B is for Brooks, or How is it I Have SO Many Pairs of Running Shoes?

BA few months ago on one of my frequent forays through our local running store, I was lamenting having to buy yet another pair of shoes. I’d only been running seriously for a few months then, so I was likely only one or two pair into what has become a recurring event. The sales guy (I believe it was Steve G.) laughed. He of course has been running for a very long time. “You should see the mound of shoes I have!” He made a sweeping gesture. “My wife won’t let me keep them in the house anymore. They’re all in the garage.”

I guess the upside of needing a new pair of running shoes means I’ve been putting on the miles. I generally start to feel that familiar twinge in the bottom of my foot that signals it’s time to break out the wallet at around mile 300. Last year, I ran very nearly 1500 miles, which meant I ran through five pairs of shoes. One of the reasons I started running, instead of going to the gym, was that in theory running should be less expensive. Very little equipment needed, no membership fees. Yeah right.

Glycerin_2
Brooks Glycerin running the Turkey Trot

Running is not inexpensive. Not if you don’t want your body to break down. Not if you care about your feet, calves, shins, knees, and back. Not if you run on a variety of surfaces or in all kinds of weather. I currently rotate through three different pairs of shoes, all Brooks. Fun fact about Brooks running shoes: they are made just down the freeway from Bellingham in Bothell.The Brooks Glycerins, the cushiest of the trio, are great for flat surfaces, pavement, and going fast. Runners World Magazine listed them in its Fall Shoe Preview as perfect for the heavier runner—a description I took some exception to, but they are super comfy. So, whatever. The first time I wore a pair in a race, I came in as the first woman overall. Go figure.

My Cascadias are Brooks’ trail shoes—awesome for running over roots and rocks and uneven surfaces. I wasn’t sure I would like the Cascadias, so I bought an older model online for about half the original resale price. Now I love them and am looking forward to racking up the miles on them so I can get a new pair of the latest model.

cascadias
Brooks Cascadia 8. No pics of these in action.

Rounding out my current collection are the Ghost GTX, the Gortex-lined wonders that keep my piggies dry in this rainiest of climes. I am on my second pair of Ghost GTX—I wore my most recent pair the first time when I ran the Mt. Vernon High School Band Aid 10K. The skies opened up, and I ended up running through a thunderstorm, complete with lightning, massive amounts of rain, and rivers and rivers of cow, uhm, waste, one of the bonuses of running rurally.

The downside of a Gortex-lined shoe? They keep the water out, yes, but if it somehow comes over the top of the shoe, it also stays in. By the time I finished the Band Aid run, each shoe must have weighed five pounds and my feet were soaked and shriveled. Usually though, I avoid deep rivers of cow waste, and the GTX keep my feet nice and dry.

Ghost GTX
Brooks Ghost GTX, post Band Aid 10K. These are some wet dogs.

These days, I’m working on my own mound o’shoes which currently resides by the front door. I am not ready to relocate the mound to the garage because whenever I look at it, I’m reminded of just how far I’ve come.

No barefoot running
for me. These feet are well-clad.
My spoiled, pampered dogs

A is for Accountability (And Also April and Anxiety)

A[1]

 

 

When I started running seriously about a year and a half ago, anxiety propelled me out of bed and into my running shoes every morning—that relentless pounding thrum that only abated after my endorphins released around mile three or so. I wasn’t sure what would happen if I didn’t lace up my sneakers every morning, but I certainly didn’t want to find out. Once I hit mile three, the agitated voices in my head calmed down, and I could go on with my day. Until the next morning when we (the voices and I) started again.river to rails run

I’d met April sometime around Christmas 2013 and joined her and other members of Carol Frazey’s Fit School on occasional weekend runs. In mid-March April announced she was training to run the Vancouver BMO half marathon and needed someone to run with on her long run—11 miles. Up to that point, my longest run ever had been seven miles (and not easy ones, either), but I agreed to join her on her long run anyway. What’s the worst thing that could happen? I’d have to walk part of the way? I’d get in really good shape?

