March 29, 2010
On Mothering and Mindfulness
“If feels ridiculous even to write about this, about Buddhism and yoga. I do not meditate, although I know I should and I have periodically tried. The voices in my head are as multitudinous and persistent as the lice that infest my children’s hair at the beginning of every school year. Moreover, I actually kind of hate the people who talk about things like mindfulness, or at least the ones I run into around here… Why is it that the most self-actualized people seem so often to be the most self-absorbed?
I’m no Buddhist, but still I wish I were a more mindful mother. A mindful mother would not get so knotted up about breast-feeding that she would forget that her job was simply to love her baby and keep him healthy, without torturing herself herself and him with that infernal pump. A mindful mother would not be so worried about her children being bipolar that she would be too afraid to laugh when her daughter reported hearing a voice in her head…
The thing to remember, in our quest to do right by our children and by ourselves, is that while we struggle to conform to an indeal or to achieve a goal, our life is happening around us, without our noticing. If we are too busy or too anxious to pay attention, it will all be gone before we have time to appreciate it.” –Ayelet Waldman, Bad Mother
March 28, 2010
Solar by Ian McEwan
I have a feeling that some understanding of quantum physics could open up Ian McEwan’s latest novel Solar tenfold. That this story is operating on all kinds of levels I’m not even perceiving, but then maybe that’s just part of the joke. That I’m the type of person who imagines layers of meaning rather than a single thing (a novel) being what it is.
This is what it this: Michael Beard is a Nobel Laureate, though he ceased to practice actual science years ago. He gets by, as a Nobel Laureate might, nominally serving on various boards and letterheads, and when the novel begins in 2000, he’s Director of the National Centre for Renewable Energy, developing a wind turbine he’s since realized will be useless. His fifth marriage has just collapsed, he’s overweight and balding, he doesn’t mean much to anyone, and not much means much to him. Except potato chips.
The shape of Solar is in direct opposition to McEwan’s Saturday (which was novel through which Ian McEwan and I fell deep in love). Though both books are dense with detail, Saturday‘s momentum was furious, whereas Solar moves at a much more Micheal Beard-ish pace. It plods, it does, though what redeems this pace could be accounted for by the number of times whilst reading this novel I gasped out loud with surprise, shock or horror.
The fact is, I really can’t tell you what happens, because you need to experience the surprise, the shock and the horror for yourselves. What I can say is that physicist Michael Beard experiences the world in physical terms, as an object moving through that world and bumping into things. And it’s these bumps that determines his trajectory more than any kind of established direction: “The past had shown him many times that the future is its own solution.”
His journey takes him from the mess of his marriage to an excursion to the North Pole for an interdisciplinary summit on climate change, to a new relationship and a new career selling solar technology to savvy investors, via a train journey that is rather fraught, and then to America where he’s using science to replicate photosynthesis in order to harvest the energy of the sun and ultimately save the world. Throughout all this, he spends a lot of time in traffic, and the “bumps” that determine where he goes from one step to another are also profoundly physical in their nature– how a head hits a table edge, the trajectory of a thrown tomato, and one vital intersection between a sperm and an egg.
As unattractive as he is, Beard (McEwan writes), “belonged to that class of men… who were unaccountably attractive to certain beautiful women.” And unattractiveness aside, it’s clear how this could be the case– Beard spins a certain version of his experiences that so thoroughly convince him that readers are nearly convinced alongside by such a singular point of view. The thing about a character who bumps through life without thought towards others or any consequences is that he’s sort of vile, but we really can’t quite hate him. The bumbling fool, we start to believe, is just a victim of circumstance; he’s innocent and misunderstood.
It soon becomes clear, however, that not only is Beard a character completely blind to consequence, but consequence is also quite blind to him. On one hand, he’s had us thinking that he’s hardly an agent in his own life, but we see he’s not an object in it either– after the series of events his bumblings set in motion, the pieces fall without any hint that he’d even been there. And this is where I start wishing I understood quantum physics (in addition to marvelling at the fact that Ian McEwan really seems to) because I’m sure there is some scientific theory analogous to this narrative structure which would bring the whole thing together. And mine is the kind of thinking Michael Beard finds himself up against, by relativists who see science as just another way (among many) of looking at the world, instead of understanding that the world is one thing only whether we’re looking at it or not.
