Yesterday, bored, Kendell and I decided that we'd go and check out the new Cabela's in Lehi. Last year, when I was teaching in Lehi, the store's opening was big news; everyone was excited. I wasn't really sure what all the fuss was over, having never seen one of their catalogs nor felt an extreme need for camouflage. Kendell and I had talked a few times about going to see the store, but it just never happened until yesterday.

So, we pull off the freeway and start following signs, road signs like you'd see on the side of the freeway, but telling you how to find Cabela's. Before you pull into the parking lot you pass a massive, rough-hewn stone wall sitting atop a grassy slope that's in turn surrounded by the grasses that covered the hill before the store was built. (I'm just weird enough about grass that I thought to myself oh, my, they must fight weeds without ceasing in that grass!) Then you finally get to the top of the hill, and there's this enormous store and a gigantic parking lot. We parked and battled our way through the wind to the store's front door.

Remember: I wasn't really expecting anything. I knew nothing about this store except that the students I taught who were fond of hunting and/or fishing were dying to see it. What I found was a strange mix of commercialism and emotional appeal to mountain-man ways. I mean...the salesclerks are called "Outfitters." Everywhere you turn there are guns and tents and maps and fishing rods and...well, everything you can imagine you'd need if you live 200 years ago and were anxious to make your living from beaver hides or deer leather.

That mix was simply strange. But the store also made me sad. In addition to all that rampant outdoorsy commercialism, there are displays scattered around the store. One entire room was dedicated to taxidermy-ized deer and moose, with a few brown bears thrown in for good measure. There was a sort of mountain, one side displaying desert wildlife, the other, arctic animals. One smallish wall had a display of African animals (I always thought warthogs were bigger than that). In a corner was an aquarium, the kind you walk through, sort of like Sea World but with rainbow trout and catfish. (This, by the way, was when I realized, fully and truly, Kaleb's unusual and startling intelligence: we walked into the aquarium and he started flapping his lips together, the Sorensen Baby Sign for fish! How smart is that?)

Of course, my kids loved this. They ran, they exclaimed, the pointed out. They even read the informational signs like the good children of a geeky mother. But as I walked through the 150,000 square feet, I grew sadder and sadder. How sad it seems to me, that there are people in the world who find purchasing guns and ammunition a normal thing to do, who find happiness in tramping through the outdoors not to enjoy God's good green earth, but to find something to kill. I thought about the wild places of the world, which grow fewer and fewer, and of how empty they are, how silent, void of the animals that should live there. I wanted to cry, thinking of all the wild things I have never seen and will never see, that my children and their children will also never experience; thinking of how we humans cover the earth like a fungus, an unstoppable fungus that damages and takes and destroys. And I thought of this poem, by Wendell Berry:

When despair for the world grows in me,
and I wake in the night at the last sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

and felt sad that the places where we can be fed (and not in a literal, shoot-that-bird-and-eat-it sort of way) by the heron or the wood drake or any of those animals I saw stuffed in the Cabela's display rooms have nearly vanished. Usually, this poem makes me peaceful, because it describes so well the way I feel about nature: a solace. Yesterday it just reinforced my sadness.

Because there just isn't enough left of the grace of the world, I think. We've devoured it. And that to me is the greatest irony of a store like Cabela's: in one hand it offers the things you need to survive in whatever wilderness you might find; in the other, the tools you need to destroy that very wilderness.

To start, I have to first tell one of my most embarrassing moments. (Not THE most embarrassing one, though...that's a toss up between the skirt-losing experience at the Erasure concert and the dog poop on my shoes in Mr. Heelis' 8th-grade Spanish class.) This happened to me two years ago. It was March; I was out running, at about 5:30 in the afternoon. I was running down the hill that's closest to my house, which happens to end at an intersection that's very rarely busy...except at rush hour. So, I'm running down this hill. I'm feeling on---breathing well, muscles happy, mind at peace. A good run. And then---out of nowhere, and upon nothing larger than a little pebble, I twist my left ankle. And go down HARD on my right knee. Lightning-fast (yay for all those years of gymnastics, because in addition to years of body-image issues and a particular brand of loneliness, they did give me a lingering supply of quick reflexes!) I caught myself with my hands and staggered to my feet. Mind you---I did this right at the bottom of the hill. Right at the intersection. With at least twenty cars waiting to turn left and at least getting some entertainment during their evening commute.