We made the 11 miles and struck up an alliance along the way. I don’t remember exactly what transpired next, but eventually April and I were meeting up three or four mornings a week to run and train together. We didn’t actually run together after that first 11 miles—we have wildly different paces and distance goals, but we held one another accountable.

And accountability is key. Knowing someone is waiting at the trailhead or in the parking lot at 7:30 or 8 a.m. is a good motivator. Even if I don’t feel like getting out of bed, let alone going for a run, I can’t leave April hanging, and I am confident that she won’t leave me out there to face the early morning hours alone either.

I’ve lost count of how many races we’ve done in the past year or how many laps we’ve traveled around Lake Padden or how many miles we’ve logged on South Bay trail (actually, not true–I could tell you exactly, but I won’t). But I haven’t lost sight of how important it is to have her there so I’ll get out of the car and run in the rain, the wind, even through the thunder and lightning (though I don’t recommend the latter).

In running as in
life, accountability
kicks us into gearband aid run

 

I’m Baaack! For NaPoWriMo and the 2015 A-to-Z Challenge

I know, I know. It’s been far too long since I last posted. But I’m back, at least for the month of April, to once again participate in the A-to-Z Daily Blog Challenge. If you remember, I did this last year as well, writing a blog a day for 30 days throughout the month of April.

I’m also planning to participate in NaPoWriMo to celebrate National Poetry Month—which is also in April—by writing a poem a day for the month. If all goes according to plan, I’ll be posting a haiku that ties into whatever the daily theme is for my blog.

I haven’t yet decided if I will blog on a theme for the month or leave it open to my daily whims. Some themes I’ve been pondering:

  • Running
  • Writing
  • Menopause

If I go with Running as a theme, here are possible topics for my first few days:

  • A is for April (my running buddy, not the month)
  • B is for Brooks (how is it I can identify the make and model of so many running shoes?)
  • C is for Clothing or Why Does My Closet Smell Like That?
  • D is for Data (How far? How fast? How many calories? Don’t make me run without my Nike app)
  • E is for Eating Everything

If I go with, oh, say, Menopause instead, I could write about these topics:

  • A is for Hot Flashes
  • B is for Black Cohosh Smells and Tastes Terrible
  • C is for Cold Compresses
  • D is for Don’t Touch Me! (I’m too hot)
  • E is for Estrogen, Please (don’t make me grovel)
  • F is for Fire (as in I’m on Fire, again)
  • G is for Get Away From Me (it’s too hot to be this close)
  • H is for Heat (is it HOT in here or is it me?)
  • I is for Igloo (or yes, I DO keep my house that cold)

Or I may just write about whatever pleases me in the moment. Tune in later this week to find out what I’ve decided.

Writing and running
Finding inspiration through
My perspiration

Be Brave! September Haiku Wrap Up

Every month when I review my haikus from the previous few weeks, I think “there’s no way I can post that! It’s too X.” Fill in the blank: too personal, too sad, too obscure, too depressing, too much. So, I go through them and edit and delete a few that don’t seem ready yet for the world at large. I’ve done some of that this morning with this group. But, I’ve also been listening to Sara Bareilles’ song Brave.

What would happen if we all let the words fall out honestly? This song also inspired one of my haikus which came to me as I was studying on the deck last month, enjoying the sunshine and reading about gender roles (there’s a rabbit hole that will require an entire series of blog posts).

I am embracing Brave–here are my words, as they fell out of me these past few weeks:

I gifted you with
A river of words. Language
In which we might drown.

Follow this tattered
Thread. My worn out and used up
Words. Can we mend us?

In this race against
Time, no judge, no jury. Just
The clock. Tick tock tick.

You read me like a
Favorite book, turned each page,
And savored my words.

