Surprised by the Comfort and Joy of Poetry

Given the season, it would make sense for me to post about an inspirational book that has particular meaning for me this time of year. But I’m going to go in a slightly different direction.

Before I left my health promotion job with the BC Public Service, I wrote a blog that spoke to the different experiences people can have during the holiday season. Losses, loneliness, and other less-than-ideal circumstances can make this a difficult time of year for some (perhaps many). I wasn’t trying to be downer, only offer a reminder that all is not merry and bright for everyone. That awareness can potentially open the door to a thoughtful connection with someone who needs it the most.

Even in ideal circumstances, the holidays can be stressful for various reasons, including too much on our plates, conflict, or unrealistic expectations in various forms. So, I also advocated for taking care of ourselves, which looks different for each of us. It could involve just taking a short walk if you don’t have much time, enjoying a usually “forbidden” treat (in moderation), escaping into a new book, or commemorating someone special you’ve lost.

As I wrapped up the blog, I also shared the last five lines of a favourite Mary Oliver poem: Wild Geese, saying that it never failed to lift me up when I was feeling blue or disconnected, because it reminded me that there is always beauty, hope, and a broader world out there (of which we are all a part).

It surprised me to be sharing a poem, as it was not a genre of writing that ever resonated with me. My father and sister were/are poetry appreciators and writers, but I never really got the point of it.

Then a meditation teacher of mine integrated poetry into our classes and introduced us to the late Mary Oliver’s writing. Her poetry seemed different somehow, or perhaps I’d just had a very narrow conception of what poetry could be.

Through her work, Oliver communicates a reverence for the beauty and wisdom of the natural world; tackles tough topics like death and loss, and speaks plainly about living consciously (“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”). I was (and am) also drawn to the intimate and almost conversational tone of her work, underpinned by gentle rhythms, which always seem to catch my ear—whether poetry or prose. Admittedly, I know nothing about the techniques or structure of poetry; I only know what I like (which is how I consume visual art as well).

If you’re interested in sampling some of Mary Oliver’s poems, there are websites available, as well as compilations like “New and Selected Poems: Volume One.” They are a great place to start.

Now that I’ve dipped my toe into the poetry pond, I am more open to exploring other authors, albeit in baby steps. Recently a friend and I were talking about a mutual appreciation for the poem The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry. That felt like progress to me.

Wishing you a healthy and peaceful holiday season, however that looks to you.

A Sad Southern Story

Full of rich themes, lyrical prose, and the complexity of family

I came across Beach Music (Pat Conroy) shortly after my mother’s death in the early 1990s. Independently, my father also stumbled upon it about the same time. While we were both enthusiastic readers—particularly my father—our tastes were very different. But, for some reason, we both found this book and were enchanted by it.

I suspect its darker themes resonated with us at the time. The main character Jack McCall is a pre-middle-aged father whose wife committed suicide, leaving him to raise his young daughter Leah alone. In the wake of their loss and a painful custody dispute, Jack takes a very young Leah from their southern US home and creates a quiet travel writer’s life in Italy. Despite Leah’s contentment in Europe, she becomes increasingly curious about her father’s (and mother’s) pasts and families, hungry to find her place amongst them. When Jack’s estranged mother falls ill with leukemia, he reluctantly returns to his hometown in South Carolina, first alone, then with his daughter.

In many ways the bones of this story are unremarkable. But woven throughout are layers of themes and sub-plots that add considerable flesh to those bones. Jack’s deceased wife Shyla is the child of Holocaust survivors. Her parents continue to carry the weight of this experience, and Shyla’s severe depression is related. The impact of her suicide pervades particularly the early parts of the book, yet interspersed throughout is also the lighter tale of Jack and Shyla’s courtship, marriage, and early years as parents to Leah.

One of Jack’s four brothers is also mentally ill: a paranoid schizophrenia, in and out of residential treatment. Their father, once a successful lawyer, now very publicly struggles with alcoholism. His ex-wife is Jack’s society-conscious (although also ecologically minded) mother who is re-married to a stable doctor. She suffers two bouts of leukemia throughout the book and ultimately dies from the disease. Then there’s the paternal grandmother, a regular escapee from her nursing home.

Jack’s (mostly male) friends also play significant roles in this story. Conroy’s love of the South shines through in the nostalgia they share for their younger more carefree years. One friend: a successful film producer, starts putting together a project to capture the essence of those heady days. Another friend, central to this group and the son of a buttoned-down military man, is a Vietnam draft dodger living abroad as priest. Like Jack, he is pulled back into the issues and strained relationships he has tried to escape. And, a potential new romance for Jack slowly emerges as the book unfolds, reflecting a rising theme of possibility in the midst of loss, hope in the midst of sorrow.

