Book Report

The Poisonwood Bible
by Barbara Kingsolver

For the better part of a decade, this hardcover book lay dormant under my bed, collecting dust bunnies. That was back when I wasn't reading books. Pity. My mom had given it to me, and I remember distinctly how highly she recommended I take a look at it.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago when at least three, if not more, women insisted that I drop all other books and just read The Poisonwood Bible already because it is a life-changer. Say no more; and, boy howdy, were they correct.

This is one of those books that you read and it just about knocks your whole self right over -- repeatedly and profoundly. You find yourself breathing long sighs of relief that you are not the only person who has come to view the world in these ways. By the time you reach the last word of the last sentence, the magic of a nearly perfectly told story has somehow lightened the burden of knowledge of the tragic, beautiful suffering that is humanity. You are moved another step closer to understanding that we are at once witnesses and participants in each other's stories, of our far away histories, of the non-stop mysterious ways of this complex world. Another step closer to grasping muntu -- all that is here. It is what it is. We are what we are. I am all that is here and so are you and you and you. The good, the evil, the incredible, the horrendous. We are what we are, mistakes and all.

At least, that's what it did for me. And I'm awfully tempted to turn around back to page one and read it all over again.

P.S.
Actually, that's not all I got out of this book. In the interest of keeping track of how reading novels is helping me understand how to tell a story, I have to mention it. Each chapter in this book is told from the perspective of one of the five Price family women, primarily the four daughters. Not a new method, by any means, but this book offered me that elusive a-ah moment. I get it now: the concept that each character in a story believes themselves to be 100% correct. Each character has their unique point of view and that is how they should come across to the reader. And, in order for that to happen, the writer must explore corners of each and every character that the reader will never see described on the page, but will come to understand nevertheless. Such a simple concept (that I've nodded along with many times) with a complex application (that is daunting yet exciting) and is absolutely essential to a good story.

P.P.S.
In the aftermath of reading The Poisonwood Bible I put down some words to remind myself what I'm taking away from the experience. It's a rare day that I write a poem, and, when I do, they never follow any rules of poetry, as far as I can tell. But, a poem nonetheless.

Forgive yourself the times in which you live
Forgive yourself the times that came before you
Forgive the mistakes you have made
Forgive but do not forget
Forgive and continue moving on
Forgive and be free of the weight that halts your steps

Identity Crisis

Around about the time I got home from South Africa, something possessed me: the desire to be tan. Which is entirely out of character. Normally, I'm the girl hiding under a hat, an umbrella, long-sleeve shirts and layers of SPF 45. I'm the girl who proudly returned from a week on the beaches in Costa Rica without so much as a whisper of a hint of color on my hide.

But there I was, every afternoon throughout the entirety of spring, sitting in the sunniest parts of the back yard exposing my chest, stomach and legs. It became a ritual I really looked forward to with my after-work beer and the book of the week. "I must need the vitamin D," I'd hear myself explain to the husband. He'd humor me with a grin, but always took the opportunity to remind me how much he happens to love my usual glow-in-the-dark tones.

Oh, how I fancied my golden-tan on graduation morning as I zipped up the favorite brown, strapless dress. Everything about the dress and accessories were enhanced by the color I'd so diligently worked on for the last couple of months.

A few weeks later, we found ourselves hanging with the family on the beach. What a glorious time we had playing in the water and visiting in the cloudless, perfect bikini-weather summer day. At the time, it seemed an entirely reasonable decision to copy the gaggle of girls with their countless re-applications of spray on coconut oil. I had a solid base, after all.

Wrong again.

My obsession got away from me and came back in the form of a raging virgin-sunburn on my stomach and upper thighs that lasted the better part of a month. Thanks to my coveted lotions and potions, I didn't blister; but a truly impressive peeling phase lasted two whole weeks.

Now, I'm left with this sort of asymmetrical reverse reminder of my bikini when I look in the mirror. For once in my life, the red of a sunburn didn't return my skin to the usual white but has become slightly less white. There's nobody in the world who would examine my belly and call it tan...except for me. Even better, it's only my front half that received punishment. My back half remains the same, pre-South Africa white with a very discernible front/back delineation on my outer calves.

One might argue that I got what I wanted with this Summer 2008 "Tan" o' Mine. Yet, this is not anywhere near what I'd envisioned. This palette resembles more of a poorly designed patchwork quilt of unfamiliar body parts.

Who is this person following me around, wearing my clothes, attached to me below the neck?

At the moment, I don't really know.