I woke this morning thinking of mothers. What it means to be a mother; what a mother is.

Mother: the person who made you within her body.

Sometimes.

Mother: the person who took care of you when you were a baby, a child. The person who took you to the library, to the lake. To church, sometimes. Who made you hot scones on cold January mornings before school, dripping with honey butter; who taught you how to eat artichokes, how to cut an avocado, how to dice tomatoes, peppers, and onions for salsa.

The person who taught you many things. How to tie your shoes; how to put shoes onto your own squirming baby’s high-arched feet. How to use a tampon. What sex is, maybe. To love your body because she made it, to feel shame about your body because hers was imperfect too. How to sew, how to read, how to proof yeast. How to do your hair, how to put on eyeliner and lipstick, how to walk in heels.

The person who was a person before she was your mother, and so had her own story, some of which she told you but all of which influenced you. The story you might spend all your life trying to piece together from scraps of conversations, overheard telephone calls, one remaining page of a multi-page letter.

You know, your mother. Who shapes you in positive ways and, sometimes—maybe not all of the mothers do this?—in negative ways. Even though she didn’t ever mean to hurt you.

But not only that mother. Life brings you many mothers, doesn’t it? If you separate biology from motherhood, if you see mothers as women who take care of someone else in a motherly sort of way: then you can see the other mothers your life gives you.

Sometimes only for a few hours, like the nurse who prepped Kendell for one of his surgeries. She prepped him, but she mothered me when I told her about Kaleb’s heart condition, and she shared her son also has it, and she talked to me about doctors, and hearts, and how difficult and painful it is for the mother to carry this fear for her child. There, in a hospital cubicle walled with ugly beige curtains, I felt known. I felt I could put down my fear, just for a second, and I saw how I hold the fear tightly because setting it down might trigger a disaster. Even though the fear protects nothing I hold it like a shield around us, and that nurse—whose name I don’t remember—that nurse mothered me during that hour. She made me, for a moment, feel safe.

Sometimes it is for an age. I don’t remember being loved by my aunts as a child, but there are pictures of it, one or the other holding me as a baby, kissing my cheek as a toddler. My grandmas also mothered me, in their own ways, throughout my childhood. My grandma Florence was afflicted with dementia by the time I was 11 or 12, so she never saw me as an adolescent, and I never saw her through any eyes but a child’s, and so our relationship was just about her loving me as a child. My sisters, the older ones who knew her longer than I did, the younger one who didn’t have as many years, sometimes seem to doubt this, but for me, for me as that particular child I was with that woman (who was also imperfect, who also had her own story, her history of damage), for me, she mothered me by showing me I could be adored for exactly who I was. I don’t know if anyone else has given me that kind of love in the same way she did, but I am a better person for it.

Sometimes it is only for a season. Like when my mom mothered my best friend in high school. She taught her how to eat artichokes, too. How to rack up credit card debt. What a home with a mother in it looks like, the silent angers, the loud yelling, the communication done via food or new clothes or a clean bathroom.

Sometimes it is because of a job. Elaine, who was the English chair while I was teaching, taught me about classroom management, faster ways to grade, how to spend my (meager) book budget. But I thought of her as my teacher mom, because she was nurturing. In her classroom, with the other teachers gathered around, I could put down the anxiety, pressure, and stress of teaching, and she made me feel like I was smart and capable enough to teach well and to influence a few lives.  Lanell, a librarian I worked with during my first five years of librarianship, taught me how to be a better librarian. She also made me feel capable, intelligent, and knowledgeable. She gave me confidence.

Sometimes your friend mothers you.

Sometimes your sisters do.

Sometimes my mother-in-law mothered me. My sister-in-law still does.

Sometimes you have to mother your own damn self, but you can do it because other women have taught you how.

And sometimes, it isn’t someone else mothering you. Sometimes, you are the mother. Remember those first moments at home, when you walked into your house for the first time, carrying your first baby? And it settled over you, the immense weight of it. You had a baby and for a little while, 24 hours, 48 if you were lucky, you had nurses and doctors to help you. To tell you what to do. But then
you walked into your house holding your baby and you realized: you are the mother now. And you promise yourself and your baby that you will never mess up, that you love her, that you will do everything right.

Even though you have your own baggage, your own damage, your own personality. Even though sometimes you will wonder if you are the right mother for this child, or if someone else would do this better.

