I sort of have a thing for Ireland. It’s the country I’d most like to visit; I’d like to wander through its mountains, visit its castles and cathedrals, see its cities. It’s a long-held obsession, cultivated no doubt by reading; Ireland seems to pop up a lot in books and poems, and of course there’s James Joyce, Samuel Beckett, Yeats, Seamus Heaney. I have an inkling that there is a bit of Irish in our family line, although McCurdy could be Scottish; I’ve clung to wanting a piece of Ireland in my blood for so long that I don’t really want to dig around in family history for fear that there isn’t any. I am all-too-aware that I’m romanticizing a place that is, after all, just a place. But from here, it seems like a magical place, steeped in history all the way back to the Celts.

Plus there’s the accent.

I also have a thing for books set in Ireland or written by Irish writers. Even though most contemporary novels make it seem like a country full of poverty and alcoholics. Siobhan Dowd’s first novel, A Swift, Pure Cry, does that, too. It has the motifs of poverty and alcoholism, plus the death of the protagonist's mother, teen pregnancy, and a mystery involving a dead baby. Lots of dark, sad stuff, but I still read it in just one day. The lyrical use of language, a plot that pulls you along with "what is going to happen next?" and a little corner of Ireland that becomes as important as any character made this novel irresistible to me. It's the story of Shell, whose mother has recently died and whose father has left his job and devoted his life to collecting for the poor. This leaves Shell to fulfill the role of mother to her two younger siblings. She's fifteen though, so she's also got boyfriend struggles and troubles with her best friend. Her mother's spirit has a habit of helping her out every once in awhile, and there's a Catholic priest who helps her, too. One of my favorite spots is when this priest, Father Rose, who's new to the parish, stands next to the alter and gives his first sermon. Shell, who's been feeling fairly non-spiritual after her mother's death, starts believing again. Christ, whom she feels has abandoned her, "stands up from the bar and comes back to me." That gentle sense of faith being reanimated weaves throughout the novel, making you feel like Shell will be saved, even when grace seems impossible.

I’m being sort of vague on the plot details on purpose, because it's a novel that's best read when you don't know much about it. The tension builds and builds as the story progresses; you want Shell to find a happy, good place for herself but can't see how she'll manage it. There are some heartbreaking bits when I outright cried, and some other pieces that made me laugh. The ending is good---satisfying without being unplausible.

I’ve not yet read Dowd’s second novel, The London Eye Mystery, but I just finished her third, Bog Child. Again in this novel, the Irish landscape becomes a character of its own, but in a different sense. It’s set in the early 1980s, during The Troubles. Fergus, while out with his uncle, discovers a body in a peat bog. At first the girl is thought to be a recent murder victim, but they quickly discover she is a bog child, buried there and preserved for two thousand years. Fergus is in the middle of studying for his final high school exams; he wants to leave the small town where he’s grown up, go to University, and become a doctor. His older brother Joe is in jail for some undisclosed crime committed in the cause of liberating Ireland; Joe’s friend is trying to get Fergus involved in the cause; he’s wanting to hang out around the archeological site they’ve set up around the bog child. Plus he’s learning to drive. He’s got a lot going on, Fergus.

In fact, the book has a lot going on, too. It’s part history (you get the story of the bog child, told in pieces), part romance, part family drama (Joe, in prison, goes on a hunger strike with several of his comrades), part teen troubles, part humor. Plus, Fergus is a runner. He heads out on his ten-mile-long runs across the Irish countryside, thinking as he goes, and I could relate: why did I do this? he asks himself as he starts running. "His legs were heavy. Every breath felt like his last. When people asked him what was the worst bit of a run, the answer was always the same: the first mile." The best part is "the magic middle of things, where moving felt the same as staying still." Running is both the thing that helps him define himself and that gets him in trouble; it’s not so much an exercise as a place for figuring things out. A place where he can think about what courage really is, and a place that is a springboard for acting on his courage.

Like A Swift, Pure Cry, I read Bog Child in a day. I finished it and thought I wish she could have written more novels. Siobhan Dowd died in 2007, leaving two unpublished novels. There’s one still left to come out, Solace of the Road. And then...nothing. Still, it's not her untimely death that makes her an author worth reading, especially by older teens. The writing is just downright good, lyrical without being overly difficult, thought-provoking without preaching. Both of her books I’ve read have made me remember how lovely and good every individual life is.

