Ammi Midstokke

There are some places I need to go back to, year after year, as if they are a kind of touchstone to Mother Nature – a place that reminds me that not all things feel volatile, shocking or urgent.

I first heard the word solastalgia in a workshop with author Paul Bogard. He was referring to the loss of the night sky, its dilution at the mercy of street lights, flood lights, billboards, and a societal addiction for brightening the globe with nary a thought to the broader impact. Or even whether the globe needs to be lit up.

I used to love thunder storms. We called them “Boomers” and they came as a sign of spring, a collision of competing temperatures. I imagined the vernal gods wrestling the reluctant winter out of the skies so fruits of the forest could ripen for summer.

For most of my life, I’ve not really believed in magic. I’ve been more of a suspicious observer of the inexplicable. The analytical mind can sometimes placate itself with the reasoning that one doesn’t necessarily need to understand everything. One can just accept them as a reality.

One of our representatives called me twice in a row this week. Apparently, no one has told him this is code for BIG EMERGENCY, and seeing as his house is a skip down the hill from my house, I assumed the trees were on fire.

This spring, a pair of Canada geese nested in a field near my house. The field has a small pond in the early months, and just beside it, a tall pole with a nesting box built on top.

I was pushing my bike when it happened this time.

The most determinate measures of a successful summer are reaching the end in a state of physical exhaustion and social fatigue, and with enough sun damage to warrant an extra trip to the dermatologist. To this end, we must never say no to anything, be it picnic, playdate or parade.

The first sign that I’m likely to fail miserably at something is if people tell me, “Oh anyone can learn how to do that!”

It’s been a long time since being invited on an expedition was en vogue, but that’s what I assumed it meant when I was asked to to join an “exploration of the Clark Fork delta.” That’s how it was written on the birthday invite at least, which had me wondering what Meriwether and William’s birthday invitations looked like back in 1804.