This is how much I love Pulitzer Prize - winning poet Mary Oliver's slender book, A Thousand Mornings. I checked it out of the local library a couple days ago. I began reading it that night and finished it the next evening. Today, I reread it and plan to read it again before I return it. Meantime, I plan to buy my own copy because I hope to read it many more times, again and again -- each time noticing a word, a name, an emotion I had not previously noticed.
I do not tend to love poetry. Too often, I find it hard to understand or simply do not relate to it. I had not read Oliver until this week. Frankly, I had not heard of her until I read a magazine article in Oprah, the magazine, the one I'm not supposed to mention here lest I offend literary snobs. I don't care. Through her magazine, I learned of a great writer and expanded my own reading enjoyment. And who knows, perhaps Oliver's concise but elegant poetry will lead me to give more poets a chance and to enjoy their work as well.
I cannot recall ever crying over a poem. Yet I did just that when I read Oliver's "For I Will Consider My Dog Percy," an elegy to the small, curly, white-haired pet with whom she is pictured at the end of the book. Oliver advises in a note that the poem is a "derivative of Christopher Smart's poem 'For I Will Consider My Cat Jeoffry."
I also do not remember ever reading a poem about a bird and learning about myself in the process. Yet, again I did so when I read Oliver's "The Mockingbird," in which Oliver speaks of a little "thief of other sounds" who finally settles down and looks around "as though to make sure he's alone; / then he slaps each wing against his breast,/ where his heart is,/ and, copying nothing, begins" the more difficult chore of becoming "his true self." Like the mockingbird, people, I so often put on a show. I smile when I'm sad, I'm polite when I'm angry, I'm quiet when I want to scream. But then, I am alone with my own "true self,/ which of course was as dark and secret/ as anyone else's."
And one last thing: Read Oliver's poetry aloud, not just in silence. It makes a difference.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Monday, November 12, 2012
About That Book Club
I've now belonged to two -- no, actually three -- book clubs, though one of them never met. Some might say, why join a book club when you can read whatever you want when you want. Here's what these groups have meant to me -- how they've helped my reading and me.
In late 2001, I organized a book club at the condominiums where I lived in Northfield outside Chicago. For our first selection, we read Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, the same book that was being promoted at the time for all Chicagoans to read. Over the coming months, I came to know other authors thanks to that small but wonderful group of women. I met Barbara Kingsolver's literature for the first time when we read her first book, The Bean Trees, a novel. I loved it and soon became a Kingsolver fan, though I'm drawn more to her creative non-fiction than to her fiction. My favorite is Animal Vegetable Miracle, but I also particularly enjoy her essay collections. I am now looking forward to her latest novel, Climate Change, a book that reflects this biology major's interest in science as well as her creative talents.
In the late 1990s or early 2000s, a few of the women at The Associated Press in Chicago where I then worked decided to form our own book club. Someone -- I'm not sure who made the decision. -- decreed that we would read Toni Morrison's novel, Paradise. I had loved her book, Song of Solomon, and, as I read it, remembered that my mother had said a copy of it was lying on my aunt Vonda Lee's bedside when she died. But I struggled through Paradise, often confused by the enormous cast of characters and intricate plot. Somewhere along the line, a friend said she had read the book and it would be a good idea to keep a genealogical tree while reading it. How right she was! Morrison is a great writer, but her books are not always easy reads.
I finally finished Paradise only to figure out eventually that our book club for whatever reason -- probably the AP's erratic and varied work schedules -- would never meet. I remember that, upon completion, I felt I had read a truly good story but that I was unclear about some basic facts. I've since read, or rather listened to, Morrison's shorter and less complex The Bluest Eye, and enjoyed it. And now, a decade or more later, I want to re-read Paradise, but this time I'll keep a family tree at hand. I'll read from an old-fashioned hard copy so that I can take notes in the margins. Some books are made to be read once; others need to be read repeatedly to be fully appreciated. Paradise is such a book, at least for me.
In August 2003, I moved to Conway, Arkansas, where I had family but few friends. A couple of years later, I joined a book club at the suggestion of a colleague at the newspaper where I work. And, yes, I've made some wonderful friends. I've also read and enjoyed books that I never would have read otherwise. Among them are In the Garden of Beasts by Erik Larson, Just Kids by Patti Smith, Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout, The History of Love by Nicole Krauss (another one that probably should be read more than once for full effect) and The Cat's Table by MIchael Ondaatje. When I've not liked a book, I've quit reading it. In a few cases, I never even began a club selection -- a decision that provokes no rebuke from our book club. Obviously, the discussions are more meaningful, though, if you've read the book.
