Let the Great World Spin

I have finally finished our May book, Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann. I am sorry that I didn't finish it in time to discuss it, because I really enjoyed this book. An entertaining collection of perspectives, the various lives being lived in their ordinary times, each experiencing their watershed moments as the world spins on and their stories keep unfolding. We are a culture that prides itself on autonomy and independence, and yet this novel reminds us that we are not really capable of being unaffecting to the rest of the world. Even nature herself is speaking to us, changing us, drawing us to one another as we walk forth, balancing on our own tightropes.

I am challenged by a paragraph in the Reader's Guide in the back of the book:

But stories are there to be told, and each story changes with the telling. Time changes them. Logic changes them. Grammar changes them. History changes them. Each story is shifted sideways by each day that unfolds. Nothing ends. The only thing that matters, as Faulkner once put it, is the human heart in conflict with itself. At the heart of all this is the possibility, or desire to create a piece of art that talks to the human instinct for recovery and joy.

Boy howdy have I got a story of recovery and joy, driven largely by the instinct for it (and partly by mere white-knuckling faith), but have struggled to find the words to tell it. It's like I'm still working out the changes, the sideways shifting and I'm still learning what my story is. The story is still unfolding, the instinct drives me onward, but how do I break it up into impart-able vignettes? Although times of quiet reflection and writing are near impossible to come by in this season of my life, I intend to embrace the conflict in my heart, storing it all up and letting the art ooze out in any way that it will. I may not end up with an award-winning memoir or a masterpiece watercolor painting, but I hope that in the end I will have a collection of art that speaks to that instinct for recovery and joy. And that my life itself will reflect that. And may I die with a smile on my face, like Gloria.

Hey Book Club:

Don't you feel this about some books??

The first reading of some literary work is often, for the literary, an experience so momentous that only experiences of love, religion or bereavement can furnish a standard of comparison. Their whole consciousness is changed. They have become what they were not before...what they have read is constantly and prominently present to the mind...[they] mouth over their favourite lines and stanzas in solitude. Scenes and characters from books provide them with a sort of iconography by which they interpret or sum up their own experience."
-Guy Gavriel Kay, author

In which Kristen dredges back out Madame Bovary

Excuse #1: I didn't finish the book. I didn't think I would make it to this book club meeting, so I returned the book to the library.

Excuse #2: I am pretty sure I had a fever at some point in the evening, complete with muscle aches and shivers.

Excuses aside, ohhhh, Madame Bovary, what power you hold between your covers to make us question our strongly held beliefs about ourselves and our fellow women! This novel stirs up a lot of debate and emotion, as Febe said it would. Flaubert had serious literary guts in tackling the adultery issue, at least writing from the 19th century. It takes us awhile to really get into the adultery question, and I don't know if we ever really discuss the adultery aspect at all. We are all quick to judge Emma for her poor choices, saying how it was difficult to empathize with a protagonist who kept running away from her problems and digging herself deeper into a financial and moral hole. We lament about her terrible mothering instincts, how she never gave poor Charles a fighting chance, and how she escaped into materialism when life didn't live up to her romantic fantasies. As we are wont to do, we ride off of each others' opinions, secure in our disdain for poor Emma's string of choices that culminated in her suicide.

And then it is Febe's turn to share. (She swears that her ability to say it like it is is a cultural thing, part of her Latina roots. She gets frustrated with our inability to just "say what we mean!" and we sometimes widen our eyes in response to her frankness.) Febe expresses her frustration that we could not empathize with Emma, that we judged her so harshly, especially when we are looking back at her with 140 years of feminist history. Suddenly, we all furrow our brows and feel our suppositions shrink a bit. "I see so much of myself in Emma," Febe explains, "when I have looked down on someone because of their class, or bought something I didn't need to make me feel better, or made bad, bad choices in my marriage." And with that declaration, we are all free to think of Emma differently, and in some ways, to think of ourselves differently.