I limped home, with blood dripping from my knee and my ankle throbbing. Apparently non-life-threatening and entirely-embarrassing wounds channel my inner Disney, because as I climbed back up the hill, I started humming to myself. I mean, really, it was all I could do to keep myself from crying (and thus adding to my embarrassment): hum that little ditty from Finding Nemo. Except mine said "just keep walking, just keep walking, what do we do? We walk!" and with that I made it home. Four enormous puncture wounds later...I survived.

But I never run down a hill without thinking of my fall. It's made me, dare I say it, a little fearful of running downhill. Which matches my previous preferences: I'd much rather run up a hill than down one. Seriously---I've actually driven to different parts of the surrounding fifteen miles or so, just so I could run up a specific hill. I totally, totally dig the uphill thing. I like how your muscles are truly engaged, how they start to quiver a bit, and how your lungs work harder and harder with the exertion. I like the feeling of looking up, when I'm about halfway to the top, and not being sure if I'll make it---and saying out loud to myself "keep going; you can do it." And o, how I love the small-but-not-insignificant triumph when I reach the top.

Today, I ran a particularly steep hill that I've not done in nearly two years. As I approached it, I found myself making a rather obvious metaphor about this little quirk of mine. Is my love of going uphill and my corresponding fear of going downhill comparable to a sort of masochism...like a physical action that proves I am happiest when life, figuratively, is difficult? That I prefer life's hard times to its easy times? I think not. Like anyone, I try to do everything I can to keep life running smoothly. I'm always glad when a difficult patch is finally worked out.

But it hit me as I approached the start of that hill this morning---the hill that is so steep that as you start down it, all you can see is the road falling away, rather like that first fall of a roller coaster: The easy times in life scare me, too. Because without the resistance of going uphill, if you fall it hurts more. You've got a longer way to fall and nothing to stop you. Carefully navigating down the blessedly shady hill, I had an aha-ha moment that has nothing to do with running: In a way, I am more peaceful when life is difficult. If it's hard, at least you're not worrying about when things will take a turn for the worse. Which sounds awfully pessimistic of me. OK then, I'll confess to a bit of pessimism. If it is pessimistic to be a realist. Because life has taught me that the downhill parts---the times when life is relatively free of burdens, challenges, and difficulties---don't last long.

But right now, that's where my life is: running downhill. Passing by with relative ease. And while it's good---it is so good---it is also terrifying. Because what, I can't help but wonder, will trip me up next? How much will it hurt when I hit the ground? And will I be able to struggle to the top of the next metaphorical hill?

About halfway through that very real hill this morning, though, all thoughts of metaphorical hills and life's struggles and fear of falling vanished from my thoughts. All I could think was this: keep going, keep going. The muscle pain and the catch in your lungs is so worth it. This is a good struggle. Keep going. I remembered that I am stronger than I had thought. And I made it to the top.

But maybe it meant more than I had made it to the bottom without falling. Maybe I need to keep that knowledge of my strength closer to me---the strength I have built from surviving the uphills---and let it vanquish my fear of falling. Maybe if I keep on running downhill, even though it terrifies me, I will be able to stop being afraid of what might be coming and instead appreciate the swiftness of my feet, the greenness of the trees as they flash by, the way my lungs don't have to work as hard. To run hills not just for the hard, but for the good, too.

Back when I was a teenager and a gymnast, I had a coach, Jack, who insisted we not eat any sugar during our competitive seasons. He assigned all of us to read Sugar Blues, which explains why sugar is more addictive than cocaine. But, I confess:

I skimmed the book.

And I cheated like crazy on that no-sugar diet.

Because even then, I was over-my-head addicted to sugar. Since I was twelve or thirteen---old enough to go with friends to the store---I've been a Pepsi drinker. Some of my best memories center around a cake or a cookie. And here I am, 34 years old, and unable to resist sugar. STILL.

