my overdue library book

I’ve been reading snippets of Barbara Kingsolver’s   High Tide in Tucson in between reading entire books that interest me.

Now, this book is overdue and I am reluctant to return it to the library until I’ve finished it.

From the book jacket:  “In sharing her thoughts about the urgent business of being alive, Kingsolver the essayist employs the same keen eyes, persuasive tongue, and understanding heart that characterize her acclaimed fiction.”

Barbara Kingsolver was trained as a biologist before becoming a writer.  And she certainly can write.

When I was twenty-two, I donned the shell of a tiny yellow Renault and drove with all I owned from Kentucky to Tucson.  I was a typical young American, striking out.  I had no earthly notion that I was bringing on myself a calamity of the magnitude of the one that befell poor Buster [you will have to read the book to catch up on ‘poor Buster’].  I am the commonest kind of North American refugee: I believe I like it here, far-flung from my original home.  I’ve come to love the desert that bristles and breathes and sleeps outside my windows.  In the course of seventeen years I’ve embedded myself in a family here–neighbors, colleagues, friends I can’t foresee living without, and a child who is native to this ground, with loves of her own.  I’m here for good it seems.

And yet I never cease to long in my bones for what I left behind.  I open my eyes on every new day expecting that a creek will run through my backyard under broad-leafed maples, and that my mother will be whistling in the kitchen.  Behind the howl of coyotes, I’m listening for meadowlarks.  I sometimes ache to be rocked in the bosom of the blood relations and busybodies of my childhood.  Particularly in my years as a mother without a mate, I have deeply missed the safety net of extended family.

In a city of half a million I still really look at every face, anticipating recognition, because I grew up in a town where every face meant something to me.  I have trouble remembering to lock the doors.  Wariness of strangers I learned the hard way.  When I was new to the city, I let a man into my house one hot afternoon because he seemed in dire need of a drink of water; when I turned from the kitchen sink I found sharpened steel shoved against my belly.  And so I know, I know.  But I cultivate suspicion with as much difficulty as I force tomatoes to grow in the drought-stricken hardpan of my strange backyard.  no creek runs here, but I’m still listening to secret tides, living as if I belonged to an earlier place: not Kentucky, necessarily, but a welcoming earth and a human family.  A forest.  A species.

In my life I’ve had frightening losses and unfathomable gifts: A knife in my stomach.  The death of an unborn child.  Sunrise in a rain forest.  A stupendous column of blue butterflies rising from a Greek monastery.  A car that spontaneously caught fire while I was driving it.  The end of a marriage, followed by a year in which I could barely understand how to keep living.  The discovery, just weeks ago when I rose from my desk and walked into the kitchen, of three strangers industriously relieving my house of its contents.

I persuaded the strangers to put down the things they were holding (what a bizarre tableau of anti-Magi they made, these three unwise men, bearing a camera, an electric guitar, and a Singer sewing machine), and to leave my home, pronto.  My daughter asked excitedly when she got home from school, “Mom, did you say bad words?”  (I told her this was the very occasion that bad words exist for.)  The police said, variously, that I was lucky, foolhardy, and “a brave lady.”  But it’s not good luck to be invaded, and neither foolish nor brave to stand your ground.  It’s only the way life goes, and I did it, just as years ago I fought off the knife; mourned the lost child; bore witness to the rain forest; claimed the blue butterflies as Holy Spirit in my private pantheon; got out of the burning car; survived the divorce by putting one foot in front of the other and taking good care of my child.  On most important occasions, I cannot think how to respond, I simply do.  What does it mean, anyway, to be an animal in human clothing?  We carry around these big brains of ours like the crown jewels, but mostly I find that millions of years of evolution have prepared me for one thing only: to follow internal rhythms.  To walk upright, to protect my loved ones, to cooperate with my family group–however broadly I care to define it–to do whatever will help us thrive.  Obviously, some habits that saw us through the millennia are proving hazardous in a modern context: for example, the yen to consume carbohydrates and fat whenever they cross our path, or the proclivity for unchecked reproduction.  But it’s surely worth forgiving ourselvdes these tendencies a little, in light of the fact that they are what got us here.

Ah – Kingsolver can write.

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About hopeseguin

Who am I? I'm still discovering just who I am, I suppose. A. Powell Davis writes that "Life is just a chance to grow a soul."

Posted on December 5, 2009, in Books and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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