I am not an official, or even unofficial, Oprah Book Club member, though I enjoy perusing her website's reading suggestions. And I count Bernhard Schlink's The Reader, an Oprah selection several years ago, as among my favorite books. Likewise, I check Nina Sankovitch's popular blog, readallday.org, occasionally for reading suggestions and was an early buyer of her book, Tolstoy and the Purple Chair, the story of her year of reading and critiquing a book a day.
No, a book club isn't for everyone. But for me, it's a connection, not only to other people, but to good reading suggestions and book discussions. And when there are so many great books to be read, it helps me know which one to pick up next.
In late 2001, I organized a book club at the condominiums where I lived in Northfield outside Chicago. For our first selection, we read Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, the same book that was being promoted at the time for all Chicagoans to read. Over the coming months, I came to know other authors thanks to that small but wonderful group of women. I met Barbara Kingsolver's literature for the first time when we read her first book, The Bean Trees, a novel. I loved it and soon became a Kingsolver fan, though I'm drawn more to her creative non-fiction than to her fiction. My favorite is Animal Vegetable Miracle, but I also particularly enjoy her essay collections. I am now looking forward to her latest novel, Climate Change, a book that reflects this biology major's interest in science as well as her creative talents.
In the late 1990s or early 2000s, a few of the women at The Associated Press in Chicago where I then worked decided to form our own book club. Someone -- I'm not sure who made the decision. -- decreed that we would read Toni Morrison's novel, Paradise. I had loved her book, Song of Solomon, and, as I read it, remembered that my mother had said a copy of it was lying on my aunt Vonda Lee's bedside when she died. But I struggled through Paradise, often confused by the enormous cast of characters and intricate plot. Somewhere along the line, a friend said she had read the book and it would be a good idea to keep a genealogical tree while reading it. How right she was! Morrison is a great writer, but her books are not always easy reads.
I finally finished Paradise only to figure out eventually that our book club for whatever reason -- probably the AP's erratic and varied work schedules -- would never meet. I remember that, upon completion, I felt I had read a truly good story but that I was unclear about some basic facts. I've since read, or rather listened to, Morrison's shorter and less complex The Bluest Eye, and enjoyed it. And now, a decade or more later, I want to re-read Paradise, but this time I'll keep a family tree at hand. I'll read from an old-fashioned hard copy so that I can take notes in the margins. Some books are made to be read once; others need to be read repeatedly to be fully appreciated. Paradise is such a book, at least for me.
In August 2003, I moved to Conway, Arkansas, where I had family but few friends. A couple of years later, I joined a book club at the suggestion of a colleague at the newspaper where I work. And, yes, I've made some wonderful friends. I've also read and enjoyed books that I never would have read otherwise. Among them are In the Garden of Beasts by Erik Larson, Just Kids by Patti Smith, Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout, The History of Love by Nicole Krauss (another one that probably should be read more than once for full effect) and The Cat's Table by MIchael Ondaatje. When I've not liked a book, I've quit reading it. In a few cases, I never even began a club selection -- a decision that provokes no rebuke from our book club. Obviously, the discussions are more meaningful, though, if you've read the book.
I am not an official, or even unofficial, Oprah Book Club member, though I enjoy perusing her website's reading suggestions. And I count Bernhard Schlink's The Reader, an Oprah selection several years ago, as among my favorite books. Likewise, I check Nina Sankovitch's popular blog, readallday.org, occasionally for reading suggestions and was an early buyer of her book, Tolstoy and the Purple Chair, the story of her year of reading and critiquing a book a day.
No, a book club isn't for everyone. But for me, it's a connection, not only to other people, but to good reading suggestions and book discussions. And when there are so many great books to be read, it helps me know which one to pick up next.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry and Breakfast With Buddha
So, you're ready for a vacation but can't afford one. Then, take a road trip with Buddha, Harold Fry or any number of literary figures.
I just read two very different road-trip novels, as I was taking a not-so-joyous journey of my own.
Breakfast with Buddha by Roland Merullo tells the story of one Otto Ringling, an upper middle-class man with a typical family, a typical lifestyle and a typical religion -- a believer of sorts but not much of a practitioner in other words.
