Your Brain on Nature

Man is an outdoor animal. He toils at desks and talks of ledgers and parlors and art galleries but the endurance that brought him these was developed by rude ancestors, whose claim to kinship he would scorn and whose vitality he has inherited and squandered. He is what he is by reason of countless ages of direct contact with nature.

--James H. McBride, MD, Journal of the American Medical Association, 1902  

Right now, in later spring, nature seems at its finest. The foliage is lush and green, the birds wake us up at an early dawn, and there’s colour everywhere.

Now that I’m retired, I have more time to appreciate this gift. Yet even when I had (or made) less time to enjoy nature, I intuitively knew that it was important to my well-being. That’s probably why I picked up Your Brain on Nature: The Science of Nature’s Influence on Your Health, Happiness, and Vitality (2012) over ten years ago, and it essentially reinforced what I strongly suspected to be true.

A key strength of this book is the evidence it puts forward about the benefits of nature exposure to human health, particularly brain health. Such evidence has increased in the years since publication but, at the time, this book was invaluable in bringing together foundational research on this topic.

Healers within various medical systems, from Ayurveda to traditional Chinese medicine, have long advocated nature exposure as a form of medicine. As humans made a transition from rural life to urban civilizations, even greater emphasis was placed on the medicinal effects of nature. In the late 1800s, the notion of unspoilt nature as a mental healer gained popularity in North America. Medical doctors began to prescribe nature exposure to reduce stress and improve mental outlook. At that time, this practice was not based on evidence; “it was a return to the intuitive recommendations of the ancient healers.”

Unfortunately, that trend was not sustained. A variety of changes served to end a focus on nature’s therapeutic powers for many decades, including a demand for scientific validation of health claims (and fair enough). Another powerful force was the emergence of pharmaceutical solutions to life’s stresses and strains.

The book outlines many research studies, which use a variety of research methods including brain scanning/functional MRI, biological measures, questionnaires, and performance testing. While there are too many findings to summarize in one blog post, I thought I would share a few findings that caught my eye:

• Hospitalized gall bladder surgery patients with a view of green space had: shorter hospital stays, fewer post-surgical complaints, and used less potent pain medications that those who looked out onto a brick wall;
• In various controlled international studies, greater proximity to greenspace was associated with lower mortality, including dying from stroke, and protection against certain cancers;
• Just a 20-minute walk in an urban park (as opposed to walking in areas with mostly buildings) resulted in children with ADD having much higher cognitive performance on post-walk attention-related tasks. The improvement in cognitive function matched that reported for two top-selling ADHD medications;
• Placing plants within a hospital radiology department decreased sick leave by 60%; and,
• Not surprisingly, there is a positive relationship between persons identifying with/feeling connected to nature and pro-environmental attitudes and efforts.

Another theme running through this book is the potential negative health impacts of technology on physical health, mental health, and cognitive health. The authors: both doctors (one a medical doctor, the other a naturopathic doctor), are quick to point out that they are not anti-technology. But they do present evidence of an association between time spent on screen-based gadgets and the prevalence of negative brain impacts such as increased stress, depression, anxiety, impulsivity; diminished cognitive edge; attention fatigue, and decreased empathy.

With a significant rise in screen culture has come a decrease in nature-based recreation. Researchers suggest that the easy availability of fast-moving, screen-based stimulation and hyperreality may reduce the excitement factor of nature. As well, and obviously, the many hours spent in front of a screen means less hours available to spend in nature. In 1988, in the United States, national park visits “started on their current downward trend.”

Again, there is so much information in this book that it’s hard to do it justice in this post. The book also touches on: specific elements of nature that act on the brain, green exercise, the benefits of gardening, nature therapies, the brain on nature’s nutrients (nutri-ecopsychology), even companion animals as a bridge to the natural world. Despite being published over a decade ago, all the issues it explores—particularly the role of screen-based technology in our lives—have only become more relevant in the intervening years.

Re-reading this book was a needed reminder of the clear health and brain benefits of engaging with nature. As the research demonstrates, a little can go a long way: a 20-minute walk in green space, a plant in the office or living room. And, while smartphones or tablets are not the villain, screen time comes with a price. So it's time to shut down this laptop and hop over to the park for a little forest bathing. 