During March, I found myself reading a series of very gloomy books:

The Suicide Index  by Joan Wickersham, which is about the author's father's suicide

A Swift, Pure Cry  by Siobhan Down, which is set in Ireland so obviously, it's depressing (a more detailed book note to come on this one)

Before I Die by Jenny Downham, which is a teen novel whose protagonist, Tessa, has terminal leukemia and a list of things she wants to do before she dies

Searching for Mercy Street: My Journey Back to My Mother, Anne Sexton by Linda Grey, which is Anne Sexton's daughter's story about living with her crazy mother.

That last one? Shouldn't have read it at all. Not that I am comparing myself in any way to Anne Sexton (although we do have the same initials, if you ignore middle/maiden names), in either poetic goodness or crazy horribleness, but the kind of crazy she was is something I can relate to in the vaguest sense. I mean: the horrible things she did to her children I have, fortunately, managed to not even consider with my own kids. But the tendency toward melodramatic, egocentric crazy? And the way words can be a sort of healing? Yeah, I get that. I shouldn't have read it because it put me in mind of my own dark places. So when I finished it (after failing to talk myself into just putting down the book), and I considered all the dark/twisty/sad/whatever kinds of books I'd been reading, I decided I needed something cheery and wholesome.

Coincidentally, that same day my name finally came up on the hold list for Before Green Gables: The Prequel to Anne of Green Gables. (In case you were curious: one of the drawbacks to being a librarian is that we have to be the LAST to read the books with long hold lists. So if there's, say, 58 people waiting for a book, the librarians have to wait until all of them have read it. And if more are added to the hold list in the meantime, we're still bumped to the bottom. This usually bothers me a little bit, until someone calls and complains about the length of a hold list, and is certain that it's not fair she has to wait while all the librarians get to read the book she wants. It's nice to be able to assure that someone that no, we have to wait even LONGER. Or, you know, do something drastic like actual buy the book.) Just what I needed: cheery and wholesome. If you read the Anne of Green Gables books when you were young, you will love this book. The author manages to build almost everything you'd want to know into what happened to Anne before she came to Green Gables. You get to meet Katie Maurice (the friend in the mirror), and Violetta (the friend who’s an echo), the Five Sisters (the friendly trees), and all the people who influence her.

Of course, because hard, horrible, and sad things happen to Anne, this isn’t exactly a thoroughly cheery book. But it’s the way that the difficulties are handled that makes it so worthwhile. Throughout all her troubles, Anne manages to find something that brings her happiness. She does that in the original Montgomery novels, too. In that sense, the author manages to capture the original feel of the books while telling a new story that fits seamlessly with the old. It did the same thing that Anne did to me when I was young: reminded me that if you try your hardest, things will work out in the end.

In fact, I decided that when I start reading novels again, in May (more on that tomorrow), I need to reread the originals. And since my old copies are scattered and destroyed somewhere in my mom’s house, I bought myself my own new set. Probably this is indulgent, since no one but me will read them. (They are not Haley’s style at all, and I’m 100% certain that none of my boys will want to crack them open!) But that’s OK. It’s good to have wholesome and cheery around when I need them!

I understand that I am getting close to approaching THAT age, the one during which you take a roller coaster ride that I haven't seen the like of since my teenage years. I understand I am on the very, very, very outer edge of your upcoming and final maelstrom. I understand you will be making your final appearance and would like to make it something memorable.

I understand. I love you and appreciate all the good things you have done for me over the past two decades. Things like ovulation and good heart health have been awesome. Thank you for all your efforts in my behalf.

But I have just one question: is the sudden and uncontrollable eyebrow growth just a little taste of the upcoming fury? If possible, I would like to submit my hair-growth request. Yes, it is a fairly annoying that I seem to have a five o'clock shadow on my eyebrows every day. However, I will submit to that annoyance if you contain the growth to my eyebrows.

Please, please, please, contain the growth to my eyebrows.

Because I don't want a hairy lip.

Thank you. I hope this note finds you in calm and very happy health.

Sincerely:

The body you're about to wreck havoc on.

Yesterday  I wrote about how my internal reader has adjusted to my librarian job. That "who would I suggest this book to" feeling is particularly intense when I read any of Robin McKinley's books. Even though her books are marketed as teen reads, and have some of the markers of adolescent lit, not all teenage readers will love her books. They're sort of challenging. I would have loved them when I was a teenager, but I don't think my friends would. Even as an adult, I love her writing. It's thick and intense, a sort of creamy literary custard. The polar opposite of fluffy, but still sweet. That said, I didn't love her next-to-newest book, Dragonhaven. I felt like it had too much exposition to wade through; once you finally got to something actually happening, you were exhausted at trying to understand the books society. I can almost say the same thing about her very newest book, Chalice. What redeemed it, though, is that all the exposition (I'd say the story doesn't really start until page 50 or so) is woven with the thread of a sweet romance, and it is that thread that pulls you through to the story.