Last night, I had a dream about Jack. Mixed up in all the crazy stuff that happens in dreams, he told me, "Wow, Amy, I'm really surprised to see how fat you've gotten." In the dream I reminded him that I'm not 15 anymore, I don't spend six hours a day in the gym, and I've been pregnant four times. Of course I don't look like I did when he knew me!

But I've been thinking all day about this sugar addiction of mine. Sometimes I get it more under control --- like, during April and most of May, I was completely off my soda regiment. As in, I didn't drink any. But apparently the cranberry limeade at Sonic is a gateway drink, because I am so off the wagon again. And cookies---I can't stop myself from making and eating cookies.

I think my psyche is telling me something. Intellectually, I know I would feel better if I could get the sugar monkey off my back. Emotionally, though---there's the rub. It's silly and downright unhealthy of me to be emotionally bolstered by a perfect chocolate chip cookie. But I am. And it is so time to stop. It is time for me to find some other---healthier!---emotional crutch.

So...someone please tell me: how do I get off this sugar jones?

...in the midst of a whole bunch of sick ones! Haley is finally over her rash but not feeling well still. Kaleb is nearly done with his antibiotics but started up with a fever again today. And me? That throat tickle progressed into much more, namely a nasty cold.

But still. Two good days mixed into all of that sickness were just the little bits of encouragement I needed!

First off, on Wednesday I got to have breakfast with the incomparable Molly. I like to think of Molly as my left-wing alter ego. Plus, she's just so intelligent. A nice bit of food (who knew that Mimi's Cafe served breakfast? Not me!), a long chat about scrapbooking, cameras, kids, husbands, homes, poetry, the environment, work, trips, Oregon, books, cars, and maple syrup (not to mention how cute my sweet Kaleb is!). . . just the pick-me-up I needed!

Then, yesterday, I got to be a volunteer teaching assistant at CKU in Provo. Now, I've never been to a CKU before. In fact, I've never even been to a scrapbooking class. So I had zero idea of what to expect. But wow---it was fun! The classes I helped out at were taught by Cactus Pink (who makes these SO CUTE brads that I am dying to get my hands on, as well as some sweet paper!), Making Memories (whose class packets were amazing---gotta get my hands on that Boho Chic ribbon!), and Tracy White (who is a wonderful teacher!). As a TA, I got to watch all these amazing women work their scrapbooking magic---plus help the students, pick up paper scraps, and make a new friend (hi Jamie!). What capped it off was that Sophia got to go, too, and she gave me a ride home so we had the chance to chat as well.

All last night, I dreamed about scrapbooking. Fuzzy dreams that I can barely remember. Today, I'm back among my sick little kiddos, piles of laundry begging to be folded, and the bathroom cupboards that someone really should dejunk. But it was good to have those two days of escape to reconnect with myself. I feel as if my psyche just took a long drink of cold water---now my energy has something to rise upon.

I realized yesterday, as I was mowing my lawn, that it's been two weeks since I've written in my blog. And what a crazy 14 days it's been! Rather than a long explanation...here's my past two weeks in numerical form:

• 527: the approximate number of Kleenex we've used
• 137: the exact amount of pictures I've taken, despite what follows. . .
• 20: squirts of Flonase
• 14: nights in which I've gotten nearly no sleep
• 10: Claratin (hay fever has officially arrived in my nostrils and tear ducts)
• 6: trips to the soccer field
• 5: trying-to-make-you-feel-better trips to Sonic for slushies (and holy cow, their new cranberry limeade has become something I literally crave!)
• 5: different illnesses we've had in our house---stomach flu (Jake and Kaleb), ear infection (Kaleb), folliculitis (Haley, caught at her friend's hot tub), cold (Haley), viral rash (Haley)
• 4: trips to the pediatrician, as well as four co-pays...sigh.
• 3: end-of-soccer-season parties (one with an offending hot tub)
• 3: filled prescriptions (have I mentioned I love the pharmacy at Target?)
• 2: Mother's Day festivities
• 2: church functions
• 2: bottles of children's ibuprofen
• 1: bottle of children's Benadryl

Add to that some exciting news (a Scrapbooks Etc publication) and me trying to get some layouts together for a Creating Keepsakes page call, and I've been busy. And tired. And now I've got that tale-tell throat tingle . . . someone tell me I'm not getting sick, too!