  

The Outsiders: Nothing Gold Can Stay

In Grade Eight, my homeroom/English teacher was a pale, severe-looking, middle-aged man we secretly called The Reverend. Rumour had it he was—or had been—a minister, and he read us a daily bible passage. In a secular school today, this would be unheard of, but in 1974 it was just a little unusual.

I can’t remember how it began, but, at some point, The Reverend offered to read to us. I can imagine we were sceptical, but we were surprised by, and quickly drawn into, The Outsiders.

The book was published in 1967 by S.E. Hinton: a teenager when she wrote it. It’s about two weeks in the life of an Oklahoma teen: Ponyboy Curtis. He and his older brother SodaPop live with their oldest brother Darry, who recently became their guardian (at 20) after their parents died in a car crash. The boys are “greasers”: young men who live on the poor (aka wrong) side of town. The Curtis brothers hang around with four other key characters, who range from timid to dangerous, as well as a larger greaser “gang.” The greasers' rivals are a gang of rich kids called the Socs.

In the first two nights of the story, there are conflicts between the two groups. On the second night, Ponyboy and two other gang members go to a drive-in movie. There they meet two girlfriends of Socs, who left their boyfriends because they were drunk. After the movie, the greasers offer to walk the girls home, but the girls' boyfriends reappear and threaten to fight the greasers; the fight is averted.

 

But later in the evening, and after a physical argument with his brother Darry, Ponyboy and his timid friend Johnny are in the park cooling off, when the Soc boyfriends appear with reinforcements. The Socs grab Ponyboy and hold his head under a fountain. Fearing Ponyboy is drowning, Johnny panics, pulls his switchblade, and kills one of the Socs.

 

Ponyboy and Johnny get help to run away, and pass the time in an abandoned, rural church, changing their appearance to blend in. One of their gang visits and lets them know one of the girlfriends will testify that she's sure the killing was in self-defence. Just as Johnny decides to turn himself in, they return to the church and find it on fire with school children trapped inside. Ponyboy and Johnny rescue the kids and Johnny is severely injured in the process.

 

The boys are now celebrated as heroes, and Ponyboy is reunited with his brothers. But Johnny dies of his injuries, which sets off more fighting between the two gangs. As well, one of the greasers, overcome by grief, robs a grocery store and is ultimately gunned down by police. The senseless violence traumatizes Ponyboy, but also motivates him to write a book that speaks to other outsiders.

As I summarize the plot--after reading the book again recently--it now seems quite dated and lacks the wow factor it had in 1974. As well, the writing isn’t stellar and the vulnerable emotions expressed by some of the characters seem over-the-top and incongruent with how they were generally portrayed. I remember noting this latter point when first reading the book, but it seemed less of a problem and more of a curiosity at the time.

Yet, despite its flaws, when my class began listening to the story, we would beg our teacher for one more chapter; even the students too cool for books wanted to hear more. No doubt the book's quick jump into action was a draw, as was the male-centric storyline for the reluctant male readers in our class. The author also did a good job of quickly describing the unique characters; their edginess and quasi-dangerous, unfamiliar world offered additional appeal.

The theme of being an outsider (whatever that may look like) typically resonates with teen readers, and we were no different. And the complicated, imperfect dynamics of the Curtis family, as well as Johnny’s family, broadened my conception of families and family life. In several respects, the book was eye-opening to those of us living fairly sheltered lives in 1970s Oak Bay. Even the characters’ emotions, which sometimes seemed unrealistic in the story’s context, suggested that the external image or reputation a person cultivates may not tell the whole story of who they are, or what they are contending with internally or behind closed doors. This message remains relevant today.

Sadly though, The Outsiders overall is sure to be less relevant to 2023 teens. With so many diverse, contemporary reading options available now, a story about a small-town gang set in the 1960s is unlikely to capture youth attention on a broad scale. And, reflecting the Robert Frost poem “Nothing Gold Can Stay,” which Ponyboy recites when they’re on the run, this book, which had its heyday fifty years ago, has arguably lost its lustre.