The realization dawns around the circle that of course, we are similar to Emma, and that we had quickly raced to condemn her choices because we are always the hardest on those who remind us of ourselves.
Febe brings up that Charles was not so innocent and sweet as we might be making him out to be--remember the scene where Rodolphe asks if he can take Madame out for a ride, and while she refuses, Charles insists she go with him? What kind of a protector-husband is that, who would thrust his wife into a situation like that with another man? Febe's voice rises in intensity as she exclaims how upset she would be with her own husband if he did something like that, when he is supposed to be her shield. I feel a twinge of
discomfort at this notion; it doesn't sit well. My husband and I have been going round and round for months about his new best friend and photography mentor, a lovely (married) young woman named Ashley. The two of them share this artistic passion and a sense of humor, and they work well together, shooting weddings on Saturday evenings. I have felt a current of jealousy through my body for the last four months, and the desire to clamp down on my husband, to protect him from confusing feelings that could crop up. But he has assured me that no such feelings exist, and that to clamp down is a violation of his freedom and trust. I see his point, but it still kind of sucks. Where is my protector?

In fact, the more I think about it, I feel more like Charles in our analogous relationship. I have been dutifully cooking for, raising children for, loving my husband, and he seems to be chasing after his happiness, unable to settle into it with me. Is this a recent change of heart, or has it been brewing awhile? I can't tell yet. I come back from my thoughts and blurt out, "Maybe she just never loved him and she really tried but they were just wrong for each other." Ouch.

p. 243 (in response to The Women by T.C. Boyle)

Miriam has just told Frank that, "It's either them or me, Frank. Them or me." - She's referring to his mother and Mrs. Breen. Based on what I understand from earlier allusions in the story, Frank is going to care, and remove his mother and Mother Breen from Taliesin. One wonders why he is so entranced with Miriam, who may be beautiful, but is so clearly wacky and, he has just discovered, is also a drug addict. Is sex so important that he needs this drama? Is it adoration he seeks? Why expend all the energy Miriam requires, if he doesn't have to? I assume he feels he has to. It's a tough spot. Been there.

Think back, Molly: what did you do, when you found out that the man whose various behaviors and instabilities had already caused plenty of difficulty for you, was addicted to crack? Did you use that as the way out, the door through which you could justifiably leave your marriage and get on to the business of improving your own life, making it more closely match your childhood imaginings? No. Not right away, at least. You took him by the hands, and looked him in the eye as you knealt on the floor in front of him (is there symbolism in that pose? what is it? what does it indicate about our relationship to each other?), and told him we'd figure it out. Everything would be okay. You were even deluded enough to firmly believe what you were saying, and to see that moment as an opportunity to fix all kinds of things that weren't working in your life together. Nice try. That moment may mark the time at which you finally began to grow a backbone, and laid the foundation for the actions you'd take several weeks later, when you did make an exit from your marriage, and turned a few worlds upside down in the process... but it certainly didn't signal any increased control over Brian or his psychic revolutions. Nope. It certainly didn't.

Why does it always come back to me telling this story? Why is it so important ot me to tell it? Is it my greatest achievement in life, that I left a sick marriage and a sick man in order to save myself and create what I hope and need to believe is a more stable life for Adrian? I feel it happen, every time. There's this moment that comes, in conversation with a new friend, where the context points toward sharing something of myself that relates to divorce, or past romantic pain, or guilt... and it's almost impossible to turn the dial back: I feel the story, the emotions, welling up in me, and the time has come "to tell the story." Will this always happen? Will there not be other - maybe happier - stories that define me and stand out as the most important ones to tell? Am I bragging, to share this nasty labyrinth that I lived through? All of this races through my mind as the tale unfolds for my friend. I wonder, will this be the last time I feel so compelled to tell this story? Will this telling get it out of my system?

Someone I know, a writer, told me I should write about the whole experience - a book, she suggested, because it's such a fascinating story (is it, though?). I have to wonder: would it really help anyone, to read such a book? Would it help me or those close to me, if I did that? Would it then be out of my system, with its telling in such a public way? Why do people write such books - is it therapy, or a contribution to the greater good?