Ringling, an ordinary New York suburbanite, is planning a cross-country trip to Oregon to close the estate of his parents, recently killed in a car wreck. He goes to pick up his
New Age sister, the one who reads tarot cards and has her own guru, a long-robed
fellow named Volya Rinpoche. To Otto's dismay, the sister says she's staying
at home and sending Rinpoche in her place. That's Rinpoche, the one who smiles
a lot, ponders life even more and preaches moderation in all things, even in driving and eating.
So, while Otto the gourmet orders a splendid meal, Rinpoche settles for a poached egg and a slice of bread. When Otto takes the expressway, Rinpoche suggests the slower, more scenic back roads. Along the way, Otto learns to listen and Rinpoche -- well, he learns to bowl. It's
a good book packed with plenty of laughter and some serious notes as well.
It could pass for non-fiction, but it's not.
Another road-trip book -- albeit this time the story of a foot journey --
is The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry. Rachel Joyce's novel tells the
story of Fry, a recent retiree whose rather boring, unemotional life begins to change
when he gets a letter from an old friend named Queenie. She's dying and
just wanted to tell say thank you to him and good-bye.
Harold, in typical form, writes a brief, unemotional letter in return and starts walking to
the post office to mail it. Along the way and without any sensible plan or even proper walking shoes, he decides to walk the roughly 600 miles to Queenie's hospital room in the
hope that she will cling to life until he gets there.
During his journey, Harold meets a varied cast of characters, all with their own stories
and idiosyncrasies. Harold also has time to think -- a lot -- and starts to
see his life and the lives of his wife and son in a more objective yet also more emotional way.
I read these books shortly before I was about to embark on my own road trip, though I never left town. I was already grappling with issues, problems -- aka life in general -- when I became sick one day and collapsed onto a tile floor at home. I irreparably damaged all of my upper teeth. Days later, I got a call from my mother at about 2:30 a.m. My father was sick, and she needed help. My daughter and I rushed over there to discover that his heartbeat was plummeting. I called 911, and he was rushed to the hospital. Days later, he had a Pacemaker implanted, quietly observed his 85th birthday in a hospital bed and then celebrated President Obama's re-election in style -- at home in front of a television.
My road trip was a short one, from my house to my parents' home across town and then to the hospital and finally back to my place. Along the way, I learned to quit taking family and friends for granted. Teeth can be replaced. Bills will still be there -- invariably. But the people we love are with us only for a season. Do as Rinpoche suggested: Slow down, take the back roads and be with your families. You deserve that time as much as they do.
I just read two very different road-trip novels, as I was taking a not-so-joyous journey of my own.
Breakfast with Buddha by Roland Merullo tells the story of one Otto Ringling, an upper middle-class man with a typical family, a typical lifestyle and a typical religion -- a believer of sorts but not much of a practitioner in other words.
Ringling, an ordinary New York suburbanite, is planning a cross-country trip to Oregon to close the estate of his parents, recently killed in a car wreck. He goes to pick up his
New Age sister, the one who reads tarot cards and has her own guru, a long-robed
fellow named Volya Rinpoche. To Otto's dismay, the sister says she's staying
at home and sending Rinpoche in her place. That's Rinpoche, the one who smiles
a lot, ponders life even more and preaches moderation in all things, even in driving and eating.
So, while Otto the gourmet orders a splendid meal, Rinpoche settles for a poached egg and a slice of bread. When Otto takes the expressway, Rinpoche suggests the slower, more scenic back roads. Along the way, Otto learns to listen and Rinpoche -- well, he learns to bowl. It's
a good book packed with plenty of laughter and some serious notes as well.
It could pass for non-fiction, but it's not.
Another road-trip book -- albeit this time the story of a foot journey --
is The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry. Rachel Joyce's novel tells the
story of Fry, a recent retiree whose rather boring, unemotional life begins to change
when he gets a letter from an old friend named Queenie. She's dying and
just wanted to tell say thank you to him and good-bye.
Harold, in typical form, writes a brief, unemotional letter in return and starts walking to
the post office to mail it. Along the way and without any sensible plan or even proper walking shoes, he decides to walk the roughly 600 miles to Queenie's hospital room in the
hope that she will cling to life until he gets there.
During his journey, Harold meets a varied cast of characters, all with their own stories
and idiosyncrasies. Harold also has time to think -- a lot -- and starts to
see his life and the lives of his wife and son in a more objective yet also more emotional way.