 

An Unlikely Celebrity Memoir Choice

Please don’t think I’ve gone soft in the head with my next book selection. I can’t remember how a memoir by Brooke Shields even crossed my path, or what possessed me to pick it up. Given the hit and miss quality of celebrity memoirs, I suspect I wasn't particularly hopeful about this one. 

It may have been the topic: post-partum depression that ultimately drew me in. I’d first heard about the condition through my undergraduate psychology degree and other references, but I'd never read an in-depth, first-hand account of the experience. So, I was curious.

Down Came the Rain begins with Shields learning her pregnancy is no longer viable after many fertility challenges and interventions, including in vitro fertilization. The pregnancy had followed a fairy-tale courtship and marriage to Chris Henchy: a comedy writer. After the miscarriage and subsequent failed fertility procedures, they were just about to take a break from trying when an in vitro attempt finally took.

Shields delighted in her pregnancy, which was uneventful. But the birth involved an unplanned C-section after more than 24 hours of unproductive labour, and then a serious post-delivery haemorrhage that took time to resolve. Their daughter Rowan Francis Henchy was born healthy overall, although had several temporary health challenges, including jaundice, and unstable hip joints.

The most significant challenges happened post-partum. Trying to recover from the trauma of childbirth, as well as deal in the background with the death of her father just three weeks earlier, Shields felt used up. Over her five days in the hospital, she described herself as being “in a bizarre state of mind…with feelings that ranged from embarrassment to stoicism to melancholy to shock.” She lacked joy and a connection with her daughter, which she initially put down to just being tired and needing to recover physically.

But Shields' fatigue, emotional distress, and disconnection from Rowan only increased, and seemed more severe than the so-called baby blues. Her lack of understanding about what was going on only served to fuel her negative thinking, lack of engagement, and hopelessness. Eventually she was given medication that seemed to help, but that improvement then prompted her to discontinue medication cold turkey. This led to a quick decline, where she experienced overwhelming suicidal thoughts while driving with her daughter.

The rest of the book recounts her gradual improvement after this crisis, with the help of medication, therapy, and other supports. She grappled with some of the usual challenges of motherhood: lack of sleep, division of labour in the home, family dynamics, and later integrating work back into the mix. And, she also had to learn to distinguish between the normal worries of a new parent, and her reactions that might signal the need for more therapeutic work.

So, what is it about this celebrity memoir that makes it a keeper for me?

As I reflect on the many memoirs I've read (celebrity or otherwise), I'm generally drawn in by one or more of these factors: my interest in the author's life, the art of the writing, the skill of the storytelling, and/or the topic or themes of the memoir. See my post on Drinking: A Love Story for a memoir that hits all these elements.

In re-reading Down Came the Rain recently, I was not as pleasantly surprised by the writing as I had been originally. It wasn’t bad, but it could have benefited from further editing. And that’s not where its strength really lies. When this book was published in 2005, there were very few personal stories of post-partum depression, and none I can remember by a celebrity. Even more taboo, the book described a mother severely compromised by mental illness: a mother who was not extolling the joys of motherhood—in fact, quite the opposite. 

The author's stream-of-consciousness narrative, as she's mired deep in her depression, is difficult to read at times. The self-loathing and struggle to reconcile a despondent state of mind with the objective reality of her seemingly fortunate circumstances (a loving spouse, a longed-for healthy child, financial resources and security, a rich network of supportive family and friends) is raw and a stretch to grasp for those who haven't stood in her shoes. She dares greatly in this regard, and readers who stick with her get a gritty glimpse into the disordered, distorted thinking that makes severe post-partum depression—and clinical depression more generally—so debilitating and often misunderstood.

Like many celebrity memoirs, this one offers some manner of resolution and a dose of hope in the end. But, unlike some others, it does not come across as self-promotion or an image restoration strategy; in fact, at the time, it risked just the opposite. And Tom Cruise did not disappoint. His Scientologist-tainted public rants on the evils of psychiatric drugs in response to Shields' memoir seemed everywhere for a while, In the end though, it was Tom who needed the image restoration.