Because someone else will do this better. Or, at least, some of it. That is the grace of mothering, or the magic of the world: we don’t just get one mother. It is bigger than biology. It is also about serendipity, and kindness, and loving people.

I’m grateful for my mother.

I’m grateful for the other women who have mothered me, for however long.

I am grateful I got to be a mother, to my own children and maybe to others in ways I didn’t see.

I haven’t done it well enough, of course. But of course, no one can. And that is why love and kindness and paying attention is what matters most in this damaged world.

There were two topics yesterday that were all over my social media feeds: the fire at Notre Dame and the running of the Boston marathon. (I’m actually fairly surprised at the depth of my reaction to the fire; I am still trying to find words.)

The Boston marathon is THE marathon. The one that proves something. You can say you’ve run a marathon, or several marathons, but unless you’ve run Boston, well, have you really run a marathon? Everyone wants to run it, and you have to have a qualifying time to even try to get in. The faster your qualifying time, the better chance you have of getting in. (If you are twenty minutes faster than your age group’s qualifying time, you get to register first.)

Every year I read about other runners’ experiences, both friends and strangers. I read about the bad weather almost every year, and about how hard the course is. And I think everyone thinks this is an awesome race but it sounds horrible.

But honestly, I think that with envy.

Because the truth is, even when I was still young, when all my joints were happy and my energy levels were higher—even then, I wasn’t fast enough to qualify for Boston.

So every year, I read the stories of runners who are fast enough—many who are older than me—and, I confess:

I feel a little bit substandard.

It’s the same thing I find myself doing with my body, lately. I’ll catch myself drying off in the mirror after a shower, and sometimes I think “I don’t look too bad for an almost-50 woman.” Other times I think “OH MY GOD what happened to me? When did I get so chubby, when did I get so soft, my body looks like a deflated balloon!” and those thoughts can come within the same day. Or even in the time it takes for me to finish drying and just cover up the flabbiness.

The Boston marathon makes me doubt myself.

When I’m not seeing this reminder of my running mediocrity, I’m able to think “I’m doing OK. Not the fastest, but at least I’m still running. I’ve been running for almost twenty years now. I’m staying on top of it! I’m a real runner!” Not to mention taking confidence in the belief that unless you’re on a cross-country team or training for the Olympics, running is an individual sport. I’m only competing with myself. I’m only doing this because it brings me happiness.

But then all of the Boston Marathon photos start showing up. And I start questioning myself.

Am I slow because I’m not dedicated enough?

Are my knees messed up because I didn’t stay strong enough? or because I weigh too much?

Am I really even a REAL RUNNER if I know I have zero chance of ever running Boston?

Why am I even trying?

“Runner” is a huge part of my identity. So large that I am constantly trying to prove to myself that I still qualify. Those strong, fast women who qualify for Boston, and then run Boston, even in the rain, even in the snow, even in high, hot humidity: they certainly qualify. They put in the work to get there. Even if they never ran a step in their lives again, they ran Boston.

I will never run Boston.

Logically, I know this doesn’t matter. I’ve run other marathons. I’ve run one of the hardest legs of the Wasatch Back Ragnar three times, once with a wicked sprained ankle held together by athletic tape and grit. I’d have to stop and count to tell you how many half marathons I’ve run. I trained for and completed a marathon with whooping cough.

Logically, I know I’m a runner.

Logically I know none of those races make me a runner. It’s not races—it’s just running. Running makes you a runner.

But I suspect I will always doubt myself a bit. Will question my authenticity not, perhaps, as a real runner but as a strong runner. A good runner, an accomplished runner. A Boston-strong runner.

I’m happy for and proud of my running friends who run Boston.

There’s just this little part of me that wishes I, too, were badass enough to run Boston with them.

One of my very favorite librarians is leaving the library this week, and I wanted to give her a little something to remember the library by. My current favorite fabric gift to make is a little quilted square. I think of it as a mug rug, which is a small, padded object that you put under your mug or glass to protect your table surfaces from moisture rings. Recently I’ve learned that mug rugs are technically supposed to be rectangles, so you have room for your mug and a snack. So maybe it’s not technically a mug rug, but it’s a big enough square that there’s still plenty of room for a cookie. It has an insulated layer, so it can also be a hot pad.