I feel so selfish, thinking my story is so special. I think about all these other women whom I see just once a month, to talk about books. I crave a deeper knowledge of their family lives and inner thoughts. But perhaps my own stories have been too big, and crowded out some of what I might have heard from them, if I slowed down and just listened. We all have rich histories. I'm tired of mine. I want to know others -- and more importantly, I want to know their NOWS. And get on with mine!

How does all this tie in with the book? Does it matter?! Sick people need help, and we can't fix them all by ourselves. We can try... but not if it's going to kill us in the process.

Oh, and by the way? I'm looking forward to meeting Frank's first wife, Kitty. I wonder if she kept him pulled together for their time together, and then finally just ran out of steam for the task. He reminds me an awful lot of a few people I know: artists, ex-husbands, etc. -- charming and captivating on the good days, tyrants when things don't go their way. Creative genius at the cost of stability, compassion, and unselfishness. Bummer, that.

Note: this was written in March 2010, when our group was reading The Women. It's now August 1st, and I'm sharing this because I'm "daring to share" today. I'd love feedback, even if it's to say, "Hey, Molly, that was TMI!" The characters in this piece are all real - and they're not in such bad places as they once were. I'm thankf ul for that!

Ice Breaker

The chance to once again get lost in another world away from home. To reflect on my past experiences and how they may relate to the story. Learning as I listen to everyone's insights and opinions, to read deeper into the characters and narrative. I feel I grow more and more each month and am truly grateful for the support and space to do so. Connecting with all you lovely ladies, sharing parenting/family/everyday life. Having an adult conversation with a glass of wine.

Ice Breaker

It used to be that book group represented my world - separate from that of my brother and his wife (whose social circle and warmth fed and held me close when I moved here, fragile). Now, I love book group for a host of other reasons:

• it's still something that's "just mine," and that's important for me to maintain.
• I've come to love my reading friends - each so different from the next, with a variety of bonds and reaons for sharing in this endeavor together.
• I so relish the little bit of reading I'm inspired to do with book group as my impetus and motivation, and look forward to the conversations we have about books & written expression & our experiences as they relate to each story, character, outcome and the very fact of being part of a book group.
• Did I mention that this is something just for me? It challenges me to make myself important in a life where I'm so often focused on making things work for other people, other reasons. This is one night, every month, when someone else "makes things happen" - makes my time my own so I can revel in being woman, being smart, being me.

What Women Desire Most

To be funny.

To wear dark suits. To be

listened to. To smile from

pleasure. To kill one or two people

at least once in their lives.

To scream. To stop having nightmares, stop

toughening.

Sleep.

A separate world.

To be free of the moon.

To be more unattentive

to smells. To say more,

conceal less. To keep the doctors

away. To struggle with a man in a pear

tree. Soft winds, cooling winds.

The smell of rain waking dirt.

To create hurricanes

from their nipples. To refuse

to define east or west.

To usurp the two-headed

king. A warm bath. Two

boa constrictors. To watch the snake

catcher try. Adam to tell the truth.

Two more fig leaves.

To have dinner with both Marys.

Fettucini. To stay

in touch. Sleeping

children. The surprise

of blossoms. Granny Smith apples.

To be in bed with a warm person

when thunder shakes

the windows. To feel God.

To die near a child.

More hands. More hands.

by Chris Allen Sullivan

Ice Breaker

What do you enjoy most about coming to book group?

The sound. The voices of women. I remember my mother and aunts and grandmother sitting around the table laughing and talking. Sometimes I just sit quietly and listen to the talk, the sounds weaving in and out of meaning. I feel surrounded, in a fortress. No enemy will overtake our gates. We come and share one story, one idea. We were all there at the same time, saw the same thing, and when I hear what Molly saw, what Carie saw, I'm surprised or confused because it was the same experience, but it was different. We come and go into these books and share full lives in these few hours.

Ice Breaker

What do you enjoy most about coming to book group?

