Angela Amman

stories of choices and consequences

NaBloPoMo

Overlap

by Leave a Comment

I didn’t want to skip a day of posting, because I’ve been consistent since November 1. Over on Instagram, I’m participating and following along with #OneDayHH, which means two things:

I had to turn off my self-imposed Instagram screen time limit for the day.

I don’t have a lot of energy to put together a coherent post here.

Coincidentally — or maybe indicative of this season of my life — I had overlap in other parts of my life tonight, too. I logged onto a Zoom meeting from the desk at the dance studio. I’m overbooked like crazy right now, and I know it, but I also feel like it’s inevitable this year as we try to figure out which parts of our pre-pandemic and mid-pandemic life we’re willing to keep long-term.

I’ll figure it out. But not tonight.

(Come see me on Instagram and see what I’ve been doing today.)

When to Let Things Go

by Leave a Comment

I walked into the garage the other day and found this apple on the ground, next to the shop vac and other things I don’t recognize. A single bite — and some additional teeth marks — marred the surface, but it was clearly abandoned.

Without asking, I can imagine which of my kids grabbed an apple on the way out the door, took a bite, then got distracted — or simply changed their mind.

I don’t love the wasted apple, though I’m sure the deer won’t leave it wasted for long. I’ve thought about it more than necessary the last few days, the concept of walking away from something that just doesn’t work for you in the moment.

While I don’t want the kids to make a habit of taking a bite of food, then leaving it to rot in the garage (just bring it inside! I’m not opposed to slicing off the bitten section and dipping the rest in peanut butter!) I admire the way they can leave behind certain things.

Personally, I have a hard time letting go. (Not of stuff. I can purge belongings with ruthless efficiency when I’m in the mood.) I have difficulty letting go of commitments and obligations. I still say yes when I should say no, both when I want to say no and when I want to say yes but know I’m stretched too thin. I say yes anyway.

The things I hold onto crowd my thoughts and my hours. I understand logically that I need to shed some of those yeses to make room for ones that matter, ones that feel like dreams some days because I close my eyes before finding time for them. My brain knows, but my heart is slower to learn.

Maybe one day I, too, will be able to set aside an apple I don’t need or want for something I truly do.

Ladybugs All Around

by Leave a Comment

Michigan parents whose kids play outdoor sports know things can go either way when it comes to the end of fall. We’ve sat through soccer games in October where I needed blankets and heavy duty mittens, but this weekend brought sunshine and air that felt more like September than November.

Dylan’s All Star Game felt a little like a gift, an extra game on a beautiful day, one that didn’t come with all sorts of time conflicts.

It came with ladybugs instead. They flew through the air and landed on arms, legs, faces, and chairs. Some were red like cherries while others faded so much they almost looked white. I fished one out of the V of my v-neck sweater before I had to get indecent on the sideline of a kids’ soccer game.

I don’t know much about ladybugs, except they’re fabled to bring good luck. My mom claims they normally come out earlier in the fall, but nothing about this year feels typical, so I didn’t even bother searching to see if she was right or wrong.

Normally, flying bugs, even tiny cute ones, would distract me. Today, I accepted them — and the day — for what it was: an extra chance to sit outside in the sun, watching our little guy play a game he loves, while little bits of luck flew all around.

What I’m Reading

by Leave a Comment

My goal this month focuses on writing more, but reading remains important to my routine — especially because I’m trying hard to limit my mindless social media scrolling.

I try to add non-fiction to my reading lists all the time. Truthfully, I’m not always successful with those books. My preferred reading method, which has been the same since childhood, involves lots of binging — total immersion in a story. Non-fiction doesn’t lend itself to that type of reading nor allow for the escapism I find in reading novels.

Knowing that about myself makes me even more determined to figure out some non-fiction reading skills, because I know I need to keep my mind working and flexible, not just filled with the equivalent of comfort food (hello, Stephen King book I’ve already read).

I’m doing better with Laura Tremaine’s Share Your Stuff. I’ll Go First., probably because her podcast is one of my favorites, and her writing voice feels familiar. However, I’ve been woefully remiss when it comes to any of the actual sharing exercises outlined in the book, though I think the offered prompts are thought-provoking and interesting.

Joan Didion, of course, has a lot to say. I start and stop with her, because frankly she makes me feel slightly inadequate. I know that’s not the point of her writing, but it can be difficult to read about 60s and 70s California culture and a lot of big thoughts while I’m sitting in my car, waiting to pick up my kids from school or one of their activities. I wonder, after reading, if I have that type of bravery in me, not to live as she did but to observe the world in such an unflinching way.