We created some
Thing we wasted–it became
Some nothing again

Daddy’s little girl
Drops the old man’s hand and her
Heart turns into stone

Fighter jets and blue
Herons vying for sky space
Competing contrails

We each have our own
Calvary–those hilltops where
Our innocence dies

We had something and
Now we have nothing–what dark
Magic did we weave?

Sadness envelops
Me, an uncomfortable
Cocoon. A tight frame.

Hope is riding shot
Gun–we’re mapless and lost in
Uncharted terrain

Race. Class. Gender roles.
We are bound by smaller minds–
Too tiny, too tight

How big is your brave?
Could you be homo, bi, trans?
Are you strong enough?

Bellingham Bay Marathon Update

I ran the Bellingham Bay Half Marathon yesterday, along with nearly 1500 other people.

bbm_byssc
I ran happy.
bbm_Laura
Thanks Laura for pushing me to finish in under 2 hours!
I did pretty well.
bling_BBM
Also, got some cool bling.
bbm_shimmery_shorts
And ran with some very awesome women.
bbm_group
More awesome Fit School women

Finding the Balance in Running and Life

As I write this, I can feel my IT band screaming, and there’s a sensitive spot on my left foot that I think is frostbite, a reminder that perhaps I over-iced yesterday, slightly panicked that I may be getting a touch of plantar fasciitis (please let it not be so). I’m concerned about the half marathon coming up next weekend. I’ve just turned in my final paper for this quarter, and I’m frustrated that I’ve not written a haiku in days.

Funny how life turns out. Last year at this time, I wasn’t running or writing psychotherapy papers or penning haiku. I wasn’t even thinking about such things. Now, I can’t imagine life without any of these activities.

Last weekend I ran the Fairhaven Runners Waterfront 15K. I placed second in my age group. About a month earlier, I entered a 5K race/fundraiser for Alzheimer’s, Miles for Memories. I finished first overall in the women’s division.fairhaven_runners_waterfron_15kfirst place

I did not set out to be a racer. I certainly did not set out to run fast or to finish anywhere near the front of the pack. I don’t start a race thinking about how I am going to finish, just that I hope I will finish and that I want to enjoy the run. Now that I’ve had some success with running, I’m beginning to second-guess myself. Whereas I used to just get up in the morning and go for a run, now I wonder if I should go long or short, fast or slow, run hills or flat? Should I ice or soak in Epsom salts? Will taking a day off now hurt or help me in my next event? Am I a poser?

Recently I find myself pondering that place between unconsciousness and deliberation, between being ignorantly blissful (or blissfully ignorant) and calculating. I know I compare writing and running quite often, but again, I find the similarities enlightening. At the beginning of this year, I started writing haikus with abandon. I traded them back and forth with friends, posted them to the Haiku Room on Facebook and just enjoyed the experience. Until I started getting attention for them. Then I started overthinking and performing, writing haikus for an audience, and that’s when my haiku writing came to a halt. I got stuck. I became too aware.

Now, I fear the same thing happening with running. I want to just run, but at the same time, I am extremely proud of my accomplishments. And, I have to say, I totally dig winning medals and ribbons, but I don’t want running to be just about that. I want my running to be about health and happiness, connection and community.

I want to go about life consciously, full of awareness, and making good choices, but what happens when that awareness interferes with spontaneity? When overthinking causes indecision and indecision results in immobility? How can we strike a balance and just run happy?fairhaven15K_medal

August Reflections: Writing, Running, and Wake Surfing

August was not my most prolific haiku month—there was a paper due for my Family Systems Theory class, so Strategic Family Therapy took up residence in my head for a couple of weeks. And now there’s another paper due next Friday, so currently my head is spinning with Narrative Therapy concepts. There was a week of vacation as well, a time during which I thought I might get some writing done, or at least some haiku inspiration, but that time too became occupied with other, more pressing matters (like learning how to wake surf behind my brother’s boat).

