Ammi Midstokke

No matter where one navigates on the political or philosophical spectrum, it is hard not to be discouraged by the state of affairs in our nation right now.

About 4 minutes after celebrating the completion of our new home, I flew halfway around the world and basically forgot the last year of my life.

By Ammi Midstokke The Spokesman-Review My father was raised with four of his five siblings, another having disembarked before her third birthday.

I read once that our souls cannot keep up with airplane travel, that we must land in flesh and spirit in one place before we can effectively travel to another without risking leaving some essential part of us behind like some spiritually disjointed tourist.

By the time anyone is done building their home, the last thing they want to do is throw a party. Parties have to be cleaned for (and then again after), beverages and bags of ice must be sourced, socially acceptable clothing ought to be worn. At least 14 varieties of corn chips and dip purchased. Subsequent tours of rooms brings recent trauma back to the surface (Remember the tile diva? The patriarchy appearing in the form of obstinate carpenters? That awful fall from the ladder?)

By Ammi Midstokke The Spokesman-Review It has been two years since I have been able to garden. Actually, I've never really been able to garden, but that did not stop me from pretending.

As a person who is always notoriously late when I am in the outdoors, I don’t exactly need more distractions.

Like many outdoor folks, I have a kind of rotating affliction of, addiction to – no, affection for, a particular sport. I pretend it keeps me “less prone to injury,” although we all know this is a losing game as we age. I get injured putting on a sweater. Judging by my companions in the chiropractor’s waiting room, I’m not alone.

There are two types of people. Those who research how to do a thing right before starting, and those who start a thing mostly to demonstrate the wrong way of doing it.

I’m not sure where I learned that running was a superior method of movement, although I’m highly suspicious it coincided with the end of my brief affair with Gauloise cigarettes.