Surprising to me is that the first thing that excites me about the last Tuesday is not that I will be away from my children.  But it turns out this is always the quintessential aspect of the night.  Book group is the most adult, most intellectual thing I do all month, and I always walk away with the taste of wine and chocolate on my tongue and a fire burning in my heart, shooting ideas to my brain.  Not only is the subject matter interesting but you women-- your deep lives all very different than mine, but we can see each other...

Cosmicomics, Italio Calvino

I have to admit, I am very insecure.  I still don't know these ladies very well, and I'm still wondering if I fit in with them.  Julie intimidates me; she's so cool.  I feel like a crazy-right-winged-conservative-overprotected-home-schooled-dork around her.  And I wonder: do I have anything to offer this group?  Yet here we are at Julie's amazing old house (the house my house wishes it could have grown up to be) and she didn't even read the book!  She's not the only one.  This is groundbreaking for me, and I am learning about the option to opt out.  To pass up a selection if life is just not lining up in reading's favor, or if the book keeps flying out of your hands and hitting the wall. Like any beautiful thing, a book group has flexibility in it's definition.  And the diversity in these women continues to surprise and delight me!  They think and live diversely and yet they appreciate and love one other... and me.  [What?!]  I am not judged; I belong here, we all do.  We are community.  And this is one of the reasons I am here.  I have rat-raced in narrow-minded christianese circles for far too long.
It is Thanksgiving week and only half of our group is here.  I was surprised that I seemed to be the only one who liked this book, until Febe arrived at least; Cosmicomics was her pick.  And herein lies more of my sad insecurities.  I was happy to tell Febe that I enjoyed her selection; I [codependently] wanted to save her from the disappointment she'd had about us and Madame Bovary.  However, she heard what I hadn't intended on saying, as I used the term forced to describe my opportunity to read, comprehend and enjoy this book.  I enjoyed the challenge. I'm always looking for opportunities for my thinking to be challenged, to see things from a different perspective and to experience different literary genres.  But let's admit it: I didn't eat it up.  It was not the most gripping of stories to me.  And I didn't get very far.  However, I don't have to be ecstatic over every book; I am here to be stretched, forced, if you will, out of the box.
-------
I am now going to jump ahead in time and look back retrospectively.
Oh my goodness.  Febe's writing about Cosmicomics (read at January's meeting) is so eloquent and beautiful.  I am so uninspired and drab.  We toasted (at December's meeting) to Not Saying We Are Stupid, so I can't say that.  But, I feel like I have so far to go as a writer!  I don't know...oh, SO many things!  I think everyone in that group is more educated and perhaps more life-experienced than myself.  Why am I in this group, why did they let me in?!
It's not that I have no experience whatsoever, nothing to contribute.  There are some things I could say a lot about. And this is the particular thing about this group: everyone counts.  There is no prerequisite.  There is this odd flexibility and lack of judgmentalism that is so unlike my home planet.  You can bring whichever snack...or not.  Read it or throw it across the room.  Be college or street-schooled.  Be an entrepreneur or a stay-at-home-mom.  Like it, don't like it.  Bike or drive (although the biking affinity here is strong...but still, there is no pressure!)
[With this in mind, this collaborative writing idea is even more fascinating.  What is each one of us here to get out of this group?  How and what will we write?  I think I am going to get more than bookshelf inspiration.]
There are some things I could say a lot about, and this is why I think I need to be sharing my story.  Writing more.  Perhaps in different forums...but getting it down.  Today (1.27.10) I went to the Art Museum with the 5th grade, to visit the Native American Exhibit.  One of the first things the docent told us was the reason these Native Americans made so much art, establishing traditions and nurturing their culture was because they didn't have to worry about food, provisions, or war.  It was a time of peace and plenty.
Not so for me.  This is a time of war, in our world and in our personal lives.  We do struggle for food and provisions, and my own creativity is put into solving those problems and surviving.  My art and writing fall to the wayside, to be picked up again in our time of peace and plenty...