The novel is set in a world that is both pastoral and vaguely medieval. Each "demesne" (like a state, I think) is governed by a Circle, made up of twelve members with different responsibilities and connected to the Master. The Chalice is a member of the circle, closest to the Master; she mixes "cups" for all the ceremonies, meetings, and discussions the Circle attends. In this way she is like the emotional hub of the circle, soothing feelings and binding the circle members together. The Master reminded me of the Celtic king archetype, the leader who is bound to the physical aspect of his country and does what is necessary to preserve it. Then there is the Overlord, who is the most powerful man in the demesne, who reports to the King. In this world, there are "earthlines," which I interpreted as being the sentient threads of the earth---a sort of earth psyche, I guess. It is a wonderfully inventive world---I would like to live there, which is probably the best praise a reader can give to an invented world. It's full of a subtle sort of magic that comes not from dramatic offerings but from intuition and connections.

The main character, Mirasol, becomes the Chalice after the old one, as well as the old Master, are killed. What happened to them is hinted at but never fully explained; you're left with the feeling that the old Master was a man of excess who used his power for his own benefit instead of helping the demesne. Being a Chalice is a sort of gift; you either are or you're not, and Mirasol must try to fulfill a role she was born for but never trained in. The younger brother of the old Master is brought back from his exile as a fire priest, half-human, half fire. Together they have to figure out how to settle the earthlines, make the Circle healthy again, and overthrow the political manuverings of the Overlord.

This isn't a book I'd recommend to someone looking for action-packed fantasy. Not a lot happens, and much of the "goodness" of the book is the language and description, the world building, the sort of metaphysical conceit. I don't think most average teen readers would stick with it long enough to fall in love with the story. But those rare, high-level, romantic-fantasy-loving readers would love it. The romance in it is particulary well-done, because it manages to be sweet and intense without a hint of cloying or mushy. But, as much as I enjoyed it, I also finished it a bit frustrated. There really is far too much hinting-at and not enough story; the reader is left to drawn her own conclusions but without enough information to really know what happened. This world, and the characters who people it, deserve a more developed story to experience.

A few months ago, the author Shannon Hale had an few interesting posts on her blog about writer's and reader's responsibilities. These came after the maelstrom that was the release of Stephenie Meyer's Breaking Dawn. Hale is Meyer's friend, and didn't like all the personal attacks that were happening to her friend. There's a difference between the book and the author, Hale pointed out, and when you look at a book with a negative perspective, you should criticize the book and not the author. To a certain point I agree with nearly everything she said---but my criticism of her ideas isn't really the point of this blog entry. (That would come if I ever get my thoughts on Breaking Dawn into a cohesive order that won't offend anyone who happened to love that book.) What I have continued to think about after reading those essays of Hales' is the idea of the internal reader. "I write to my internal reader," she explains; "you read to see if my internal reader and your internal reader are kindred spirits. If they're not, we go our separate ways. If they are, then what connection, what serendipity, what joy! We get to tell a story together." I love this concept, as it's a succinct way to label the idea of everyone reading for different reasons. The books that please my internal reader are going to be different, usually, than the books that please your internal reader, and that's just fine, that's why there are so many different types of books.

What I've also found throughout my life is that your internal reader's tastes change with experience. A couple of months ago, I stumbled across a box of books I had long ago decided I didn't want on my shelf anymore. I boxed them up and left them in the closet under the stairs because I hadn't yet decided that getting rid of stuff I'll never use again is far better than storing it. I am glad my packrat tendencies prevailed, though, because looking through those titles gave me a glimpse of myself that I'd forgotten. They were mostly mysteries and romances, of the vaguely best-sellerish bent. Now I'd qualify them with the term "gentle reads," meaning little if any sex, swearing, or violence, meaning happy, uplifting, cheery stories that always have happy endings. I bought them during the three years or so that came in my post-rebellious phase, when I was trying to put my soul back in order.I wanted to read stories where life was kind, good intentions were rewarded, and everything turned out right in the end. I didn't want to read anything dark, depressing, or tempting. I didn't want anything that might challenge my budding new notions about life, nothing that might make me think critically about anything. I didn't want to think, just to be entertained.