I didn’t get as much running in this month as I would have liked, either, though I did enter a race early in the month and came in first in the women’s division (not just for my age group, but among all the women who entered the 5K). So, maybe sometimes it’s not quantity but quality—I’d say about half of the poems I wrote this month were decent and most of the runs I took were solid. My average time came down by about a minute from my July time, even though my overall monthly mileage was down by about 40 miles. I guess the lesson here is that more is not always better.first place

I did run while we were on vacation in Eastern Oregon, up at 4500 feet—quite the difference from running at sea level. My average run, on my favorite running trail, occurs at about 450 feet above sea level. Needless to say, I felt the burn as I ran the roads near Wallowa Lake. I only managed two runs in the thin mountain air, but I also kayaked, wake boarded, and wake surfed.

It’s taken me three consecutive summers to become a competent wake boarder. The first summer, I spent a few sessions behind the boat simply trying to get my ass up out of the water with no success. The next summer, I finally got up, but my runs were short-lived, and I swallowed a lot of lake water. This summer, I popped up on the first try and let the boat pull me around the lake until I thought my arms might fall off. Between my turns on the wake board, I watched my brother, niece, and nephew surf behind the boat—it looked a lot easier on the body, I thought, since there was no rope to cling to (except for getting up on the board), no stiff boots to cram my feet into, and, since the boat went slower for the surfers, less chance of a power douche upon crashing.

I hesitated to try surfing, however, as I remembered the pain of learning to wake board. I felt comfortable in my mediocre competence on the wake board. I didn’t want to fail at surfing. I didn’t want to spend another three summers learning this new skill. Then I remembered my commitment to saying “yes.” So, on our last day at the lake, when the ballast on the boat was loaded for us left-foot-forward boarders, I decided to try, to say yes, to take the risk. To plunge once more into that 65 degree water.

I got up on my first try. I fell, but I got up again. And I surfed behind the boat. And The Little Woman caught it all on video (that’s my very patient brother you hear coaching me). I hung onto the rope, but I didn’t always need it (generally once a wake surfer finds her sweet spot in the wake, she will toss the rope back onto the boat, unless, like me, she’s still learning to find that sweet spot). And isn’t life all about finding that sweet spot?surfing 5

Without further ado, here are August’s haikus. Enjoy!

Our words are relics
Shards from a different time
Sharp broken treasures

Come, worship at my
Word altar. Kneel before this
Poetry’s gospel.

You throw like a girl
Can no longer be hurled as
An insult. Go Mo.

Today’s the day, I’m
living dangerously now.
Carpe that diem.

Despair resonates—
Love is the only ladder.
Rung by rung, we climb.

Whooshing noise and then
flood. Broken water heater.
Theater of despair

Against all advice
And common sense—I reach out,
Touch the white-hot flame.

Break me open like
A rough rock—brush off the dirt,
Find the gems inside

We have already
colored outside the lines—ain’t
No going back now

Go Mo’Ne! Go Emma! Re-post

I am reposting this blog from a few months ago in honor of Mo’Ne Davis and Emma March, two girls in this year’s Little League World Series. As I type this, Mo’Ne’s team from Pennsylvania is ahead 3-0, and Mo’Ne has pitched 6 up, 6 down. Forty years ago girls were allowed to try out for Little League–that’s the year I tried out, documented below. Over the years 17 girls have joined Mo’Ne and Emma at the LLWS–I’m thinking we can do better, but I’m so happy to be watching them now. Girlpower! Here’s a link to a NYT article on girls in Little League worth reading.

Blog–

I was a pretty good baseball player when I was a kid. I could hit and catch and run. For my 9th birthday, I got a genuine leather mitt, one like the big league players used. My dad and I rubbed that mitt with oil and wrapped it up with a ball in the pocket. I sat in my bedroom, in my lime green beanbag chair and spent hours tossing the regulation hardball into the mitt’s pocket. I loved the solid thwap it made when it hit the webbing.