Although this memoir will not be everyone’s cup of tea for various reasons, and celebrity memoirs in general can engender some eye-rolling, I encourage you to explore the genre. As mentioned before, some memoirs are engrossing simply by virtue of the author’s life (for example, the late David Crosby’s Long Time Gone is a wild ride!). Others use the platform and their high-visibility influence to shine a light on a stigmatized, in-the shadows topic that lacks a voice. Putting forward that voice can be a gamble, and that’s why Down Came the Rain made my bookshelf.

The Accidental Tourist

It’s a new year, and for the first blog of 2023 I’ve chosen a book that insightfully portrays the sometimes unexpected process of recovery and hope: Anne Tyler’s 1985 classic The Accidental Tourist.

The central character, Macon Leary, is an early middle-aged man who could be described as sleep-walking through life. About a year earlier, his pre-teen son Ethan was shot dead as a bystander in a fast-food restaurant robbery. Grief has only exacerbated Macon and wife Sarah’s pre-existing marital issues, which becomes clear as she asks for a divorce early in the book.

Post-separation, he stays in their marital home, mired in low-level depression, and expending minimal effort to get through the day. Then he breaks his leg, and moves back into his old family home along with his late son’s marginally trained Welsh corgi Edward. There he is looked after by his younger sister Rose, a spinsterish, motherly woman whose self-appointed job is to keep house for her two older brothers who also live there, as well as to help various elderly neighbours. Macon writes guidebooks for reluctant business travellers, and continues to work from home while recovering. As the weeks slip by, he is slowly and willingly drawn (back) into the cautious, controlled home-life of his siblings.

But the outside world intrudes. Macon’s single, sporty editor tracks him down; Julian hadn’t known about his broken leg, separation, or eccentric, cloistered family, and is curious to learn more about this very private man. Muriel Pritchett: a dog trainer Macon employs when Edward’s misbehaving escalates, is also interested in learning more about him.

On the surface Muriel and Macon seem like a unlikely pair. She’s a much younger, financially insecure, often chaotic, and embarrassingly unrefined single parent, who regularly disrupts Macon’s orderly world and buttoned-down demeanour. Yet, as he spends time with her and her allergy-prone young son, he is unexpectedly nudged out of his emotional cocoon. When Sarah comes looking for another chance, and Macon’s family continues to disapprove of Muriel, Macon must choose between the safety and comfort of the known, or a more open, courageous life—and version of himself—he’s discovered through Muriel.

And, in a parallel story of opposites attracting, playboy-like Julian becomes besotted with prim, sheltered Rose. Despite resistance from her family, they marry, but Rose is soon pulled back into the familiar routine of her caregiver role and “the Leary groove.” To find out how it ends, you’ll have to read the book.

So, what is it about this novel that made an impression? As is often the case, it starts with the writing. Tyler’s descriptive language is highly effective in creating mood: the greyness and immobility of early grief, the constrained tone in the Leary home, the painful endings of a marriage. Many other details also made the story come alive. Just a few include: the moment-by-moment struggles of training a leashed dog on crutches, the smell of Macon’s estranged mother as she brushes past him at Rose’s wedding (“she smelled of bruised gardenias”), and the rain disappearing before it hits the ground on Macon’s work trip to Winnipeg.

That descriptive skill also helped me connect more deeply with the characters. This includes details of external attributes, like Muriel’s free-spirited, “vintage” wardrobe and Rose’s prim, old-before-her-time lifestyle. But Tyler also offers us glimpses into the characters’ inner worlds through her acute eye on (often subtle) behaviour. As well, characters are realistically well-rounded: not wholly good or bad. Macon Leary, for example, is a sympathetic character as he mourns the loss of his son, marriage, and usual mobility, yet the reader also learns of a man who can be frustratingly remote, selfish, ordered, and pedantic.

Several of these well-rounded characters are presented in the context of their past. The Leary brothers and sister were abandoned fairly early by their parents and raised by stern, conservative grandparents. Muriel’s relationship with her critical mother and her husband’s departure soon after her premature son was born, gives us insight into the underpinnings of her neediness, but also of her generosity and empathy.

This was also one of the first books I read that insightfully portrayed the complexities of parental grief: the guilt, the sometimes-illogical blame game, and the different ways individuals grieve, even whilst facing a common loss. Tyler also explores the psychology of taking life and relationship risks, sometimes pretty unexpected ones. Moving forward and embracing something new often means saying goodbye to a past that is also valued. This is not easy stuff, and the author handles such conflict with great truth and care.

