Angela Amman is a beautiful writer and storyteller. She’s also an avid (and impressive) runner and mother of two. I was lucky enough to meet Angela at Blissdom and get to know her a little bit. I was pleasantly surprised that she didn’t tower over me like a lot of the gals at the conference! With her Michigan accent and sweet demeanor, she was a lot of fun to just sit and chat with (and share a mini bottle of wine with).

If you’re not familiar, Angela writes on her blog Tread Softly, is a contributing writer for Just.Be.Enough, and is an editor for Write On Edge.

Welcome, Angela!

My English major didn’t involve many science classes, but freshman year I had to choose between Visions of the Universe or a course nicknamed “Rocks for Jocks”.
 
I heard murmured warnings about the math and physics involved in Visions of the Universe, but with my eighteen year old wisdom as infinite as the universe we’d be studying, I ignored that rational argument.
 
Learn about boring rocks or twinkling mysteries in the inky sky?
 
The stars won.
 
I glanced at the thin textbook with more numbers than glittery stars and slid it into my backpack, expecting the lectures would focus more on constellations and stargazing.
 
They didn’t.
 
My lecture notes crammed mathematical formulas and diagrams between the college-ruled margins. Our constellation maps were shoved into folders, their weighted value in our final grade so small compared to exams and labs.
 
Sweating through physics laden exam questions, I wondered why I hadn’t given the rocks a chance.
 
Yet there were moments on the roof of the Physics-Astronomy Building–moments where I clasped my constellation map in gloved hands, my breath fogging into the air above my tipped-back head. Orion’s belt shone in the sky as we followed its path to the Pleiades.
 
I wasn’t in a class in those moments but alone under something more infinite than any mathematical calculation could explain.
 
Early one morning, I climbed into bed with Abbey after she wanted a glass of water, her smile reminding me how rarely we have quiet moments alone.
 
Minutes later, Dylan’s small hands pushed open her door, and I braced myself for her protests. Instead she invited him to climb in with us, turning on her Twilight Turtle as he crawled over for morning snuggles.
 
Listening to her explain her version of the constellations, I drifted into quiet contentment, letting her teach Dylan about “the girl’s headband” and “the snowflakes in the sky”.
 
Warnings about the different phases and stages and difficulties of motherhood never dissuaded me from building our family. But some days I feel like I’m back in my dorm room with that thin textbook, trying to decipher mood swings and emotional outbursts the way I toiled over physics calculations.
 
I never could have anticipated the emotional reaction I would have to my four year old screaming over not having a glass of chocolate milk.
 
And I never could have imagined the infinite amount of love snuggled into a flowered quilt underneath dozens of yellow stars.

Abbey and Dylan

The Twilight Turtle

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