In short, I wanted to read fluff.

I'd forgotten that about myself, that I had a need for fluffy reads. It tells me something about myself that goes beyond titles and authors; it lets me know that I have grown in both spiritual and intellectual ways. I am glad that I have progressed to a point where I am comfortable being challenged, being made to consider ideas and concepts that I might not have thought about if I were still reading only fluffy books. My internal reader has changed since those very early years of my adulthood. Of course, getting a degree in English caused a radical shift in the types of books that I enjoy. I remember very clearly one of my contemporary lit classes, when a student raised his hand and said something like "learning all this critical theory is making me hate to read. I can't just read to enjoy the story anymore, but I have to look at HOW it becomes a story, and what the author is saying beyond the story itself, and what it all means. Can't we just READ anymore?" The rest of that class period was spent discussing his idea. I was surprised at how many other students agreed with that first one, who felt like being English majors had ruined reading for them. For me, it had made reading even better, had given me a way of thinking about books instead of only reading them---had added another rich layer to the reading experience. Yet, it did change my reading tastes. My internal reader is forever different. Fluffy doesn't satisfy me anymore.

Teaching also changed my internal reader, but being a librarian has changed it even more. Like the English major learning how to think critically while simultaneously reading the story, I have added another level to my reading experience: "Who would I recommend this book to?" And like that long-ago student in my contemporary lit class, I'm sort of getting bugged by it. The "who else but me" layer of reading makes it feel like every single library patron is reading along with me, adding their commentary. "Ope! there's a swear word!" or "hey! they shouldn't write about THAT." Some books are a battle to get through just because I'm mentally defending them as I read along. I'm certain that I'll eventually adjust to this new layer, and that it's annoying because it is new. But it is an adjustment, one that is making me consider what my internal reader says about who I am in general. It makes me wish I had been more consistent, my entire life, at keeping a record of what I've read. I think it would be fascinating to know, for example, exactly which books I read at age sixteen, or at twelve, or at twenty-four. How have the books I've read influenced my thinking, my ideas, my ways of conducting my life? It's also why I continue writing book notes on my blog, even though I'm not sure many people read them. I like keeping track of the way each thing I read changes me and the thoughts each book engenders.

How has your internal reader changed?

A meme I borrowed from Chris , which I am doing because I am stuck on something I am working on:

1. When you looked in the mirror today, what was the first thing that came to mind?

I actually haven’t looked in the mirror yet today! I got up and got going—kids, breakfast, where’s my back pack, I’m out of socks, I don’t want to go to school, can I take 18 things to school for show and tell? Now that the house is quiet I will put myself together after I finish this.

2. How much cash do you have on you?

I don’t carry a whole lot of cash. Something less than twenty bucks.

3. What's a word that rhymes with DOOR?

Shore. Have I told you that I’m taking Haley and Jacob to Mexico this summer? They are out-of-their-minds excited to hang out on the beach for a week. I am still at the anxious point. The last time I flew was the anxiety-riddled trip to Niagra Falls via standby tickets. I am convinced I have airplane PTSD.

4. Favorite planet?

Hmmmm, that’s hard to pick for me. Which is sort of weird. I loved learning about astronomy both in junior high and in college. The planets fascinate me and in another life I would like to become an astronaut. OK, I’ll pick one: Venus.

5. Who is the 4th person on your missed call list on your cell phone?

Kendell. He gets SOOOOO annoyed when I don’t hear my cell phone!

6. What is your favorite ring tone on your cell phone?

I am a cell phone loser. I don’t even know how to change my ring tone. Haley probably does, though.

7. What shirt are you wearing?

A thermal PJ top. Yes, I’m still in my PJs at 9:48 a.m. And, yes: I DID drive my kid to preschool AND walk him to his class in my pajamas. I think the other moms (some of whom manage to be completely dressed, coiffed, and make-up-ed) are finally getting over the shock.

8. Do you "label" yourself?

Depends on what you mean by "label." I don’t label myself in designer clothes, lol! ;) I DO tend to have fairly negative thoughts about myself on a consistent basis. I wish I could label myself with something positive by those labels tend not to stick.

9. Name the brand of shoes you are currently wearing?

I don’t have any shoes on ("no shoes on the carpet" is the Golden Rule at our house), but the last pair I had on were my running shoes... Asics GT2130 (only mine are pink. AND I see that these are on a close-out deal. Hmmmm....)