But I’m still going to call it a mug rug.

I like giving this with a pretty mug of some sort. And the awesome thing is that it’s really quick to make. It takes about an hour and a half, which is perfect. I mean…it would take you that long to go shopping for something less personal, right? I keep a little stash of insulated batting and scraps of regular cotton batting, and they come together really quickly with just some scraps of fabric. I’ve made mug rugs in several different patterns, but this one is a recent favorite.

It hit me when I was just finishing the binding that I should’ve taken photos of my process, but, alas…I didn’t. But here's a photo of the back, which I might love more than the front:

What you need:

1 6.5” square, cut on point (technically, a diamond) (In my example, the book cover print)
4 10”x2” strips (the blue polka dots)
1 13” square (the library card print)
2 2.75” x width of fabric binding strips (navy diagonal stripes)
1 15” square of Insul-Bright (insulated batting)
1 15” square of cotton batting
1 15” square of backing fabric (dictionary print)

You can adjust these measurements depending on the fabric you have and how big you want to make your mug rug.

Directions:

1. Cut the first square. This is the fabric that gives the mug rug its personality, so pick a cotton that reflects the likes of the person you’re making it for. I like to fussy cut this so that the pattern is centered or selected for something specific. I use a 6.5” square ruler to cut this square.
2. Cut the four strips. If you can cut these on the cross grain (parallel to the selvedge) it will be a little bit easier to sew the pieced square together, because cross grain stretches less, whereas that square cut on point will have stretchy sides. If you don’t have enough fabric for cross grain strips, though, don’t sweat it.
3. Sew the strips onto the sides of the square. I sew an edge, trim off the excess, iron, then repeat on the next side. You can also sew one on top, one on bottom, then one on each side, it just depends on your preferences.
4. Iron and square up as needed. This is the center square.
5. Cut the 13” square. Again consider pattern as necessary.
6. Cut the 13” square into four triangles by cutting it in half diagonally twice, from corner to corner.
7. Sew one corner to one side of the center square, centering it as closely as you can (but don’t worry if it’s not perfectly centered).
8. Sew another corner to the opposite side of the center square.
9. Iron. You’ll have some triangle flaps on each corner of the square, but just iron them with the ¼” seam flattened down.
10. Sew another corner to the third side of the center square. Again, center as well as you can. You will sew over those triangle-shaped flaps from step nine.
11. Sew the final corner to the fourth side.
12. Iron. You now have a square with an on-point square in the middle. The seams will overlap at the corners of the center square.
13. Square up the square. You want to consider if you want the corners of the center square to meet up with the binding or not (I’ve done both). For this one, I squared up so there was ½” of fabric from each corner because I wanted the binding to touch the corners.
14. Layer. Put the backing fabric face down, then the Insul-Bright, then the cotton batting, then the pieced square, face up.
15. Pin.
16. Quilt. I like to keep the quilting simple, so I just quilted in the ditch around the blue strips. You can quilt however you want.
17. Trim and bind as you wish. I sometimes self-bind my mug rugs (which means cutting the backing fabric large enough to fold it over the top), but I am really wanting to get better at binding, so I do the extra step of double-fold binding. It really doesn’t take that long because the piece is so small, and it gives you four more corners to practice on. I machine sew both sides of my bindings because I'm really bad at hand sewing.

Whenever I give someone a mug rug, I always write a little note explaining what it is. Otherwise they’re like, hmmmm, thanks for this tiny crinkly quilt! Also the washing instructions: warm water, normal dryer, and don’t put it in the microwave!

Do you have a go-to gift you like to make?

This morning I woke up with the vague memory of a dream. Something about standing in a room with high ceilings and tall windows with God and my mother. Trying to tell them both something important, something that was also a question, but my voice not working, and they looked at me and then walked away, toward the windows.

My psyche isn’t always entirely subtle.

Before I got out of bed, I thought about that wisp of a dream. I thought about conversations Kendell and I have had, recently, about religion and faith. About what it means to be a good person. About my process of removing the bloody gown.

And even though I had slept well, that hazy dream aside, I just felt tired.

Maybe not in my body, but in my spirit. Tired of wrestling. Tired of feeling not good enough. Tired of wondering: what is the right thing to do?