I’ve not yet conveyed that this is a funny book, slapstick in some parts, deeper so in others, and darkly too. That McEwan satirizes academia, media culture, and modern life, but in such a way that it’s never clear what way is up and who is meant to be skewered. That even if Michael Beard thought I was a fool for saying so, that this a book with so much going on on so many levels that it just opens up wider and wider the more I think about it, so that one note in the margin just leads to another until the end-pages are covered in scribbles. And that clearly this is a book that I’m not nearly finished with yet.
March 26, 2010
Our top nine islands
1) Miyajima
2) Ward’s
3) Alcatraz
4) Montreal
5) Japan
6) Île de la Cité
7) Juniper
8) Britain
9) Centre
March 24, 2010
Why we read Tabatha Southey aloud
Why we read Tabatha Southey aloud at our house every Saturday morning: “And as if generations previous to us did not hang around waiting for the mail to come. One never hears a mother in a Victorian novel complain that their child is “addicted to the second post,” but a child on the Internet is always portrayed as a problem. I hear parents express remorse that their children are making friends on Facebook, which is the modern version of the old-fashion letter of introduction and “at home day” combined. Do they think their own teen years were any better spent, writing fan letters to the Bay City Rollers?”
March 24, 2010
Women's writing is going to remake our literature
“We’re going to change what we think of as literature, to a certain extent, in order for women to be fully felt, I think, in our writing. We have wonderful woman writers… who are bringing us their experience. And their work is an oeuvre; it has a different shape to it, and it’s not going to fit with the old formula of novels. Women’s writing is going to remake our literature and make it whole, I think.” –Carol Shields, “Ideas of Goodness” (from Random Illuminations by Eleanor Wachtel).
March 23, 2010
Jumping in and out of portals
This afternoon I was reading The New Quarterly (and one thing I fear, by the way, is that I will never find the words to articulate just how much I love this magazaine), and I was enjoying Eric Ormsby’s article “Fine Incisions: The Art of Reviewing” when the following jumped out at me: “Mere opinion isn’t the same as reasoned judgment; opinions, the fodder of blogs and websites, are fine and dandy, and everyone’s entitled to them.”
And it took me way back to last week when a Canadian newspaper columnist wrote a ridiculous piece about how all bloggers are men, the reason being that “spitting out opinions on current events every twenty minutes” is just “a guy thing.” Oh, the furor that ensued! For me, however, the column’s most egregious misstep was its painting of all blogs as mere opinion-spit receptacles.
Part of the problem, of course, is that the columnist was writing about political blogs, which I don’t read, but I think most of them are written by men– am I wrong? (And of course, women do engage with politics in their blogging, but in the the blogs that I read [which are written by both men and women] this engagement occurs more pragmatically than that of bloggers for whom politicking is a passion and an end in itself.) Perhaps with political blogs, opinion spitting is indeed in order, but this is so far from the case for the blogs that I love best.
Everybody might be entitled to an opinion (though where is this written exactly??), but it doesn’t mean I have to hear it. There are many writers whose opinions I do respect, but, honestly, most of these tend to be published by major news outlets (whose reader comments I make a habit of ignoring). The blogs I love best aren’t those that call out, “Here’s what I think…”, but rather those that tell me, “Hey, take a look at this…”
I like a blogger who will tell me about a book she’s just read, or bring my attention to an article from somewhere else that they have a reason to respond to. I like blogs that profile interesting people, or track the minutiae of beautiful lives, or tell stories beautifully. Where intelligent people are enlisted to write to us. I like blogs that direct me to cool stuff. I like blogs where conversations take place and ideas are shared. I like blogs where writers meditate, even change their minds, which means they think about things. I like blogs where brilliant people send out dispatches. In short, I like blogs that take me somewhere new (particularly if it’s into other people’s houses).
Of course, these writers do have opinions, and most of these blogs are best when they incorporate elements of the personal, but when the personal is used as a springboard out into the wider world, it’s what I like best . This is the case as well with blogs about mothering, and books about mothering, and books about anything actually. And there is nothing exclusively female about this kind of blogging, either. Boyish blogs actually seem to have this market cornered, and I’m thinking of the blogs my husband reads, like Boing Boing, which (literally) takes us (to online) places in wonderful link-filled frenzies.
Anyway, back to to the columnist and Eric Ormsby: I don’t know if these poor people don’t know blogs, or perhaps they’re visiting the wrong ones? Regardless, I think it’s a shame that while the rest of us are all here jumping in and out of portals, they seem to be smashing their heads into virtual brick walls.