We lived in the boondocks, so there wasn’t really anyone to play catch with, but I threw that ball in the air as high as I could so I could catch it. I tried valiantly and in vain to teach my little brother how to throw. Poor kid—he was only five when he had to endure my berating his terrible arm and aim. Somehow the two of us and the occasional neighbor kid (I use the term neighbor loosely as no one lived within a mile of us) spent hours in the field behind the house playing the best version of the game we could muster amongst ourselves. Mostly our time consisted of shagging overthrown or underthrown balls or wild pitches.

I don’t know where I even learned about the game—we didn’t have television when I was growing up and neither of my parents was much for sports. I have vague recollections of watching the occasional baseball game on tv when I’d visit my grandparents, but the overarching memory there is one of sheer boredom. Nothing seemed to move more slowly than a baseball game on tv. I don’t remember anyone schooling me on the fine points of the game until I was well into my 20s, but somehow I knew the rules.

We played during recess at school. Once our 7th grade teacher let us all out to play on a beautiful spring day. I remember because  I made a miraculous diving catch, snagging a rocketed line drive and my teacher Ms. Allen lavished me with praise, a moment that crystallized in my memory and probably contributed to my lifelong affinity for the game. I adored Ms. Allen and would have gone to the ends of the earth to recreate that moment in time (this proclivity has created all sorts of issues for me, but that’s another blog).

I only tried out once for a baseball team though, in spite of my deep desire to play. Back in the day (way back, people, before Title IX), we had only Little League, and everyone knew that only boys got to play Little League baseball. But I had no alternatives. There were no other places to play, at least not in our little logging town—no girls’ softball through parks and rec and certainly no girls’ sports at the local junior high school I attended.

I didn’t know of any other girls who wanted to try out for Little League, but Billie Jean King had recently defeated Bobby Riggs in The Battle of the Sexes and obviously a seed had been planted in me. Remember try-outs? Remember the days when not everyone who showed up got a ribbon and a place on the team? I showed up for Little League try-outs in Sultan, Washington in 1975. I ran bases with the boys. I fielded grounders and caught fly balls. And I hit line drives out of the infield.

I still remember the ping of the ball flying off the bat the first time I took a swing in the batter’s box, but more than the ping, I remember the collective intake of breath from the onlookers. The shock that a girl could actually hit a pitch, a hard ball, a boys’ baseball, not some looping fat softball pitch (not to disparage my lesbian sisters who played softball). I made it to first.

I made it to first, but I didn’t make the team because an obstacle larger and more unbeatable than Bobby Riggs stood between me and my baseball dreams: Larry Stucker.  Larry Stucker was the stuff of legends in our little town, known to all of the kids anyway as Stucker the Trucker, the Mean Old Fucker.  He drove his own logging truck and his wife was the nicest, meekest woman who taught Sunday school at our church. I was in class with his kid, Shawn, a scrawny, big-nosed, big-eared kid who looked just like his old man and couldn’t play baseball worth a damn. Larry Stucker coached the Little League team I would have been on had he taken me on my merits but Stucker the Trucker wasn’t about to have any girls on his team. I hope he’s still alive and watching these girls demonstrate their talents.

baseballmitt2
My original mitt. I still have it and even use it occasionally.

Michael Brown, Ferguson, MO, and WTH Country is This?

I’ve been thinking long and hard about writing this blog—frankly, the idea exhausts me. I don’t know if I can find the words to express the feelings I have about what is happening in Ferguson, what I feel about our country and our president and our law enforcement, how I feel as the mother of two African American children, how I feel as I watched protesters and journalists tear gassed and confronted by militarized police officers. Just the thought of putting my feelings into words makes me want to go to bed and pull the covers over my head. I am tired. But my feelings and emotions are nothing compared to those of Michael Brown’s parents, to those of the citizens of Ferguson, to the citizens of Chicago and Florida and Texas and Los Angeles and New York City and everywhere else in this country where the lives of black men have no value except as firearm fodder.