I know that sounds whiny, and I don’t mean it in that tone. Not in a poor-Amy sort of way. Just as an acknowledgement that I’ve been carrying this for a long time. I can’t, in fact, remember a time when I didn’t feel like I was carrying this extra weight, this problem I don’t know how to solve. What do I believe? What do I think is right? Why do I disagree so often with what my chosen religion says is right?

What does God want me to do?

Or have I made too many mistakes and so God doesn’t really care anymore what I do, like the way you grow apart from a friend?

My thoughts circled and circled and then I got out of bed and got dressed to go hiking.

We did a fairly easy hike, just over three miles, with a ton of elevation gain in the first .75 mile and then just some rolling hills. It was grey and windy and I was grateful I had my long sleeve, but I wasn’t cold. A thin drizzle came and went. I petted another hiker’s fluffy white Kodiak dog. I wandered off the trail and found the bones of a deer, jaw and skull and spine and tibia, scattered under trees. I noticed the smaller signs of spring, which are still barely coming at that elevation, in the grass barely greening and the tiniest of leaf buds on just a few trees. On the mountains above us the clouds moved back and forth; snow fell.

Down in the bottom of the bowl we hiked into, we stopped for water. A few more raindrops fell and I took a deep breath: clean dirt, the smell of snow in the distance. Cold water in my throat and my husband’s laughter.

Maybe that is what redemption is: that smell, those sounds. The sky was grey but my heart was light.

And I felt it again. This reason I love being outside in the trees or on the mountains. Because there I feel happy. I feel that weight lifted. In the mountains I feel it doesn’t matter if a religion might tell me I’m not good enough, because as the weight lifts and I breathe and my joints loosen and my quads tighten I feel…I feel there, in the woods, with deer hiding in the trees behind me, that I am OK. That my voice matters. That maybe in my dream they weren’t turning away, but beckoning me forward so I could see the light from the windows too.

1. My warm up time is almost over. Yay! Time to run. Let’s move!
2. Holy cow. I feel like I’ve never done this before. Have I ever even run a step in my life? How did I ever do this for hours? I think I’m going to die! My lungs are going to explode! I. can’t. keep….oh, wait, OK. Here we go. I’m ok. Lungs are catching up, heart is keeping time with my pace. I’m OK.

(I’m firmly convinced that learning to push through the initial pain is one of the keys to being a life-long runner. It always feels like I’m dying when I first start. But I’ve done this enough to know it will get better. Beginning runners (and hikers, too) often stop right at this point, but if you learn to keep going, you discover it stops being so hard.)

3. Oh my goodness. Why don’t I do this every single day? This makes me so happy. I’m so happy right now.
4. That six minutes went fast! Time to take a walking break. Should I be embarrassed that I have to take walking breaks? Or ashamed? Am I still a real runner if I do walking breaks for the rest of my life? Will I ever be able to run without walking breaks? Does it matter? Two minutes are even faster than six. Let’s go!
5. My knee hurts. My other knee hurts. My knee hurts. My other knee hurts. It’s not excruciating. It’s just a little bit…twingy. It’s a little bit grinding. A little bit like stuff touching that shouldn’t touch. I’m really NOT HAPPY about that knee pain. Oh, OK. It’s subsiding. OK. I’m ok. My knees are OK. Not perfect. But OK. Wait! Was that my ankle? Did my ankle twinge? What the hell…I want my 20-something joints back.
6. Time to turn around! How am I already halfway done? Why does this go by so fast? Thirty more seconds. OK, 30 more. Should I go for four instead of 3 ½? No, better turn around. Turning now.
7. Wow. WOW! It’s a totally different experience running into the light like this. The sky is amazing! The trees are beautiful! How did I not notice the trees are just starting to bud! Look how green they are? Oh I love this canyon, this trail, this river. This body, this life, this world. Running is the best. Being alive is the best.
8. I hope no skateboarders are on this part of the path, it’s so narrow. Oh, crap, skateboarders. Surely that one is going to get on her side of the trail. Going to get over. Any minute now…oh, damn. OK. Guess I will go off in the weeds. REALLY hoping there was no dog poop there. Thanks girl!
9. Oh no—why did I put this song on my running playlist? I love the Indigo Girls but this is not a running song. Skip! And no, this next one is too slow, I thought when I bought it it would be great but, gah. Too slow, Cage the Elephant. Skip! Skip! Skip! Wait, do I even have any good songs on this running list?
10. Just a bit less than half a mile left. Feeling strong. I’m so glad I got out today. The sun on my shoulders is perfect. The breeze in my hair is heavenly. I’m so grateful I get to do this. Oh, there’s the turn off! There’s the bridge! There’s Kendell! I hope I can do this tomorrow. Running is the best.

