Ammi Midstokke

1 day ago | spokesman.com | Ammi Midstokke

Sometimes, when I am trying to meditate, which they say is good for us, I listen to the sound of the ocean because I need something louder than my brain. The brain can be obnoxiously loud. Mine is forever reminding me of what groceries are needed or that I have not called the insurance company or that I meant to trim my nails two days ago. When particularly petulant, it resurrects the horrors of life to remind me of parental guilt or that one time I asked a menopausal woman when she was due.

1 week ago | spokesman.com | Ammi Midstokke

It has been a long time since I’ve appreciated a good park. A luxury of youth, mobility, and location is that many of us living on the outskirts of the city or familiar with outdoor pursuits have access to green spaces. But a recent trip to the Big City (anywhere with a population over 20,000, as far as I’m concerned) had me in search of a park where I could safely run in unfamiliar territory. Parks require a certain amount of civility that I lack, not to mention fashion sense.

2 weeks ago | spokesman.com | Ammi Midstokke

The water cannot speak for itself. I believe if it could, it would apologize. I am sorry, it would say, I am only doing what water does. Traveling, that is. Between sky and soil, over oceans and fields, bumping lazily into mountains, trickling down streams, exploding into waterfalls. It spreads into lakes and seas, seeps beneath the rock and soil to form mysterious underground waterways, and carries with it always the mineral memories of where it has been.

3 weeks ago | spokesman.com | Ammi Midstokke

Years ago, I read Wallace Stegner’s “Angle of Repose” and had a romanticized glimpse of miner’s life in the West. I was left in awe at the hardship humans went through in the pursuit of better things or just a full belly. While my Subaru sputtered over Colorado mountain passes at 70 mph, I couldn’t help but think about how we ever got up here on horses, in wagons, on foot. It’s not exactly like they had Gore-Tex at the time. Or headlamps. Or GPS.

4 weeks ago | spokesman.com | Ammi Midstokke

In the small corner room of an assisted living facility, a man sat in a chair softly playing guitar, and five women surrounded another, beckoning her to let go. “Your work is done,” we cooed. “You are so loved,” we whispered. But anyone who knew Marilyn will know that she would leave when she was damn well ready. Anyway, we had not laughed enough yet.