Helen Keller

Around first grade when I learned about Helen Keller, I started reading all the little histories I could. I loved her. I loved the idea of her. I loved Annie Sullivan. I bought books with braille samplings and tried to learn the alphabet (failed, sadly, without more guidance). I also loved the romantic thought that we could be distantly related. Me! Related to Helen Keller who revolutionized education for the blind and the deaf! Helen Keller who contributed to society so selflessly!

But I never read any of her work. Just about her. Like many of my phases, I continued to appreciate Helen Keller but my interests turned elsewhere.

Until last week. Someone (Rachel Hadas, I think) in the reading series I'm digitizing mentioned The World I Live In, and I thought: "I've never read Helen Keller's writing! What the heck!" So I checked out the delightful volume published in 1910 and sweetly "vandalized" by many different readers' underlining and stars. After reading the book, my senses felt enlivened, suddenly aware of themselves and their purpose. My fingers touched my world with more awe. I appreciated my nose more. (And continued to ignore my tongue as much as possible to ward off nausea). My eyes and ears seemed like foreign creatures that I had never actually utilized before.

Helen's writing is intimate, honest, and plucky. Her spirit is obviously independent; stronger than I realized (stupid of me, I know). She essays on her daily experience--another surprise. Nothing really felt like a manifesto, although much of her world did require explanation. She ruminates on hands, communication, dreams, and mostly on the world that we create for ourselves--the reality of which is actually beyond our senses. We need self-consciousness and imagination to be human, not necessarily sight or hearing or common language.

Reading her essays was really like discovering a thoughtful and thought-provoking friend. I anticipate more reading.

Some quotations:

"Remember that you, dependent on your sight, do not realize how many things are tangible." --Helen Keller, from "The Seeing Hand"

I've been thinking about this as we wait for baby Charles. He is obviously real, alive--yet not quite tangible. But if I never see him, he's still there--right?

I wonder about the tangibility of faith, of souls, of sunlight and beauty. I want to be more connected to this tangible world (a moment from Charles Lamb, "New Year's Eve": "I care not to be carried with the tide, that smoothly bears human life to eternity; and reluct at the inevitable course of destiny. I am in love with this green earth; the face of town and country; the unspeakable rural solitudes, and the sweet security of streets. I would set up my tabernacle here." A favorite quote, applicable to so many different situations).

"The infinite wonders of the universe are revealed to us in exact measure as we are capable of receiving them. The keenness of our vision depends not on how much we see, but on how much we feel." --Helen Keller, from "Inward Visions"

Same concept as "line upon line, precept upon precept"? That concept has always frustrated me--the immature person in me almost wants to cry out, "But I need more--more!" So. How to expand the capacity of the soul? How to feel more? Any suggestions?

Pregnancy Chronicles (Before Charles Lamb's Full Entrance)

Due Today

And that is all
I have
to say.

A Hoot

While missing work and waiting for the floor man to come to my house and redo my kitchen floor as arranged by our house management people (scheduled for 9 a.m.: didn't show up until 3:30, then didn't have all the materials--so he's coming again tomorrow. Do I mind that my house is in shambles while I'm having contractions and tomorrow is my due date? Trying to be calm and less anal) I read Carl Hiaasen's Newberry Honor Book, Hoot. Quite delightful, actually. And not just because I needed a distraction. It's hilarious and clever.

The main character, Roy, deals with a few situations that he feels he can't be fully honest with his parents about--for the sake of keeping his integrity with friends, himself, etc. The text notes his discomfort and desire to remain completely upfront with "his two real best friends." I appreciate Roy's good motivations, but he did lie a few times to his parents. Is that okay? I'm inclined to say no, particularly when his parents had been nothing but trustworthy and reliable to him (the book actually makes a good case for the importance of parenting and maintaining close relationships with your children. Another ten points from this reviewer). How do you help a kid in that circumstance? How do you discuss honesty when it has never been an issue before? How do you recognize dishonesty? How do you address the problem without making the child feel attacked or vulnerable?

I was one of those kids who was devastated at the idea of disappointing my parents. There were a few times when I didn't thoroughly explain a situation from the beginning, but (like Roy) those were quickly cleared up. I wonder if this is abnormal, though, and I wonder about little Charles and his siblings. (Another looming question of "what to do when I'm a real parent?" Oh crap...). My current conclusion: be totally honest with my children and uphold open communication and the expectation that they will be honest with me. Is that enough? Any ideas?

Writing Life/Lives

"How we spend our day is, of course, how we spend our lives."

"Who will teach me to write?....The page, the page, that eternal blankness, the blankness of eternity which you cover slowly, affirming time's scrawl as a right and your daring as necessity; which you cover woodenly, ruining it, but asserting your freedom and power to act, acknowledging that you ruin everything you touch but touching it nevertheless, because acting is better than being here in mere opacity; the page, which you cover slowly with the crabbed thread of your gut; the page in the purity of its possibilities; the page of your death, against which you pit such flawed excellences as you can must with all your life's strength: that page will teach you to write."

--Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

Occasionally, I need a little zip from a writer who tells me it's okay to write crap, and it's okay to wonder why you write when no one will ever care to read your work, it's okay to miss the vision of your original hopes as long as you strive after that vision. And, frankly, I enjoy reading along the lines of other writers' lives. I want to discover the hows of what they do, even though I know there is no magical ritual that will form good writing--other than writing writing writing.

All of Dillard's writing makes me reexamine the blade of grass, the arc of the sky, the walk of caterpillars with new awe. She reminds me to open my senses--which is too necessary, too often. After reading her work, I look at the world and can say, "WOW!" more often because I notice it. (How awful that there are long moments of existence that I forget to notice).

And sometimes I get stuck in the rut of myself: although I don't always believe it, the worth of the world does not depend on my little family. The worth of my world does, but there's a lot more going on. I know that. I overlook that fact too often as I obsess about due dates (TOMORROW!) and parenthood. Those are my daily thoughts--in constant need of expansion, but not too bad. The writing life is the life that records the wonder, and then sorts through the records to find gems worth sharing.

Or is that just every life?

Hotel Amerika

recently (and amazingly) published my essay, "Kuna Phonebook," in their trans-genre issue. The journal came out this week. Check it out if you're interested. If you're in for an experience, look up Kuna, Idaho. The place is an adventure if you think about it.

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.