10. Bright or Dark room?

Depends on what I’m doing. My mom thinks my house is too dark and always walks around opening blinds when she’s here. I personally don’t like anyone looking in my windows, so I follow her around closing them. For sleeping I like the room dark, in theory. But honestly I can sleep anywhere.

11. What were you doing at midnight last night?

Sleeping! Which is rare. I’m a night owl. But I am trying to be more consistent with sleep.

12 .What did the last text message on your phone say?

Again: cell phone loser. Kendell is convinced that texting will turn Haley into a slut, so we don’t have any texting on our plan (even though she doesn’t have a cell phone yet).

13. Where is your nearest 7-11?

1.39 miles. I only know this because it’s on a few of my running routes. The ones with hills, though, so I’ve not run past it for awhile! 7-11 reminds me of my high school friend, Heidi. She lived next door to one, which was convenient considering we had parties at her house EVERY Friday night during the college football season. Her parents always got season tickets to the University of Utah games, and they’d spend the night in Salt Lake. This gave us her gorgeous old house, void of parents, perfect for parties. Many things happened at Heidi Parties! Those memories are all wound up with the flavors of nachos and Slurpees from 7-11.

14. What's a word you say a lot?

Really?

15. Who told you he/she loved you last?

Kaleb on his way into preschool. Even though I still had my pajamas on.

16. Last furry thing you touched?

Kaleb’s favorite kitty, Flash. It’s a beanie baby kitty. He LOVES them and has several, courtesy of his Aunt Cindy, but Flash is his consistent favorite. I got it for him just after he turned two and had the awful habit of going downstairs to steal one (or 5 or 6) of Haley’s beanie baby kitties. This did not make her happy at all, so I got him one of his own. Flash is bedraggled and matted and very, very loved.

17. How many drugs have you done in the last three days?

Approximately 27 Ibuprofen. Also thyroid pills, vitamins, calcium, and cod liver oil.

18. How many rolls of film do you need developed?

I just got an email from the place where I have my photos printed, letting me know they aren’t going to develop film anymore. I’ve not used film since 2003 but I DO have a disposable camera sitting in the cupboard that I need to take in. Before April 1!

19. Favorite age you have been so far?

That’s hard to say. I would of course love to have my sixteen-year-old body back, which was gorgeous. I still miss those legs! Physically, my twenties were good. I could eat anything and never gain weight. Turning thirty was like: poof! You can now eat 3 baby carrots, 2 olives, and 1 slice of whole-wheat bread a day if you want to maintain any semblance of thinness. Three olives would be a diet disaster! But, I think I am happier in some ways now, in my thirties, than I was in my twenties. I am smarter in the sense of how I deal with things.

20. Your worst enemy?

Sugar. Or procrastination.

21. What is your current desktop picture?

A photo of apple-tree blossoms against a blue sky. No, wait. It was that, but Kendell changed it back this morning to the swimming turtle. I like using my pictures for the desktop.

22. What was the last thing you said to someone?

"Have fun at school!" to Kaleb.

23. If you had to choose between a million bucks or to be able to fly what would it be?

I would have to go with the million bucks. I think that if I COULD fly, it would be all I would want to do. I wouldn’t want to stick around and be a responsible parent. So a million bucks would be a far wiser and less selfish choice.

24. Do you like someone?

Yes! I especially like the little old woman at work the other day who walked up to me at the fiction desk and, instead of asking me where the Internet computers are (my least favorite question at work and also the one I am asked the most), took my hand in hers and said "you have the most beautiful complexion, dear!" and then wandered away to find some books. I’m torn between liking her for her compliment (the last person who told me I have a beautiful complexion was my Grandma Elsie in 1992 and both times I’ve managed to suppress the urge to tell those old women that they needed to get their eyes examined) and liking her because she was at the library for books instead of the Internet computers.

25. The last song you listened to?

"My Number" by Sara and Teagan. I wish the library had one of their CDs, as I am loving this song but not sure if it’s a good example of the rest of their songs. I want to listen to the CD before I buy it, you know? Oh, and as I typed that, another favorite song came on: "Driving me Mad" by Neil Finn. Great song!