This week is National Library Week. I'm glad such a thing exists, considering all that our president has done to try to de-fund libraries (did you know that every single budget he's created has tried to take away the funding for the IMLS, which is the primary source of money for libraries and museums? While Congress isn't always known for doing the right thing, at least they've made sure to continue to support libraries, but a president who doesn’t think libraries are worthwhile is not something I’d ever believe would exist.)

I didn't set out to become a librarian. I got a degree in English because while science was interesting enough, I'm not really brilliant at it, and while I can get along in math OK it's not pleasant, but learning about books, words, writing, poetry, fiction, literary theory, grammar, and everything else that goes along with an English degree felt like the only reason to go to school. (I wish I had taken more history classes, though.) There've been several people in my life who have told me that I "just" got a degree in English, or that while, sure, I did graduate from college, it's only in English. Other people have told me that while science, math, and/or technology degrees are difficult, and require a certain type of mind and thinking skills, an English degree requires talent.

Maybe both are true, but my English degree did help me land my job as a librarian, even if I got that degree because I wanted to be a writer. (Doesn't every bibliophile want to be a writer?) I’ve been a librarian for almost eleven years, and I confess: I still get a little thrill when someone asks me where I work and I get to say “at the library.” I love being a librarian.

I love being a librarian. And I love libraries.

But I’ve also learned that not everyone understands the importance of our communities having good libraries.

Like the old friend I bumped into once who started laughing when I told him where I work. “So you spend your days just checking in books and putting them on the shelf?”

Like a podiatrist I went to once, who, when I answered “I work at the library” when he asked me what I do, said “Wait! The library is still open? I didn’t think people used the library anymore because of Kindle books.”

Even like library patrons themselves, some of who come into the space annoyed and entitled, who complain about what we don’t have for them, or about fines and fees, because books are too graphic or too cautious, because we have R-rated movies, because we don’t have enough movies, and who quite often end their complaints with some version of “I’m a tax payer and you are wasting my money.”

And, yes, like the president not wanting to fund libraries.

Try to imagine American society without libraries. Our libraries hold our collective history, the creative visions of our (and the world’s) writers. No libraries would mean that many people would have much less access to our literary richness. Throughout our entire life, access to the library gives us access to tens of thousands of books, from board books to picture books to chapter books to novels. Dictionaries and cookbooks and poetry, memoirs and science and history. Without libraries, only the wealthy could afford access to so many different books, and so libraries are one of society’s great equalizers.

Numerous studies have shown that readers are more empathetic human beings. I am glad data supports this, because it is a thing I unequivocally believe. Through reading you become larger than your own experiences; you learn that there is more than one way of thinking about the world. You start to understand something about the trials of being human: both that your troubles are smaller than many other people’s and that you are not alone in your troubles. You get to go places you otherwise couldn’t, discover things that you didn’t learn in your high school history class. Puzzle out mysteries, weep over characters’ losses, struggle with moral dilemmas.

Books create a life that is bigger than any individual. And libraries facilitate that largess.

Even when I wasn’t a librarian, even when that career path hadn’t even entered my thoughts—even then I loved libraries. If I left the library tomorrow (which I’m not doing of course), I’d still be an advocate for libraries. They are places full of books, and stories, words and images. They are more than just books on shelves, too. They are places where people gather, find information in many different ways, make friendships, stay warm in storms. They aren’t only about books.

But for today, I’m celebrating the books that libraries give us access to. They are worthwhile for so many different reasons.

And libraries are worth whatever funding we can give them.

I realized last night at about 11:45 that I didn’t blog on Wednesday.

I’d been thinking about my blog post, but I got busy. Actually, not really busy. I’m currently obsessed with making log cabin squares. So I spent almost all day making them. And then I went to work. And then I got home late, and was tired, and ate a slice of pizza, and fell asleep.

But I woke up at 11:45 and it hit me I hadn’t blogged.