And, while I rarely say this, I would highly recommend the movie version of this book as well. The novel's dialogue is well-reflected in the movie, and, dare I say, the excellent casting, acting, and cinematography even elevate the book in some respects. Whether via the book and or the movie, I encourage you to delve deep into this sometimes sombre but ultimately hopeful story. 

You're a Classic (and a Mean One), Mr. Grinch

On the face of it, How the Grinch Stole Christmas and its spiky protagonist, the Grinch, seem to lack the gentle, sweet-natured tone of many Christmas classics. Yet, this 1957 tale by Theodor “Dr. Suess” Geisel has unexpected charms of its own that have stood the test of time. It’s even inspired several movies that are also holiday staples. 

For the rare few who don’t know the tale, the Grinch is a cranky, odd-looking creature who hates Christmas for some unknown reason (several theories include his too-tight shoes or a too-small heart). He lives just north of a land called Who-ville, which is inhabited by Whos: happy, quirky-looking, Christmas-loving folk of all shapes and sizes.

After many years of suffering through the annual festivities, the Grinch is in no mood for the noise and merriment of Christmas again this year, so he comes up with “a wonderful awful idea” to stop Christmas from coming to Who-ville. He disguises himself as Santa Claus and deputizes his little dog Max as his reindeer. While the Whos sleep, the Grinch invades their homes and loads his sleigh with their stocking stuffers, toys, decorations, and festive food (everything from Who-hash to roast beast).

However, as he tries to stuff a Christmas tree up the chimney, he’s interrupted by a toddler named Cindy-Lou Who, who wants to know why “Santa” is taking their tree. The crafty Grinch tells a smooth story about taking the tree for repairs at his workshop. He then snatches the tree (and the log for their fire) and makes his escape. He repeats this thievery throughout Who-ville.

When finished, he escapes high atop Mt. Crumpet, where he plans to dump the contents of his sleigh. The Grinch waits expectantly to hear Who cries of dismay and sadness as they discover the loss of their Christmas finery. But instead, every Who down in Who-ville is singing. The Grinch hadn’t stopped Christmas from coming; it came just the same. After his initial confusion, he realizes that Christmas must be about much more than the material trappings. And “in Who-ville they say…the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day.” Propelled by his renewed heart, the Grinch brings back the toys and food for the feast—he himself even carved the roast beast.

There are so many things I like about this Christmas classic. I am not always a huge fan of rhyming, but the author uses rhymed verse artfully to draw in and engage the reader, particularly young readers. He also captures the excitement and hope of the season, as the Whos get busy with all kinds of Christmas prep. It reminds me of the thrill and magic of the Christmas build-up when I was young, when the only thing I had to worry about was getting to sleep on Christmas Eve. Perhaps that's why Cindy Lou Who, with her wide-eyed innocence, remains such a beloved character.

The book’s drawings—done by the author—are spare and unique, as are its quirky characters. Although the book was first published in 1957, it never feels outdated, perhaps because we are perpetually able to imagine the Whos and Who-ville in an alternate sphere untouched by time and modern concerns. Sixty-five years ago, I doubt Dr. Suess could have envisioned the commercial madness of Black Fridays and Cyber Mondays, yet his story’s message is more relevant today than ever.

That said, this story is arguably a bit dated in that it focuses exclusively on Christmas. With the current emphasis on acknowledging and honouring a range of other traditions this time of year, who knows how Dr. Suess might have framed this tale if written today. Or, he may have unapologetically held tight to a Who-ville Christmas.

Now about that Grinch—I have a big soft spot for him. Granted, I am always a sucker for a bad boy who grows up a bit in the end, but it’s more than that. As an adult, life can get hard and it’s easy to don a cynical armour and lose the magic of the season amidst stressors, losses, and an out-of-control holiday "to do" list. And, like Charles Dicken’s Scrooge, the Grinch may have a backstory of loss that contributed his seemingly small heart and self-imposed isolation. Whatever the case, the good news is that all is not lost: the Grinch shows us that change is possible, and such change often happens through the inspiration of others.

