3 Books I Read This Summer
Aviator, writer, and mother Anne Morrow Lindbergh could not find the illusive balance. As described in her biography, written by Susan Hertog:
“She was torn by the children, the housekeeping, and her writing. It was impossible to keep her mind focused on daily matters and yet nourish the abstract thinking required for writing.”
This sentence received an enthusiastic underline for me, succinctly capturing the never-ending challenge facing those of us who parent, write, and manage other aspects required of adulthood.
I brought this 500-page book with me to the beach in July, and I finished it before the week was up. What surprised me, though, was how I was both compelled to read yet disappointed in certain aspects of the narrative. I think this was due to the fact that although Anne was the subject, she happened to be married to a very, very famous person whose life and career sometimes left her in his shadow. Of course, there would be mentions of Charles Lindbergh, his work, and the life they built together. But sometimes the story became all about him.
There was a lengthy chapter dedicated to Charles’ role in World War II (he visited Germany in the 1930s and initially opposed the war, a position that led to his resignation as a colonel in the Air Corps Reserve—you can read more here). This was all certainly interesting and important, but seemed to go on for ages and I wondered if I was reading a biography about Charles instead.
Throughout their marriage, Anne found it difficult to say no to Charles’s requests, especially to global flights that would keep her away from their family. The choice seemed fraught—she didn’t want to be away that long, but flying gave her uninterrupted time with Charles that she couldn’t access on the ground. Yet he viewed her as his radio operator and member of the crew as opposed to someone to deepen a relationship with. The complexity!
Overall, I wanted to know more about the minutiae that made up her life. Turns out, an excellent place to look is Anne’s own work. Although I haven’t read her letters yet, which I’m sure are full of even more insights, I did read North to the Orient, the travel narrative she wrote after she and Charles flew from the East Coast to Alaska, Russia, China, and Japan. They were gone for two months. When they returned home, their infant son did not recognize them.
Here, we discover what flying truly meant to her:
“We were flying again, several years after our trip to the Orient. It was not a long flight nor an important one. It was not even particularly beautiful, just a casual trip from New York to Washington. We were not pressed for time; the weather was good; I had no radio to operate, no maps to look at. It was for me, simply flying, divorced from its usual accompanying responsibilities and associations. I could sit quite still and let the roar of the engine cover me like music. Throbbing with small monotone patterns, the vibration hummed in the soles of my feet, in the hollow of my back. It absorbed some restless side of me, and was satisfying as a hearth fire or rain on the roof. Contented, I could look down at that calm clear world below.”
Also found in this book was a description of how they prepared for such a trip. It sounded quite stressful (isn’t packing always?!) as Anne arranged their gear and equipment in piles around the house. Absolutely everything was weighed, even the pencils and socks. The book also shares a detailed packing list for each of them.
But life is complicated, isn’t it? After this biography was published, it came to light that Charles led a double life, fathering several children. We don’t know if Anne ever knew. Late in their marriage, Anne had an affair of her own, and what struck me more than the morality of it all was how clearly two people had drifted from each other, like they hadn’t shared this life, some dreams, and lost a child—devastatingly and publicly—early in their marriage.
The ending, and therefore, the truth, reminded me of how our choices have ripple effects for ourselves and those around us. I’m glad to have read it though, especially because of how much I love Anne’s book Gift from the Sea, which we’ve discussed at length in my newsletter.
For more on the complexity of parent-writer identities, you might devour Mothers and Other Fictional Characters by Nicole Graev Lipson, as I did. The essay “A Place, or a State of Affairs,” moves between sharp observations about the early days of parenthood, explores how “motherhood and selfhood might be entirely incompatible callings,” and reflects on Thoreau’sWalden, and the necessary but challenging pursuit of solitude.
“Time, once I’m a mother, is never fully my own. It’s pooled time, communal time. When I seize it for myself, it is stolen time.”
Time, of course, isn’t the only problem. It starts innocently enough: we are a prolific writer and then we are not. We tell our friends it’s hard to find the time, which is mostly true because, well, an infant requires attention most of the day and night. But also this:
“What stood between me and writing wasn’t mothering: It was striving to mother perfectly—to become, fully and completely, that golden idol worthy of adulation.”
In the United States, motherhood is praised as a high calling, but without the structural support beams required to care for both mother and baby. Instead of paid family leave, mothers return to work sooner than they are mentally, physically, and emotionally prepared for. Instead of free childcare, mothers weigh leaving said jobs because their salary is equivalent to the unaffordable daycare nearby.
We are also conditioned to believe that if we’re not doing motherhood perfectly, it’s because something is wrong with us. Yet per the above, we have always been set up to fail, as though it’s something we lack—willpower, love, selflessness. She goes on:
“The mother ideal, I’ve come to believe, is uniquely insidious, because what we feel to be at stake is so precious to us, and so at the mercy of our choices. For me, falling short of this ideal meant failing not just myself but the vulnerable human whose flourishing, I’d been led to believe, was exquisitely calibrated to my every move.”
Read it for the commentary on modern motherhood, stay for the masterclass on essay writing.
What makes us stay or go? Where do these longings come from? During a stretch of cooler weather in August (still hot, but less humid), I read Ordinary Time, bookstore owner Annie B Jones’ essays about staying put. A lot of books are about leaving—starting over somewhere new, making the big move, traveling the world for a year, but these stories are about being closer to home, like moving 45 minutes up the road. It also demystified small town life, revealing that it’s not always as rosey as Gilmore Girls or Hallmark movies make it seem.
As someone allergic to superficial relationships, one essay about a book club gave me a lot to think about how important these kinds of relationships actually are.
“I once found myself in conversation—at book club, I think—with a woman I barely knew. I had just moved to Thomasville and was asking how she suggested meeting people. “I do weekly Bunco games in my neighborhood,” she told me. “It’s not like those women are necessarily going to become my best friends. But now I can wave and ask about their kids. It’s nice.” This is where I’ve always struggled. Maybe it’s my personality or my calendar or how I set boundaries or what I’m willing to do with my time. But this aspect of friendship and community is where I have always had the most difficulty. I am not good with surface-level relationships.”
She goes on to describe how many of the relationships that impact our life are fleeting and seasonal.
“In our culture’s current crisis of loneliness, the answer, experts say, isn’t to form more deep and lasting friendships. It’s to stop using the self-checkout at Target. It’s to stop placing a mobile order for your coffee. It’s to look people in the eye and to make purchases in person and to form the societal bonds we’ve almost forgotten out of a desire for convenience.”
Turns out a lot of life is shallow, and maybe that’s ok. I felt this strongly in the days after the 2024 presidential election. I remember feeling buoyant as I walked into UPS. I was kind to others, I made eye contact. Something about that felt necessary and good and temporarily energizing. I admit I’m still a creature of convenience, but maybe there’s more room for superficial relationships too.