I thought about dragging my butt out of bed and writing something, just to keep the streak up. But then I decided not to. Too lazy? Too sleepy? Maybe.

But that little experience goes along with what I wanted to blog about anyway. So I’m going to pat myself on the back for blogging 8 days in a row. EIGHT DAYS. I haven’t blogged for even three or TWO days in a row for a long time. I’m just going to pick it back up again today and move on, because one of the things this 100-day experiment is teaching me is to think about my online life.

I had a conversation with some friends earlier this week about Facebook. They were talking about how they missed how Facebook used to be. People posting things about their lives, pictures and little stories. It’s different now, they both pointed out. It’s mostly politics and links.

“But I still post pictures and little stories on my Facebook,” I said. And they both said some version of, yes, we love that, but most people don’t do that anymore.

So I looked through my feed with a more critical eye and I realized they are exactly right. I do have some friends who post photos and stories on their pages. I still love that and I wish more people would do that.

But most of my interactions now on Facebook are inside the groups I belong to. I love these groups—people gathered to talk about the same topic, be it (in my case) scrapbooking and religion and running and books. But it is easy to feel like a tiny little insignificant part of the whole. It feels like a far less intimate connection. Or maybe personal is the better word.

That conversation and a few days of critical thinking about social media kind of made me embarrassed in myself. I know that I have a tendency to get too involved in Facebook or Instagram. I like to joke with a quote from Harry Potter: “It’s like having friends.” Social media makes friendship a bit easier because you can post whenever, you can write and edit before you actually communicate anything, you can do it all from your bed in your pajamas. I logically know that real-life interactions are far better than social media interactions, but emotionally, social media interactions fit will with my introverted little heart.

Somehow I didn’t really notice that I was clinging to something that many other people let go of long ago. Just like I still use WordPerfect even though no one else does, and just like I’m still scrapbooking even though all the friends I started with aren’t anymore. Or even like I still listen to music I loved in high school.

Or how I’m still blogging despite the fact that OMG Becky, no one actually blogs anymore.

I haven’t ever really thought of myself as someone who is resistant to change. But looking back, I can see how I cling to things. I find something that is comfortable for me, something I love, and I want to keep it around, even when it changes or becomes outdated.

I’m not sure I really have an answer. I might not even have a question. Is the problem that I need to disengage with social media? Or is it that I need to react to the reality that actually exists, instead of getting stuck in how the world used to be? Or maybe both?

I’m not sure. I do know this: I do miss people posting photos and little stories on Facebook. I will continue interacting with my friends who do. I might clean out my friend list so that I see more of what I like to see. And I’ll probably also keep posting in the way I have, but definitely with more self-consciousness.

What’s your relationship with social media like these days?

Today at the library, I helped an older patron who was trying to figure out the best way to download audio books. Specifically, he wanted "access to all of the good books and none of the bad ones." I resisted getting drawn into that conversation (good or bad is so subjective, and it depends entirely on your personal and idiosyncratic needs as a reader; many times books I find horrendous are other patrons' favorites), but then he asked me what we call that.

"If you listen to a book instead of reading it,” he asked, “do you call it reading? Did I read that book? Or just listen to it?”

Which really is an interesting question. “To read” is defined as the act of receiving or understanding something, especially by way of letters or numbers. So in theory you don’t really “read” an audio book. But you do receive or understand the story, just through your ears, not your eyes. And when the person performing the book says the story out loud, he or she is reading it. So in theory, you do “read” an audio book.

I guess it doesn’t really matter if you say you “read” an audio book or you “listen” to it. You’re ingesting story, you’re making your life more interesting, you’re using your imagination and your brain cells and your intelligence.

I do think I have a different experience with the books I’ve read in print versus those I read in audio. (As audio?) I’m even pickier with audio books than I am with print books. The reader’s voice has to be exactly right for me to enjoy it. One of the first audio books I tried listening to was Swamplandia!, for example, but I only lasted about ten minutes as the reader’s voice was so overpoweringly little-girlish I couldn’t stand it. And I recently attempted The Witch Elm but that reader’s voice was just far too smug. I mean: the main character himself might also be smug, but I was overwhelmed with the smugness.