As an endnote, I’ll add that I’m also a big fan of the 1966 animated version of this book. It did a wonderful job of bringing How the Grinch Stole Christmas to life, with the voice of Boris Karloff, complementary music, and animation that honoured the original illustrations but added a little something extra as well. 

Anne of Green Gables: Scope for the Imagination

This post choice feels a little predictable, but there’s no way around it. Anne of Green Gables, by Lucy Maud Montgomery, made a definite impression on me in my tween and teen years.

I can’t remember exactly how I first discovered this book. It might have been through my maternal grandmother, who also had other books in the “Anne” series. This grandmother was not as entertaining as our other grandmother, but she had lots of interesting books; a woods and wishing well as part of her property, and told us tales of woodland fairies and other creatures. It was all scope for the imagination.

For the uninitiated, Anne of Green Gables is about a skinny red-haired orphan named Anne Shirley who arrives at a modest farm (Green Gables) in rural Prince Edward Island in the 1870s/80s. That farm is home to an older woman (Marilla) and her brother (Matthew), neither of whom have married or have experience of children. They’d originally requested an orphan boy, in part to help on the farm, but Anne quickly captures the affections of the very shy Matthew. For this reason, as well as to save Anne from a subsequent placement with a large family needing a live-in babysitter, Marilla reluctantly agrees to take Anne on a trial.

The early part of the book is full of unfortunate scrapes Anne gets into, including an angry outburst with an outspoken pillar of the community and then a popular boy in school. She also accidently dyes her hair green in an attempt to transform the red; is on the cusp of serving a mouse-tainted dessert sauce; mistakenly gets her best friend drunk, and falls off a rooftop: the result of a dare. Amidst all this, Anne’s frequent flights of imagination, constant chatter, and focus on clothing and appearance are vexing yet gradually endearing. Despite the trouble she is often in, her intentions are most often good, and she ultimately finds a permanent adoptive home at Green Gables..

As relationships with the key people in her life: Marilla, Matthew, and best friend Diana grow more secure, Anne’s mishaps quiet down and she begins to blossom both academically and socially. As well, she eventually lets go of a long-standing grudge against that popular boy in school. There's even a hint of pending romance as the book ends.

The great thing about revisiting books that have meant a lot to me is I get to read them again and reflect on how a book impacted my younger self. I also have the opportunity to read the book with fresh eyes, enjoying it through a lens of intervening life experience and matured values.

Years ago, several aspects of Anne of Green Gables stood out for me. One was its highly descriptive language. As Anne travels for the first time to Green Gables, I felt right there with her, absorbing every aspect of the experience and eager to continue the journey. I was also a little in awe of her spunkiness. She wanted to be accepted, but also spoke out if threatened. As a young person still living in an era of "children are seen and not heard," I was in awe and delighted. Anne’s intense and enduring friendship with Diana was another draw, as was the fact that the story was set in Canada: a rarity in my junior book collection.

Reading this book again today, I appreciate some of the same things, including the highly descriptive prose, particularly as it applies to the beauty and natural world of rural PEI. In my present-day crankiness though, I was less enthralled with Anne’s incessant chatter, non-stop energy, and easy distraction. I couldn’t help thinking that in today’s world Marilla and Matthew might be urged to seek out an assessment. Yet, ultimately, her high energy and imaginative thinking didn’t seem to set her back, except for some scolding from Marilla.

As well, while I can understand the source of orphan Anne’s neediness and quest for reassurance, it sometimes felt like a lot, particularly in her initial meetings with Diana. Perhaps that’s a sign of changed times—today we may be less willing to be openly vulnerable—or perhaps I am just cranky. That said, I now appreciate, much more than before, the important role of a secure home and loving but firm guidance on the positive emotional growth of a child. Not every loving adoptive home ends up raising an academically excellent, responsible, socially poised Anne Shirley, but there’s a lot to be said for the power of love, acceptance, constancy, and few enforced house rules.

While the story is dated in many respects, the end of the book reflects an ageless dilemma: pursue ambition or put family first.  When Matthew dies and family finances are strained, Anne makes the difficult decision to decline a university degree scholarship and become a local teacher to support an aging Marilla at Green Gables. It's a test of character that remains instructive for readers of all ages. Anne’s path had narrowed but her generosity and optimism remained. “The joys of sincere work and worthy aspiration and congenial friendship were to be hers…and there was always the bend in the road.”