As always, empty questions are in the comments if you so desire to use this on your own blog! Off to, you know, look in the mirror, and brush my teeth, and maybe even my hair!

even though it's more of a fall-type bread than something you'd bake in the spring. Maybe I need to find a good recipe for lemon-blueberry bread, which sounds pretty spring-type (share yours with me if you have one!), but for whatever reason, I'm obsessed:

Spiced Pumpkin Bread

4 eggs
2 cups sugar, plus more for pans
1 cup oil
1 cup apple juice or cider
2 cups canned pumpkin
1 tsp vanilla
2/3 cup whole-wheat flour
2 2/3 cup white flour
2 tsp baking soda
2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp salt
1 tsp baking powder
3/4 tsp ground cloves
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp ground ginger

Preheat oven to 350. Spray two bread pans with Pam; sprinkle with sugar. (I sprinkle with sugar instead of flour because it makes a sugary-crisp crust instead of that white edge that sprinkled flour makes. But you could use flour if you wanted.) Beat eggs until thick and frothy, about 4 minutes. Slowly add sugar, then oil, pumpkin,apple juice, and vanilla. In a different bowl, mix together flours, baking soda and powder, salt, and spices. Mix until just blended. Pour into prepared pans. Sprinkle with streusel* if desired. Bake for about 1 hour, until toothpick comes out clean. (It takes 1 hour and 11 minutes in my oven, but, then, I need a new oven.)

*Streusel: mix 3 T brown sugar, 4 T flour, 1/2 tsp cinnamon; add about 1 1/2 T butter (I don't really measure it) and cut until crumbly.

I've made this three times since March 6, when I made it for my father-in-law who'd graciously agreed to take care of Kaleb on his (my FIL's, not Kaleb's) birthday. When I left for work, there were two hot loaves on the counter, minus one slice for me. When I got home, there were only crumbs left. It's REALLY good. However, do NOT put chocolate chips in the bread, even if you are sorely tempted. I'm not sure why (someone clue me in if you know), but they all sink to the bottom and just make a big mess. A handful of chopped pecans is good, though.

I wasn't going to make this tonight, even though I WANTED some. But then, in the bustle of putting away leftovers after dinner, I dropped the container of eggs, and FOUR of them cracked. I took that as a sign. I had to do something with the eggs! 

PS, thanks for all your encouraging words re: the running/IT band thing. I have discovered that with daily IT massages (which are, by the way, excruciatingly electrifying) and stretching, and by running a little bit slower than my usual 9:30 pace (which, yeah, I know, is slow anyway), and by avoiding cement and sticking to blacktop, and also avoiding hills (sob) and taking lots of Ibuprofen, I'm fine. They've not really even twinged or complained since that Monday. So far I am back to six milers, and will stretch that up to eight and then ten before the race. It is definitely an imperfect training schedule---foolhardy, even. But I think it will get me through the race, and then I have learned my lesson: I won't ever wait too long to start training again!!! ;)

You want to know what's bugging me? The new light they installed a few blocks away from my house. It's been operational for at least two months and I have very literally NEVER managed to drive through it without stopping. EVERY TIME I get to that intersection, the light is red. What are the odds? But I am not joking.

I'm also feeling bugged tonight with slow people. You know---the ones in their cars on the freeway, driving 62 mph in the fast lane. Do they not notice the annoyed looks coming from the cars passing them ON THE RIGHT?

And speaking of slow. Don't get me wrong: I love shopping at Costco, and in terms of slowness at least it's faster than Walmart. But, when I went there yesterday, I was surrounded---nay, drowned by slowness. There was a cart jam at the front door, no doubt caused by the woman walking very slowly down the middle of the entrance aisle, talking on her phone and yet still possessing the uncanny ability to steer to the left at the exact same time anyone behind her also steered to the left, thus preventing the ability of anyone to pass her. Then there was the lady in the produce section who completely blocked off the exit with her cart while yapping on her phone and agonizing over which carton of strawberries to put in her cart. Lest you think that it was really cell phones (or people unable to talk and, you know, think at the same time) bugging me, the slowest of all the slowest slow thing? The pharmacy. They're usually slow to begin with, and the words "Your prescription will be ready in 45 minutes" really translates into "your prescription will be ready in one hour, fifteen minutes, and however long you have to stand in line at 5:45 pm while we've only got ONE pharmacy tech checking people out."

