Krakatoa

Yesterday I finished listening to Simon Winchester's book Krakatoa. I've been cleaning the house and folding clothes to it for more weeks than I should admit (granted it is ten CDs). I enjoyed savoring each piece of it. The book is worth gifting to others (or yourself) even if you don't put yourself in the "sciency" category. Wesley endured my ruminations on Darwin, imperialism, religious traditions, and fire in general. The world exploded, the moon melted, the sunsets radiantly inspired artists and zealots. The volcano that destroyed an island and thousands of lives continues to recreate itself like continual resurrection.

What I loved most about Krakatoa was how many connections can be made--socially, politically, scientifically, etc. Our lives and histories interweave in inexplicable ways. I love Winchester's tone of awe and wonder about the volcano (and its historical appendages). Despite the ruin that surrounded it, Krakatoa is a story of how the world continual recreates itself. Our earth fills with hope in the midst of disaster. One seed species dropped on lava remains. One daring fisherman edging toward new shores. One grumble-rumble that becomes common and accepted--blow off a little steam now to avoid huge explosions later.

Of course, I started to over-personify the volcano: we can discover inspiring sunsets in our horrors, we can form abundant life in the fertile soil of past mistakes, we can find freedom within the boundaries of our own bodies. It's easy for me to say that now when I am not facing the smoke of any eruption, when I'm just anticipating change and unable to imagine it, when I believe that our explosion will bring exhaustion and joy and life. I know so little about desolation that I do not deserve to comment on it.