Last year, I read half of The Power as an audio book. My Overdrive checkout ended when I was halfway through, and I was desperate to find out how it ended, and luckily there was a print copy at the library. So I checked it out and finished it. I loved experiencing that story in that way. There are two readers for the story, and their voices were both perfect, powerful and with a hint of an accent I couldn’t quite describe. Their voices stayed with me as I finished the print copy and it made the entire reading experience much richer somehow.

Some books I can finish easier when I listen to them; if there’s something frustrating or annoying about the book, I can deal with it easier by listening (so long as the voice feels right to me). What Should be Wild is a book I’d likely have started but not finished in print, but it matched the atmosphere of when I was listening to it (late October) so well that I continued until the (fairly disappointing) end.

Last year, when I was training for my marathon, I decided to listen to The Hunger Games trilogy during my long runs. I got so sucked in that I also listened to them while I was gardening, cooking dinner, and a few times even hiking. Maybe this is my favorite way to read audio books, as stories I’ve already read in print version. I know the outcome, so I can follow the story much easier, and then I start to notice different things. I’ve read that series three or four other times, but listening to it made me feel things I didn’t expect. The violence seemed more startling, the wrenching decisions more difficult. In fact, when I listened to the very beginning of the first book, when Katniss takes Prim’s place, I had to stop running because I was crying so hard.

At any rate, I told the patron that yes: he can say he reads audio books. He seemed relieved, as if there was a subtle sense of shame at the fact that he was listening. And while audio books will never take the place of regular print books for me, I love having access to them. Reading, after all, is about stories, and humans have told stories aloud for far longer than the printing press has been around.  

What format do you prefer?

Timehop and Facebook keep reminding me of something: three years ago was the week that Kendell had his cardiac arrest. I usually like looking back on memories, but this one…this one I don’t want to remember. Kendell has processed enough (or he just never remembered) that he can joke about it. But I can’t. That was a terrifying, difficult experience, and whenever I remember that early morning—waking to that sound he was making, the way he looked at me and then, even though his eyes were open, he wasn’t looking anymore. My hysterical laughter when the EMTs dashed out the front door carrying him on a stretcher. The days of not knowing. Even when it seemed like he would be OK, it was still terrifying and difficult.

Whenever I do have to tell the story, I acknowledge in my head all of the times any medical person who’s heard the story looks at me astounded. I’ve even had doctors and nurses assume I was exaggerating, because most people really don’t survive an episode of v-fib. And if they do, they usually have some sort of hypoxic brain injury.

But Kendell is OK.

So whenever I tell the story, or when something reminds me of that experience, I wonder: why is he still here?

“He must have something amazing he still needs to do,” people have told me many times.

But today I was reminded that maybe not. Or maybe just reminded of what “something amazing” really means.

We went hiking together this afternoon, after he had an yearly check-up with his heart surgeon.
Everything seems fine, so we celebrated with a lovely five miles in Mill Creek canyon. Spring hiking is still snowy hiking, but old, melting snow is an entirely different experience. It’s soft and slushy, a little bit like hiking through a Slurpee. (But, of course, without the cherry flavoring.) Sometimes the snow on the trail was like a shark fin, sometimes it was like walking along a balance beam made out of snow-cement.

It was OK hiking up, but when we were hiking down, I was a little bit nervous. I’m still ginger going downhill anyway (I think I probably always will be, now), but the spots of the trail that were slick ice were a little bit scary.

Kendell hiked in front of me on the way down, and whenever he got to a slippery spot, he’d wait for me, and then offer me a hand down.

I didn’t ask him for help. He just knew I’d be a little bit anxious about slipping, so he made sure to help me.

I thought about his heart surgeon, just an hour earlier telling us that he is doing OK. And those memories popping up in Facebook. And the way, if I am honest, I still am terrified. I sometimes wake up at night, still, and just make sure he is breathing.

And I don’t think there is anything more amazing or extraordinary than today. A random Monday at the end of winter. A beautiful spring afternoon, 70 degrees with a blue sky and a light wind. Sitting on a cliff eating cashews together. His hand and his strength helping me to be safe.

Heroic deeds or extraordinary success: those might seem the reasons he’s still alive. He might still have that kind of work to do, I don’t know.

I don’t actually really even care. What I care about is that he’s here, that we have more days together, for however long. No one’s days are guaranteed anyway. We can only savor. We can only love each other in the best ways we know how.