Don’t argue with me—the statistics are out there, the video is out there, the reality is that young black men don’t have a chance in hell against our culture. Even if they do everything right, even if their parents stay married, raise them in the suburbs, send them to the best schools, shelter them away at night, even then their chances of being stopped by police, mistaken for criminals, shot in the back, put in a choke hold, arrested for minor offenses no white person would ever be arrested for are astronomically high relative to their population. At every turn they are discriminated against—they have been portrayed in the media as simple child-like creatures and as frightening monsters, vilified at every turn.

Oh, I hear you thinking—they just need to behave better, stick around to raise their kids, stop acting like gangsters, and stop looting. But that’s the media telling you lies. I’m not here to prove it to you—I’m here to rant about it and let you do your own goddamned research. For starters read Ronald Takaki’s amazing book A Different Mirror, then read this article: http://www.alternet.org/civil-liberties/11-shocking-facts-about-americas-militarized-police-forces and then this one http://www.nytimes.com/2014/08/14/opinion/charles-blow-michael-brown-and-black-men.html?smid=fb-share, and then watch Marlon Rigg’s video Ethnic Notions.

Then, I challenge you to raise two kids of color and watch how they are treated differently. Consider being stopped and searched every time you cross the border back from Canada into your own fucking country. Every time. Think about being owned. Lynched. Flogged. Assumed guilty/stupid/inferior because you have brown skin. Then think about living in a systemic state of oppression and discrimination for the past 300 years. Imagine living in a country where all men are decreed equal but not being able to vote, get a loan, buy a house, get into college, or even walk down the street without being harassed. Imagine your every accomplishment and achievement being questioned, being assumed that your success is due only to affirmative action or cheating. Imagine assuming that your children have more of a chance of going to prison than of going to college.

Imagine that every time your children leave home, you may not see them alive again. Imagine them lying dead in the street, shot by the police who have vowed to protect this country’s citizens, shot not because they did anything wrong, but because they are Black. Imagine that you have no redress, that the cops won’t be held accountable. That the president of the United States has been silent (until today) on the matter–we’ve sent troops to foreign countries for lesser acts of aggression. He needs to stop being so fucking conciliatory and send in the feds (and hope they do a better job).

NOW tell me that you will sit quietly in your living room and wait for justice, that you won’t protest in the streets, that you won’t demand something be done so this doesn’t happen again.

 

Doin’ the Blog Hop

Way back in April, my writer friend and fellow AROHO attendee and Haiku Room contributor Lisa Rizzo invited me to a blog hop. Unfortunately, the timing of that blog hop coincided with the first week of graduate school and I never had the chance to write that blog. Earlier this week, my good friend Cami Ostman accepted an invitation to a blog hop, and though she didn’t explicitly invite me to participate, she did list my blog as one of three that she “keeps an eye on.” Both of these women inspire me and when I read Cami’s blog I realized with dismay that I’d never completed my commitment to Lisa. Then today I got a ping from my good writing buddy and recently published author Kari (Rhymes with Safari) Neumeyer asking me to participate in her blog hop. I am honored and yes! I will participate. Thank you for the invites ladies.

The various blogs had different questions, so I present to you a bit of a mash up:

What are you working on?
I am happy to report that I just finished my second paper for this quarter, this one for my Systems Perspectives in Family Therapy class, entitled (hang on to your hats, kids, this is really exciting) “The Butterfly Effect: Looking at Strategic Therapy Through a Dynamic Systems Lens.” So happy to have that one wrapped up. My pal Linda read it this evening and said that while it wasn’t my finest bit of creative writing, I’d done a heckuva job making an academic topic easy to understand. I’ll take that. A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a personal reflection paper for my Human Development in Context, Gender: A Lifespan Perspective course, entitled “A Heavy Gaze: My Gender Identity Development. “ I’m still pondering posting that paper to my blog—I found it much more difficult to write than I had anticipated as it touched on some very personal (and deeply seated) experiences. Between my papers for the Licensed Mental Health Counselor (LMHC) program in which I am enrolled, I dabble in haiku and non-fiction essay writing via my blog. I do, of course, still have the proverbial “book in the bottom drawer,” my memoir to which Kari referred that I pull out occasionally to work on. Mostly though, I just think about it and pilfer material from it for my personal reflection essays for school.