But when it all comes down to it, what's really bugging me is my knee. I finally decided: I'm going to stop putzing around and get busy training for my half marathon . It's only, like, two and a half weeks away. What's the rush? So I actually got out of bed at 6:00 on Monday and hit the road. I did just short of five miles, which shouldn't have been a big deal. But about two miles in, my IT band flared up. Usually, a few miles into my run, my left IT complains a little bit. I lengthen my stride and focus on extending my back leg as far as I can, and the complaint is silenced. But not on Monday. No, on Monday it wasn't just complaining. It was howling. No, wrong metaphor: it felt like an electric shock shooting up and down the side of my leg that never let go of my knee. Then, when I hit the uphill to get home, both IT bands lit up. I kept going of course, because what else do you do when you're a mile away from home? Catch a cab?

The very second I stopped running, the electrical storm passed. But if I turned it the wrong way, or dared climb a flight of stairs, or had to even jog somewhere at any sort of speed, it lit right back up. I've since been icing, and loading myself up on Ibuprofen, and making Kendell give me massages, and stretching like crazy. I'm going to go out again tomorrow morning and hopefully avoiding hills will make everything better. But the deep-down thing that's bugging me? It's the voice that's insisting I've ruined everything, that I won't make it through the race, that I will never run again. That my downhill slide starts today: I'll put back on the 32 pounds I've lost, and then some. Even my fat clothes will be tight. And I'll become diabetic, which will cause me to lose my mental stability and a few toes as well. And I'll die far too young, of something that could have been prevented if only I could have exercised more. And, even worse: I'll never feel it again, that I-love-being-this-strong feeling that comes at the end of a good hard run, that doesn't have anything to do with speed or strength or running ability, but with perseverance. Or the joy of running uphill. Or just how good morning runs really are, even though I usually have a hard time getting out of bed.

Yeah.

THAT's what's really bugging me right now, making me alternate between cranky and overly emotional (for example, I had a little quite moment of weeping alone in the bathroom because Haley didn't like the swimsuit coverup I bought her. The one I was certain she'd love ). That's what's making it impossible for me to deal with slow drivers, or the guy at the checkout counter who spent five minutes sifting through coupons to find just the one he needed, or, you know, things like my children and my husband. I just want to curl in fetal position and bawl my eyes out.

Of course, I think fetal position isn't good for your IT band.

I also think I'm putting way too much meaning behind tomorrow's run. It'll feel like the end of the world if my IT flares up again. It'll feel like I'll never run again, and really: what other thing is there to do for exercise? I love it.

So wish me luck tomorrow. Wish my tight IT bands supple flexibility and the ability to not be annoyed by repetition.

Otherwise I think a good deal of crazy's about to ensue.

Last September (or was it October?) I started my third go with the SDBBE, which is an online-ish sort of book group. Each member of the group picks a book, reads it, writing tons of comments and underlining bits she appreciates, and then mails it on to the next person, who does the same thing. In the end, you get your original book back (well, in theory you do; I never got my book back the first time I did it), and it's full of writing and your ideas and other people's ideas about the book and about your ideas. It's great fun!

As I finished each book, I wrote my book note. But I didn't want to post them on my blog until everyone had had a chance to read each book. I finally wrote the book note to my last book, The Septembers of Shiraz, last night. Luckily I send my books to my sister Becky, who has graciously agreed to forgive me for taking so long with her book! (She might not forgive me when she actually SEES the book I'm sending back to her, but that is a subject for a different post. Once she's received the book in the mail.) So, after this post, you'll see FIVE very long book notes about five seemingly-different books:

• The Septembers of Shiraz
• The Painted Veil
• My Name is Asher Lev
• The Kite Runner
• A Lesson Before Dying

 Read if you are so inclined!

I have to say, though. I don't think this was done on purpose, but each of the books our group chose fit together with each other so well. I took something from each book that helped me understand the next one a little bit better. I think it is all wrapped up in the magic of reading. Yay books!

I’ve tinkered around with quite a few poetic forms (the villanelle is my favorite) but I’ve never managed to finish either a sestina or a ghazal. The ghazal is an Arabic form that’s still used often in Iran, Pakistan, and India. The poem is made up of couplets that should be strong enough to stand on their own as an individual image or poetic thought. The first couplet establishes a "radif," which is either a word or a phrase that repeats in the second line of each couplet (if you click on that link, you can read a couple of examples). One of the effects a well-written ghazal achieves is that the radif creates an emphasis. The same idea, but it’s surrounded by a different context in each couplet, so you start to see it in a prismatic light.