March 22, 2010
Just think of all I'd miss
Ten months of not sleeping for more than three hours at a time are starting to catch up with me, I think, as I am absolutely exhausted and keep falling asleep to wake up moments later unsure of what my name is and where I am. Yawn. I am also wonderfully busy with writing work (which is handy, as I’ve just quit my job and this is what I do for a living now, in addition to prying dustbunnies from the baby’s fist. And, if anyone’s asking, I could take on further assignments at any time). I’m currently reading a book for review that is good popular fiction, as opposed to the bad literary fiction I was reading just before it (and the former is preferable, don’t you think?). I am making good progress on an essay about Sharon Butala’s wonderful book The Girl in Saskatoon, which should appear in a special issue of Prairie Fire next year. And I’m also working on something for Literature for Life, which should be finished tonight or tomorrow (and I continue to be so pleased with my involvement with this group).
Naturally, all the books I’ve requested from the library came in at the same time, and so I’ve got mountains of reading before me (glee!). I will be picking up Bad Mother by Ayelet Waldman this week for the second time (last time I had to return it before I got a chance to read it). After that I am going to read Solar by Ian McEwan (which some most esteemed readers have been raving about on twitter, so I am looking forward). Joan Bodger’s The Crack in the Teacup is after that, and then postcard and other stories by anik see (on the recommendation of Steven W. Beattie). We’ve also got Sarah Waters’ The Little Stranger coming at you (which I’ve wanted to read ever since I encountered this review), and Lionel Shriver’s So Much For All That (which Rona Maynard has been mentioning on Twitter [and just so you know, I refuse to acknowledge the word “tweet”]). And another book called The Breakwater House, and probably another book, and then another.
So imagine if I woke up dead tomorrow? Just think of all I’d miss!
March 21, 2010
Poetic April Returns
I’m getting ready once again for Poetic April, the Pickle Me This celebration of National Poetry Month. During which I plan to read poetry, buy poetry, write here about poetry, post poems and generally enthuse. I come at my enjoyment of poetry from a very pedestrian perspective, so I am pleased to announce that we’ll be having poets guest-posting here throughout the month to educate us all. I do hope, however, that the one advantage of my limited perspective will be that other ordinary readers will also come to see how poetry can speak to us all*.
*Am I allowed to say that? Does poetry even want to speak to us all? If I suggest that I love a collection of poetry for its narrative, for instance, is that a back-handed poetic compliment? Which is not to say that language isn’t what I pay attention to, for language is what a poem is made of, but if I don’t have the background to appreciate the language as experts would say I should, am I even entitled to appreciate it at all?
March 20, 2010
Dogs in (children's) books update, and other children's lit bits and bobs
In an attempt to overcome my aversion to literary dogs, I went to see the exhibit “The Little Dog Laughed…” this afternoon at The Osborne Collection of Early Children’s Books. Harry the Dirty Dog was featured, and also Alice’s dog Dash, and Farley Mowat’s Dog Who Wouldn’t Be, Snoopy, the Poky Little Puppy, Cracker “The Best Dog in Vietnam” (what a distinction!), Eloise’s dog Weenie, and Maurice Sendak’s dog Jennie from Higglety Pigglety Pop. A lovely display of books old and new, literary dog paraphernalia, and dog art. If I enjoyed it, just imagine what someone who likes dogs might think.
In other Toronto Library children’s book news, I followed everybody’s advice and 
requested The Night Kitchen. I loved the kitchen cityscape, and the story, and I get behind anything to do with cake in the morn. I also got out Brundibar, upon the recommendation of our wonderful librarian. Today when we were at Lillian H. Smith, I got a bunch of other books, including A Day with Nellie, and Miss Nelson is Missing which I probably haven’t thought about in twenty years but upon glimpsing immediately realized that I used to be obsessed with.
If all this wasn’t enough, yesterday we made our second trip to Mabel’s Fables. I bought a gorgeous edition of A Child’s Garden of Verses illustrated by Gyo Fujikawa, whose illustrations are absolutely timeless. As Robert Louis Stevenson’s poems seem to be too, after 125 years (and I was inspired to seek them out after reading How the Heather Looks). The classic nature of this purchase is balanced out by our others, which were (delightfully) Sandra Boynton’s The Belly Button Book, My Little Word Book, and Baby Touch Colours.
