Books Read January Through June 2022

I've got to start somewhere.

 

There have been periods where I have read, and periods where I have not.  Periods where I have thought about writing about what I have read, and, yet again, long periods where I have not.  For long stretches of time I have not written anything at all.  All this sounds, in many ways, negative but I assure you it is not.  Circumstances are what they are.   Passions too, those things that drive us, ebb and flow.  And yet these things are not the source of joy, or even happiness.  All of this to say, in a rather complicated way, that I am doing well.  There have been dips and bumps but overall this has been a very good period in my life, even if it is not a period defined by outward accomplishment.

 

Perhaps that is exactly what has been needed.  This has been a fallow period of sorts, a drawing in, of coming to terms, and of growth, of replenishment.  It seems to me more and more that I know I am changing, that I have changed, but I don't yet know what will come of all that.  My own tendency to want to do all the things , if not moderated, leads to the internal stripping of nutrients from the soil of my soul.  And yet rest alone is not the answer.  But what is rest anyway? Rest means not only resting while giving the body time to heal, which perhaps is not rest at all, or it touches on only one aspect of the complex face of rest, because healing itself is hard and active work for the body.  Rest can also simply entail the quiet drawing in of nourishment. Not passive. Not empty. Stasis, not in its sense of inactivity but of equilibrium.  

 

Balance.  I've never been a person given to balance.  But perhaps balance itself is something to be explored further.  We tend to simplify: advising ourselves that balance entails a form of compartmentalization, our efforts and indulgences parceled out in given packets of time or energy, or thought.  Wake up, meditate for 15 minutes, shower, work x hours, exercise 30 minutes a day, knit for 1 hour a day.  This is not balance as the earth knows it. Think of the thunderstorm and the rainbow, the powerful force that also opens the opportunity for new growth.  The harshness of winter followed by the languor of summer. Even the fallow field is hot with activity, activity that lies just below the surface. Replenishment. Fallow. Balance.

 

Meanwhile I have read, as I mentioned, in stages.  Most of my reading has been lightweight, completely fitting in this period of rest and regeneration. Occasionally I have ventured into something deeper. Occasionally something haunts my thoughts.  I don't think I will discuss these books or even necessarily rate them. At least not here. At least not now.  They are just part of what has filtered into the soil that is the field of my soul.  Some of it good, some of it not, and yet all a part of the cycle of life and growth.

 

1. Lauren Groff.  Matrix: A Novel.
2. Amy Greene. Bloodroot.
3. Kreis Beall. The Great Blue Hills of God.
4. Joyce Maynard. Under the Influence: A Novel.
5. Anuk Arudpragasam. The Passage North.
6. Lilo Bowman. Love Your Creative Space.
7. Kevin Kwan. Crazy Rich Asians.
8. Kevin Kwan. China Rich Girlfriend.
9. Kevin Kwan. Rich People Problems.
10. Robert A. Weinberg. The Biology of Cancer.
11. Judith Krantz. Scruples.
12. Colson Whitehead. Harlem Shuffle.
13. Diana Gabaldon. Outlander.
14. Diana Gabaldon. Dragonfly in Amber.
15. Richard Powers. Bewilderment.
16. Matt Bell. Appleseed.
17. Damon Galgut. The Promise.
18. Diana Gabaldon. Voyager.
19. Diana Gabaldon. Drums of Autumn.
20. Diana Gabaldon. The Fiery Cross.
21. Bryant Terry. Black Food.
22. Mabel Dodge Luhan. Lorenzo in Taos.
23. Diana Gabaldon. A Breath of Snow and Ashes.
24. Paddi Newlin. Hidden Treasures.
25. Diana Gabaldon. An Echo in the Bone.
26. Louise Erdrich. The Sentence.
27. Leo Tolstoy. Anna Karenina.
28. Andrew Sean Greer. Less
29. Patrick Radden Keefe. Empire of Pain.
30. Diana Gabaldon. Written in my Own Heart's Blood.
31. Laura Bates. Everyday Sexism.
32. Mary Dan Eades. Caddo Bend.
33. Stanley Tucci. Taste: My Life Through Food.
34. Heather Cox Richardson. How the South Won the Civil War.
35. Diana Gabaldon. Go Tell the Bees I am Gone.
36. Lee Child. Better Off Dead.
37. Stuart Woods. Chiefs.
38. Iona Wishaw. An Old Cold Grave.
39. William Davis, MD. SuperGut
40. Anthony Doer. The Shell Collector.
41. Patti Smith. Woolgathering.
42. Bridget Quinn.  Broad Strokes.
43. Omar El Akkad. What Strange Paradise.

 

Looking at the list, I see much rereading (marked in blue):  19 of 43 books.  All were intentional, for one reason or another.  One thing that did stick out is that I belong to two book clubs, and between them almost every book this year has been a reread for me, sometimes of books I would not otherwise have reread.  Only two of my first reads were for book clubs.  In many ways that seems to fit into the theme of the year, a period of gathering in, of reevaluating.  Looking at the list now, I am filled with wonder.  What I see are roots sprouting, spreading, intertwining.  What I see are roots that belie the arbitrary categories by which my trained, educated, conscious mind wants to organize the world. 

 

I don't quite know what I think about this, about what is worth rereading and what is not, what is worth rediscussing and what is not.  Often I am surprised. Other times I am disappointed, but I realize these things are all about me, not the books, not the people with whom I am discussing the books, me. I see books as living things, the thoughts or ideas of a writer taking shape through words. Reading can be an act of relationship, even though may not be as complex as an ongoing active relationship with a person.  Or is it?  My relationship with some books is more multifaceted and complex than my relationships with some people.  And yet, with either, it is up to me to hold up my end.  Each of us is exactly where we are, exactly where we can be, in this moment. And that is all.  Expectation is about the person who is doing the expecting, about their own internal struggles, although they may not see it as such. As humans this is part of our struggle. We lead with our own preconceptions, with expectation; I am not certain we can completely abandon its grip, but I do believe we can chose to set it aside.  We are our pasts, our presents, even to some extent our futures although we know not what they may be.  Judgement closes us off from the world.  So does passive acceptance.  If we are not in struggle, we are not, perhaps, in relationship.  

 

And yes, reading has brought me to this point, at least in part.  Books are like the seeds, old and new, that sit in the soil.  Then, when I am in the world the thoughts that have been slowly taking root sends out little shoots of understanding, of empathy.   The source of insight is irrelevant, sometimes even surprising, and often more multifaceted than we think.  Whenever someone tells me they are a simple person, when I say this myself even, I think "no, you are not, you are minimizing the interleaved depths that have made you what you are."  On the other hand, we are all, in once sense, incredibly simple.  We are all incredibly complex.  We all hide parts of who we are from ourselves and from others.  This we call survival. 

 

And, after saying I will not read books, I am reminded of a quote from a book:

"Books contain everything worth knowing except what ultimately matters."

                    Louise Erdrich, The Sentence, page 3

Like books, like thoughts, like a fallow field, there is a lot hidden in that sentence. Its meaning, when first read, belies its depth, its contradictions.  Intentionally, I choose not to discuss.  Not today. Think about it,

 

But for me, enough with thinking.  I am here. I am hopeful. I am filled with thoughts and dreams.  In the end that is the crux of it, circumstances be damned,