Why do you write what you do?
I write to make sense of my world. I know that sounds cliché, and I think Joan Didion said it first (and more eloquently, perhaps), but it’s true. Everything I write, academic papers included, puts my life in some perspective. The two essays I’ve had anthologized deal with my experiences as a lesbian and how I struggled (and still struggle) to make that identity work for me in a world that would prefer I be something than who I authentically am. I write haikus to make sense of daily occurences—quick, distilled sense of individual moments. My blog is a sort of sounding board where I put stuff up that I’ve been pondering to see if it makes sense to other people as well. Also, I write because I totally dig feedback. I love people’s reaction to my writing—I want to read and hear what they think about what I’ve written, the questions I raise, the points I make.

How does my writing process work?
I loved Cami’s answer to this question—she wrote about her very literal process, from blocking out the time on the calendar to putting her butt in the chair. For me, my writing begins with a niggling idea in the back of my head, a thought that won’t go away and begins to gain traction. I am a poor scheduler—I write when I feel so moved, when that idea can’t be contained in my head any longer. Then I pull out my laptop and sit my butt in the chair. That’s my process for essays/blogs anyway. With haiku, I’m more intentional. I write in my journal or, just as often, on my iPhone’s notepad application, and jot down a word or a phrase that has caught my attention. Then I word map/free associate and jot down related words or images. I try to think in metaphors and similes when I write haiku. Of course I count syllables. Occasionally, a haiku will come to me as if the heavens have opened up and the angels are singing the Alleluia chorus, but that’s rare. Exciting, but not very reliable.

Where do you like to write?
I am most productive when I write at home. I write a surprising amount of haiku while I’m in bed, either before I go to sleep or first thing in the morning. As I type this blog, I am in bed, in fact. That said, I am a very social writer. I prefer to write with friends in coffee shops around town or at our local independent movie theater, The Pickford where they have a nice selection of beverages and inexpensive popcorn. I like to be out and about—I begin to chafe if I am alone with myself for too long.

What are your favorite books to give as gifts?
For baby showers, I always give Anne Lamott’s Operating Instructions. Other than that, it really depends on the person. I like to give books that will speak to the recipient. Mary Doria Russell’s The Sparrow and Children of God are probably the ones I would give most often—they are absolutely one-of-a-kind books. Practically indescribable and altogether brilliant.

Three blogs—besides Kari’s, Cami’s, and Lisa’s—that I read regularly (but with whom I have not discussed a blog hop):

Jolene’s Life in Focus—Jolene takes amazing photographs and writes just as well. Her blog is a wonderful combination of travel adventure and photography. She has a great eye and is a funny, astute writer. We met in a memoir class and continue to meet regularly to write and to talk about writing and her memoir, Spirited Away which chronicles her adventures across Ireland.

Hooked: One Woman at Sea Trolling for Truth—I met my friend Tele in memoir class as well. Her book, with the same name as her blog, is forthcoming from Riverhead Books in the next year. When she’s not fishing in Alaska, she makes her home in Bellingham. A self-described feminist, yoga-posing, vegetarian, tree-hugging fisherman, Tele is warmth and grace personified, qualities that show up in her writing as well as in her life.

Jennifer Wilke—Jennifer is another Bellinghamster who writes with wit and courage about caregiving for her aging mother. Her blog is full of poignant and humorous moments—insights in the most difficult moments. She is also working diligently on a Civil War novel, The Color of Prayer, based on her great-grandfather’s letters.