(Warning: This post is very Mormony. It’s a Mormony rant, and it will maybe only make sense to other Mormon people. Perhaps if it wasn’t so painful I could make it applicable to others outside of Mormondon, but right now? Right now it’s too painful.)

This weekend is the Mormon church’s general conference. Instead of going to regular meetings, we listen to our leaders via a television broadcast.

Well, I’m using the term “we” pretty loosely there. I’ve never been able to fully commit to all sessions of conference (there are at least four) like the good Mormons all do. Partly because it wasn’t a tradition for me as a kid; we didn’t have the kind of family who made sweet rolls and dedicated the weekend to listening. I’d like to think we reveled in the crowd-free spaces of a Utah county drained of most of its population, but honestly, I don’t think we even noticed it.

When my kids were growing up, I did try sometimes to have them watch at least a session or two. When the push back on that was too much, I turned it into a private thing; I’d listen to conference with my headphones on while I went on a long run or worked in my yard. Like everything in my life related to the church, my efforts were incomplete and imperfect.

Last fall, though (general conference happens in both April and October). Last fall is when I truly and freely admitted to myself that I couldn’t bear to listen to it. To the sing-song voices of the women speakers mirroring back what men had told them their whole lives. To men who know absolutely nothing about the realities of my life telling me how to be a good person in the world, what I could wear, how I should feel. How God loves me (or doesn’t, depending). (You can read more about my experience last fall in this guest post I wrote for Sister’s Quorum.)

Of course, I live in the heart of Mormon country. So even though I am actively not listening, I am still hearing. And I am filling up with sadness. I am realizing that I have never been at home in this church. I tried—to teach my children, to be an example, to learn and read and study. To listen. But I have always twisted here. I have always had to try to make it work, to make it fit, knowing that the effort was only for me because my individual voice will never matter here.

There is a litany I could build, of the way I have struggled, of the concepts that sometimes don’t make sense and sometimes just feel entirely wrong.

But they all have help me build a deep and abiding belief that I am secondary, less-than, unworthy because my efforts have been imperfect.

I don’t know how to believe that God loves me.

What I do know is that the church, which has at its core the belief that the most important thing is families—that Mormon church was a wedge in my family. It made me resent my husband when he wasn’t able to support my church efforts. It made my children resent me. It caused wounds that perhaps will never fully heal.

I tried to create the perfect Mormon family and if you asked many other Mormons, they would say I failed. My kids aren’t going to serve missions or be married in the temple or be active in the church.

And I have made peace with that. I want them to thrive and be happy and love their lives. I want them to fulfill their ambitions, to be capable adults who help the world in whatever way works with their skills and personalities. I want them to love and to be loved. They are good people and I love them, and I sorrow over my mistakes.

No—it’s not that I’ve made peace. It’s that I’ve let go of thinking that raising a perfect Mormon family is the only way to be happy. Is the only way to be good, the only way for God to love me.

Not just for my family, but for everyone. Not just for everyone, but for myself. “There’s no right way to do a wrong thing” is something someone said in this weekend’s conference, but I can’t do that anymore. I actually never did only think in black and white. Because what is a wrong thing and what is a right thing? I tried to do the right thing, or at least, what I thought was the right thing, but it turned out to be the wrong thing for my children. Is it because I didn’t do the right thing right enough? Or is it because I let the voices of old white men who know absolutely nothing about the realities of my life guide me in black and white, right and wrong?

It is both terrifying and exhilarating to be in this place I find myself in. I don’t know what my next step will be. Maybe this is yet another mistake I am making, maybe if I just tried harder to be a good Mormon everything would be repaired. But I don’t want any more magical thinking. I want to live in this world where I am, I want to love these people who I have in my life, and those who cannot love me because I’m not good enough are free to turn elsewhere for friendship. I want to define for myself what makes a good person and a good life, and that is exhilarating.

But I still find I am heartsore, with a lump in my throat.

Because, maybe, I invested so much of myself there. Because there is still that voice in my heart that tries to scare me, to make me make decisions based on fear. Because I wanted it to be true, to be as easy as “follow my voice and you will find happiness.”

Finding my voice, soothing my heart, dissolving that lump. Knowing how to proceed: this is difficult. I don’t know what my life might look like even six months from now. This isn’t a declaration, really. It is just me taking one more step into greyness without fooling myself into believing that the shadows aren’t there and that the grey is all the light there is.