In that sense, Dalia Sofer’s book The Septembers of Shiraz is a ghazal in novel form. The radif—the repeating idea—isn’t really the father’s experiences in an Iranian prison, or the ways the family must adapt while he is gone, although that is what the novel is about. Instead, it is something bigger, and harder to put into words. What is an acceptable level of comfort and luxury to have in one’s life? Why is it that some people seem to have everything (the beautiful home, the money for great vacations, the opportunity to mingle with artists and musicians and government big wigs) while others in the world get to be maids, or beggars, or just barely-getting-by? The inequality of the distribution of wealth: that is the radif in Sofer’s book, and it is also, in a sense, the cause of the troubles in Iran.

That was one thing I appreciated about this book: I learned a lot about the country and its troubles. I have a few vague memories of the Iran hostage crisis. I think I was nine or ten when that happened, and I remember watching it on the news one day when I was home sick with the stomach flu. I tried figuring out what the news was talking about, but I couldn’t understand most of it, and then I was also nauseous, so I have hereafter associated Iran with confusion and nausea. Sofer’s novel helped to dissuade me of that association; I began to see the place as a real country, with real people who struggled with real sorrows. The wealthy are powerful and arrogant until they are overthrown by the poor who want better lives; they are the new power, and become wealthy and arrogant. Thus the battle continues.

How does that—the distribution of wealth, power, luxury—affect individual lives? This is what the novel studies. For Isaac Amin, who is dragged off to prison on suspicion of being a Zionist, wealth is a thing you work for and achieve. He studied poetry in college, but realizing that "words do not put food on the table," he became a gemologist instead. This brought him and his family wealth and opportunity, but it is also what brought him to prison, really. People have a hard time forgiving the wealthy for their wealth. His wife, Farnaz, has obviously benefitted from that wealth, as has their son Parviz. But when the wealth stops (when Isaac is in jail), they begin to understand what really matters. The vacations? The house on the beach? The jewelry? In some ways, they do matter. The things that our money can get us become the things we define ourselves with. But they really begin to see that it is our relationships that matter the most.

As I witnessed this radif play out within the characters’ lives, I thought about it in my own life as well. I can remember thinking some of the same thoughts the book discusses when I was about Haley’s age. Just exactly why was it that there were girls who seemed to have everything: they were gorgeous, popular, and funny; boys liked them; they had tons and tons of clothes. Had I done something wrong I didn’t know about, I often wondered, that made it so I had my life: perpetually money-challenged, shy and awkward, and nowhere close to beautiful? Why, exactly, were things so unevenly balanced? And while maybe it sounds childish, and while my perspective on the idea has changed radically, I do still wonder how it is that some people seem to have so much. Of course, I can see this through more adult eyes now. I know that having lots of money and opportunity doesn’t mean your relationships (which, I believe, are the core part of any person’s happiness) are going to be successful. But the opposite is also true: the lack of money doesn’t ensure the success of relationships. They can still fail. Plus, you still don’t have any money.

Things get ugly in prison. Isaac is tortured and the few friends he has managed to make are killed. He is forced to look at his life in unexpected perspectives. Was he "evil" simply by the accident of achieving wealth? Is there something wrong with wanting to have pleasure in your life, especially if you can afford it? Is standing by and doing nothing—not participating in atrocities, but overlooking them—a way of living that is deserving of torture and execution? As he goes through the horrific prison experience, he is always thinking: what can he tell his torturer, Mohsen, to bring his freedom? He realizes he can only confess to living out his life, but he figures out a way to achieve his goals; his wealth, which condemns him, ultimately saves him.

I’m only touching on a very few aspects of this novel. It’s a layered thing. You see the story through many perspectives, which makes it hard to sum up. I totally left out Shirin, Isaac’s daughter, and the experiences Parvis has in New York, and how I felt a sort of kinship for the torturer Mohsen—not for the torturing part, of course, but in how his life has at last brought him a sense of having: power, if not wealth, at least. Everyone, in fact, is layered, both bad and good, as it is in life, as it is in a ghazal. Poetry brings a sort of peace to Isaac; he chants it with his prison compatriots and it comes to his mind during his torturing, a way of putting into words what can’t otherwise be said. In the end, his life, as well as our understand of the radif, comes out just like he teaches Shirin a ghazal comes out: "There is no end, Shirin-jan. That’s the first thing you should learn about ghazals. There is no resolution. Imagine the speaker simply throwing his hands in the air." What else can one do, but try and try and try to understand the things that repeat, all the time knowing that there is no resolution? Throwing your hands in the air is not defeat; it is acceptance.