I read these books shortly before I was about to embark on my own road trip, though I never left town. I was already grappling with issues, problems -- aka life in general -- when I became sick one day and collapsed onto a tile floor at home. I irreparably damaged all of my upper teeth. Days later, I got a call from my mother at about 2:30 a.m. My father was sick, and she needed help. My daughter and I rushed over there to discover that his heartbeat was plummeting. I called 911, and he was rushed to the hospital. Days later, he had a Pacemaker implanted, quietly observed his 85th birthday in a hospital bed and then celebrated President Obama's re-election in style -- at home in front of a television.
My road trip was a short one, from my house to my parents' home across town and then to the hospital and finally back to my place. Along the way, I learned to quit taking family and friends for granted. Teeth can be replaced. Bills will still be there -- invariably. But the people we love are with us only for a season. Do as Rinpoche suggested: Slow down, take the back roads and be with your families. You deserve that time as much as they do.
Still Alice by Lisa Genova
Alice is a Harvard professor, a mother of two adult children and the wife of a fellow professor with whom she's co-written a scholarly book. She walks to her office, runs to stay in shape and, as an over-achiever, isn't any too keen on her daughter's plan to put art ahead of a college degree. Alice is 50 years old when she learns that she has early onset Alzheimer's -- a diagnosis her husband has more trouble accepting than she.
Lisa Genova's all-too-realistic novel addresses the stigma that society unjustly puts on early Alzheimer's patients whose symptoms appear gradually and who, therefore, are at first as lucid and aware of their surroundings as anyone most of the time. We've heard of support groups for these patients' families. But how many Alzheimer's patients have their own support networks of people to help them? Alice finds none and, to her credit, starts such a group.
Much as someone given a year to live treasures every day, every moment more than ever, so does Alice. She hopes to keep her mind functioning well enough and long enough that she can hold her first grandchild and still understand who the infant is. She wants to see the doctoral student she's been mentoring get his degree. And all those books -- there are so many she wants to read.
Genova, a neuroscientist, also deals with another less openly discussed facet of the illness. Alice at one point makes careful, detailed plans to kill herself when she realizes she has reached a certain point in her illness. I won't divulge what happens, but Genova tells the reader in an afterword that suicide is a common thought among people suffering early onset Alzheimer's.
The novel leaves some questions unanswered: Did Alice's husband know of the suicide plan? There's at least a hint that he did, but that's all it is -- a hint. And if he did, did he try to prevent it? What did he mean when he told his children he knew something they didn't to justify his move to New York? Was it the suicide plan? Was it just an excuse to leave? Or was it something else, something unspoken?
I learned much from this book, not only about the disease's symptoms and effects but also about the ways the rest of us confront -- or avoid -- the illness when it strikes someone we know or love. Genova, a neuroscientist who has written two other books, researched her subject so thoroughly and wrote about it so elegantly that Alice's story could be true. And sadly, it is.
Lisa Genova's all-too-realistic novel addresses the stigma that society unjustly puts on early Alzheimer's patients whose symptoms appear gradually and who, therefore, are at first as lucid and aware of their surroundings as anyone most of the time. We've heard of support groups for these patients' families. But how many Alzheimer's patients have their own support networks of people to help them? Alice finds none and, to her credit, starts such a group.
Much as someone given a year to live treasures every day, every moment more than ever, so does Alice. She hopes to keep her mind functioning well enough and long enough that she can hold her first grandchild and still understand who the infant is. She wants to see the doctoral student she's been mentoring get his degree. And all those books -- there are so many she wants to read.
Genova, a neuroscientist, also deals with another less openly discussed facet of the illness. Alice at one point makes careful, detailed plans to kill herself when she realizes she has reached a certain point in her illness. I won't divulge what happens, but Genova tells the reader in an afterword that suicide is a common thought among people suffering early onset Alzheimer's.
The novel leaves some questions unanswered: Did Alice's husband know of the suicide plan? There's at least a hint that he did, but that's all it is -- a hint. And if he did, did he try to prevent it? What did he mean when he told his children he knew something they didn't to justify his move to New York? Was it the suicide plan? Was it just an excuse to leave? Or was it something else, something unspoken?
I learned much from this book, not only about the disease's symptoms and effects but also about the ways the rest of us confront -- or avoid -- the illness when it strikes someone we know or love. Genova, a neuroscientist who has written two other books, researched her subject so thoroughly and wrote about it so elegantly that Alice's story could be true. And sadly, it is.
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