Ready Player One is done and ready to go back to the library, a re-read I picked up because of Dylan’s renewed interest in “classic” video games. Those games, of course, aren’t the classics referred to in Cline’s novel, but I’m a sucker for 80s nostalgia and a healthy dose of worry about the potential of an OASIS in our future.

I picked up 11/22/63 after reading Billy Summers, because Stephen King tells the best stories, and I haven’t read this one in quite some time. I haven’t started it yet, though it’s been on the shelf for a while. I will likely dive into it this week, curling up on the couch and making easy dinners until I turn the final page.

Memories of my dad

by Leave a Comment

my dad would buy me KitKats if he was surprising us with candy

My grandpa loved Brach’s red and white peppermint candies. Those little pinwheels remind me of him each time I see them, even on days when he’s the furthest thing from my mind. I appreciate those moments, nods to memories and reminders of people I love, even though I don’t often pause and give them the attention they deserve. 

Abbey did a Dia de los Muertos project for Spanish class last weekend. Her drawing included the things that my dad appreciated and loved, and while I suggested a couple of things (airplanes!), she put together the majority of it on her own. Seeing her interpretation of the things he loved made me grateful, because I think she was spot on with her choices. 

I wonder sometimes what my kids remember about my dad (and Ryan’s dad). They were young when both men died, so much younger than I was when I lost my grandparents. 

Like anyone we lose, I wonder if their memories are their own or ones they’ve crafted from collective stories and family lore, talk of his favorite things and his never-ending care for the people he loved, manifested in doing much more than saying. We talk about him frequently, but I know each of the people who loved him experienced a different version of him, because no two relationships can ever be exactly the same. 

I miss him at obvious times – like holidays or when I need help with a project around the house – but the times that hit the hardest are the unexpected twangs of memory. A Jeopardy clue about Cheers produced a lump in my throat the other day, and I could see him in his LaZBoy, eating Taco Bell and relaxing after a long afternoon shift at work. 

Sometimes I think those small moments offer clues to my favorite parts of him, the parts I didn’t always think of as cherished until they became part of my past and not my present. 

He must be on my mind more lately, because I truly thought I sat down to write about my grandfather’s mints and how certain flavors invoke the people we love. I don’t mind, though, that my words went in a different direction, looping around to my dad and the way we could sit in a comfortable cocoon of silence, watching Seinfeld or Cheers while the rest of the house slept. 

I hope the kids continue to remember him, even if our memories help them along. I hope his love offers them some quiet protection against any darkness they may face. 

Snowflakes and thoughts about writing practice

by Leave a Comment

Snowflakes dotted the roof outside our bathroom window this morning. I don’t have a photo, because frankly I knew I wouldn’t get a decent one with steam clouding the view. Also, minutes matter in the mad rush of working out, getting the kids to school, and getting myself to work. I’m trying to remember these posts are about sitting in the chair and writing, not necessarily about presenting an aesthetic image of my thoughts. 

(But what is a set of November posts without many mentions of the weather, the transitional season between wishing for unexpected warm days and the relentless slog of winter in Michigan?) 

More censored than a journal and less polished than posts of the past, these words might not mean all that much when I look back at them later. Writing, whether I like it or not, involves practice and repetition more than flashes of brilliance. I hope it does, at least, because I haven’t felt many of those flashes lately. 

I miss those moments, glimpses of stories that feel like they could be magic if I could find the time to sit and write them. Now, I’m in front of the keyboard, and those flashes remain elusive, like the snow dotting the roof, sure to be gone with the rising of the sun. 

The other day, I told Ryan I think part of the reason I’m tired lately is that I’m holding everything tightly, worries coil around my brain and heart, using energy that could be used for something else. I don’t know how to relax those coils, though movement and meditation both help in the immediate moment. 

Perhaps I’m making excuses, but I feel like those coils of fear and adrenaline are choking off the inspiration I used to crave in order to write. 

Now I’m forcing out words and keeping my fingers crossed that some of the magic might come during the editing, because it sure doesn’t feel like it’s hitting the page in drafting form. When my fingers hesitate and when the words don’t flow, I try talking to myself the way I would talk to a friend struggling with productivity. Anything is better than nothing. You can’t edit a blank page. A terrible draft is still a draft. 

Cliches. Truths. Different sides of the same coin, really. 

Like the way today’s smattering of snowflakes promises more to come later in the season, I hope I am entering a productive season of writing, where the smallest ideas grow substantial when piled together. 

With practice, I might make them into something beautiful.