: I love rides! I hope I am never too old for a roller coaster) but because we were all together. Everyone got along and there was laughter and teasing and inside jokes and I just...I caught a glimpse. I am learning that the majority of your relationship with your children happens when they are adults; childhood and teenagedom don't last forever. But, while it changes, that relationship can last for a lifetime. The teenage and young-adult drama are just for right now, and on that day I could sense just the tiniest glimmer of how we will be in later years. I love them all so much!

terrified.​ ...when I stop to think about this. Since he had his valve replaced, Kendell has to go in once a year for an EKG. This year they also did an echo and discovered that his valve is already starting to fail. (His lasted six years, but they usually last 10-15.) This means that sometime this fall, he will have to go in for open-heart surgery again. The first surgery is not as risky. Doing it a second time is different. His scar will be bigger and his recovery will be longer. I feel so bad for him to have to go through this again.

angry. At my mom. Since her surgery in February, she has said and done some things I don't understand. My reaction—a deep, lingering, frustrated kind of anger that I have mostly kept to myself—has made me question what is really going on with our relationship. I am discovering other things I'm mad about that I haven't fully explored or even really noticed. What I don't know is what to do with this anger. Expressing to her what I am angry about won't change her choices or repair anything. It doesn't seem like it would fix anything except for relieving my own pressure valve. Or can I just take what I have learned—that when you choose what she has chosen, it makes your (grown) children angry and sad and frustrated—and let it make me a better parent and future grandma?

in love. With how this summer went, even though we didn't take the family trip I wanted to. (I am really not looking forward to school starting.) With running. (Again, and even though it hurts now.) With reading. (I have read so much this summer.) With Kendell. (Our relationship is drastically different from when he had his first heart surgery. So much better.) With my kids. (I am proud of every single one of them. They are all smart and emotionally intelligent in their unique ways and they each bring something to my life I would not be the same without. All of them.) With Florence + The Machine. (The new album has been my late-summer soundtrack.) With the fact that if it's August, can autumn be far behind? (Zinnias will bloom soon, and then asters and purple daisies, and the leaves on the mountains will turn orange in the next few weeks.) With being in my 40s. (Even though my body feels different, I am understanding things with so much more complexity. I am more able to be who I am instead of who others think I should be.)

What's in your heart right now?