Bird by Bird: Anne Lamott Instructs on Writing and Life

I first came across Anne Lamott via a short video that popped up on how she got sober. Who was this quirky-looking woman with white-girl dreadlocks, who described her past self as a drunk bulimic Christian and talked about the value of doing things badly (versus not at all)? I was captivated.

Since then, I’ve read most of her non-fiction titles, which offer slices of life, and typically touch on themes like sobriety and recovery, parenting, mental health, love, loss, faith, friendship, and the various struggles and vulnerabilities that are part of being human. Even when the topics are tough, such as losing a best friend to cancer, her gentle insightful humour often softens the rawness, without minimizing the emotions at play.

Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994) is her second non-fiction book of many. It’s been around long enough to have a 25^th anniversary edition. I thought I would feature this particular Anne Lamott book, as it's stood the test of time, and is an interesting mix of subject matter expertise and her signature story-telling.

The introduction is relatively long and one of the most interesting parts of the book in my opinion. Here she essentially shares how she became a writer. She describes her mother and father as reading every chance they got, taking her and her siblings to the library each week to load up on books. Her father was a writer and writers were revered in their family. 

This helped lay the foundation for her future career, as did her early encouraged talent (she won her first writing award in grade two), and her father’s mentoring. Sadly, her father died young. Lamott used writing as a way to help make sense of that dying process and as a collaborative vehicle for him express his experience when he no longer could.

As her career progressed, Lamott began to teach writing classes, and continues to this day. Content consists of “telling [my students] everything that has helped me along the way and what it is like for me on a daily basis. I can teach them the little things that may not be in any of the great books on writing.”

Bird by Bird brings together many of the tips shared with her students. It doesn’t get down to the nitty gritty of writing mechanics, such as The Elements of Style, but it does cover multiple aspects of the writing process at a slightly broader level.

I found her best advice in the first portion of Part One, as it potentially speaks to writers and non-writers alike. How do we start and move forward with a project that seems very daunting? She suggests starting with what you know, as well as breaking work into small assignments or chunks. In fact, the title of this book comes from advice Lamott’s father gave her brother, who had put off a large school project on birds until the last minute: “just take it bird by bird.” Lamott also advises allowing very imperfect first attempts (she calls them “shitty first drafts”), and avoiding the trap of perfectionism. While she’s talking about writing she could be talking about any challenging endeavour where we don’t know how to begin, or don’t feel up to the task.

The rest of Part One gets into more technical information: how to develop a character, plot, dialogue, setting, and knowing when you’re done. The focus seems to be more on writing fiction, which is not every writer’s preference, but it’s worth reading nevertheless. Throughout she offers gentle guidance, borne of her own experience, peppered with anecdotes on writing and life. Bird by Bird doesn’t skimp on the “how to” aspects of writing, but it takes you deeper, and with more heart, into the writing life—or at least into one woman’s writing life.

Part Two deals with the writing frame of mind; Part Three with the value of enlisting help in the writing process, such as: using index cards to organize work, tapping into subject matter experts for facts and story detail, joining a writing group(s), and finding a few trusted readers of your drafts.

Part Four explores the reasons to write, which include publication. This was also a favourite section of mine, as it doesn’t presuppose publication and getting known as a writer are the only worthy goals of writing. Lamott talks about several of her ultimately published works that were initially intended only as presents to a family member or friend. Writing can also help make sense of—or transform—something that feels too hard to fathom or even survive. Lamott’s first novel is based on her family’s experience caring for her terminally ill father. She wanted to create a story about end-stage cancer that illuminated the whole experience, including moments of humour, tenderness, and the survival of those left behind.

And while publication isn’t always the goal, Lamott doesn’t minimize its importance to those who identify as writers. She balances this with the less glamourous aspects of being published, including the inevitable pressures to do it again. She cautions her students that publication (should it even happen) will probably not transform their lives in the ways they imagine, yet encourages them to keep going because writing has the potential to make them “feel better and more alive than they do at any other time.”