Although I have read many complex and wonderfully crafted stories, few have created such a lasting impression and kept me coming back for so many subsequent reads. So, what was it about this book that resonated so strongly with my father and I? I can’t speak for my father (sadly) but, for me, three aspects of this story are most powerful.

Its setting in the south is a big draw. My grandmother grew up in the south before moving to Canada, and there’s something about that area that continues to intrigue me. Beyond that, the author’s clear reverence for this region shines through. Even Jack, who tries valiantly to escape his southern roots, is slowly drawn back into its beauty, traditions, and his elemental identity as a southern man. Some might find this aspect too romanticized, but I appreciated the author’s obvious passion for place.

I was also thoroughly captivated by the prose, which has a comforting and melodic flow. This cadence continues throughout, even amidst the darker themes. I love it when a writer’s style catches my ear and reminds me of the beauty of language; Pat Conroy is one of those writers.

And finally, Beach Music reflects the messiness of families: families of origin, blended families, families we create, friends as family—the whole catastrophe. At a time when my family had lost its centre and I saw no acceptable way forward, this story was reassuring in its depiction of families and friends at their most vulnerable. They somehow moved through difficult times, often helped by a long-time affection for one another, as well as a little humour. While some losses stay with us for a lifetime, opportunity and hope can still sit alongside.

Whenever I re-read Beach Music, it’s like coming home to a challenging, multi-layered, life-affirming experience. And, when I immerse myself in the complexities and the imperfections of its families, I’m also reconnected to my own. My father and I were very different readers (and people), so I’m forever grateful we shared a deep appreciation for this sad and hopeful tale.

Fables of the Tse-Shaht People

An early glimpse of Indigenous wisdom

Continuing with books from childhood, I recently re-read “Son of Raven, Son of Deer”: a 1967 collection of indigenous fables by the late Indigenous (Tseshaht First Nation) author and artist George Clutesi.

My grandmother gave me this (autographed) book for my eighth birthday. At the time, I must admit, I was a little bored by it. In his introduction, the author explains that the fables in this book are unlike the more dramatic, flashier, and often scarier European fairy tales many children grow up with. Instead, these tales have fairly low-key plots and feature animals in nature as the main protagonists. The raven is greedy, the deer is clever, and the stories always gently convey a lesson or value as they unfold. This includes how the features of various animals came to be. The illustrations are black and white, in a simple pen and ink style, which, again, as a child felt a little dull.

Yet this book has remained in my collection for over 50 years. And I think it’s because, despite the lack of flash, the stories offered me a glimpse into another culture and ways of being. These ways seemed mysterious, but also very grounded and wise. My eight-year-old self was not drawn to the details of the book, but it left an enduring impression nevertheless.

That said, it’s only been in the last couple of years that I’ve been more keenly drawn to gifts and wisdom of Indigenous cultures, as well as the challenges Indigenous people have endured, and continue to face.

In the book’s introduction, George Clutesi uses the term "Indian" when describing his people and culture. It was a little disconcerting to see this term used repeatedly, given how terminology has evolved over time. After 50 years, accepted terms now feel more respectful and reflective of a status as first peoples. I’m also heartened to see increasing education about Indigenous peoples and cultures by Indigenous educators, authors, ambassadors, artists, etc. George Clutesi feels like a pioneer in this work and I hope the teaching and learning continues.

In the Beginning, Bunnies Were Big

Some of my earliest book memories involved bunnies

The first is Fussbunny: the story of a bunny who doesn’t like anything (mostly food) and, as a result, no one likes him...except his mother. She finally invites other animals over, feeds Fussbunny some of their food, and he discovers he likes it. He is happy the animals now like him, except his mother...she LOVES Fussbunny.

The second was Home for Bunny: a springtime-themed, wonderfully-illustrated story about a bunny searching for a home. He interviews various woodland animals about where they live. After assessing several unsatisfactory options, he finally finds a fellow bunny who invites him into a cozy underground nook, and he is home.

I guess I was like many other kids: cute furry animals are usually a big hit. But I was also drawn to depictions of the comfort and safety of home, and the unconditional love of a parent or caregiver. These themes still resonate strongly with me.

And that is really the crux of my blog: sharing the books that have mattered to me and kept me reading. While I’m tempted to explore these chronologically, I think I’m going to shake it up a bit and introduce books as the spirit moves me. I also hope to enlist some guest bloggers over time to share some of the books that have hooked them.