Thanksgiving with the Alcotts

Currently Reading: Alcott in Her Own Time by Daniel Shealy and The Signature of All Things by Elizabeth Gilbert

"November had come; the crops were in, and and barn, buttery, and bin were overflowing with the harvest  that rewarded the summer's hard work. The big kitchen was a jolly place just now..." 
~ An Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving

Mine was an Alcott Thanksgiving. Yesterday, I spent some downtime reading the opening pages of An Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving, between bits of the biography I started last week. Curled on the couch with my family tonight, we celebrated the holidays and Louisa's birthday with a viewing of Little Women (the 1994 version). The first bars of the opening music floated into the room and the tears were already in my eyes. After two days of feasting and thanking, decorating and Christmas caroling, the time was right to visit the March sisters.
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A few months exploring books in North Carolina, Corca Duibhne, Ireland, Philadelphia, and Cambridge, I am now back in Concord, Massachusetts with the Alcott family. Just in time for Thanksgiving and Louisa's birthday. This new (to me) biography is a collection of memories, interviews, and memoirs from those who knew her and the Alcott family personally: colleagues, peers, friends, and family. The book is my place to sink into on these cold November evenings, like a mug of hot chocolate, a warm blanket, my cozy refuge from the wind and the chill. I listen with rapt attention to voices and memories that bring me to a Concord I can only imagine and a woman I'm getting to know even better.

I have seen Louisa through the pen of the scholar, her own letters and journals, some of her literary works, and now through the descriptions of those around her. I enjoy viewing her through this alternate lens. New stories abound, new poses are struck, new words are said, forming images of her demeanor and character that didn't find their way into her works. In these memories, Louisa falls onto her bed with a dramatic flop; the barn rings with playful shouts and dramatic soliloquies; she whirls around and curtsies in the lane; she moves her hands to illustrate her words; she covers her pain with humor and "bright flashes of wit." I can finally see her as others did, and she is all sparkling eyes and droll comebacks and noble passion. She is no different from the woman I found in her letters and journals, but these memories serve to reinforce my image of who she was- the dutiful child, the passionate crusader, the witty storyteller, the sharp mind, the Jo-ian personality. Not a perfect person but perfectly herself.

Reading about her through the eyes of others holds both a danger and an advantage. Sometimes those we are close to know us better than we know ourselves. They see the good qualities that we overlook; they recognize the faults we do not see. Louisa was certainly hard on herself, with high expectations she felt she would never attain. (That sounds all too familiar to my ears.) She rarely wrote of her triumphs, except in the humblest of tones. So watching her laugh and clap her hands and keep a room of people in stitches with her witty observations is such a joy.

But even though they can observe us in ways we cannot, those around us often fail to know us fully, only seeing the part we present to them. They aren't privy to the struggles, the fears, the hopes that swirl around unseen in our minds and hearts. So much we keep hidden, even from our closest companions. No matter how close they were to her, most of her contemporaries couldn't know exactly who she was. And time changes our perspectives and our memories. I read these recollections, wondering how much of the writer's descriptions depend upon Louisa's fame and reputation, rather than their own opinions at the time.

These observations both hide and reveal the real Louisa, and I force myself to recognize that I too will never truly know her. But I never stop trying. In this book, once again, I find her, living and breathing, made alive through the words of her contemporaries, the world in which she inhabited and her relationships with neighbors, friends, and peers as real to me as any scene in my own world. When I look up, I am startled not to find her standing in front of me.

Summering

Currently Reading: Louisa May Alcott: An Intimate Anthology and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver

It's been a summer of....

Women writers. Louisa May Alcott, Barbara Kingsolver, Virginia Woolf, Edith Wharton, Jane Austen, Anais Nin. Reading about them, learning about them. Gleaning a little inspiration.


Mrs. Dalloway has been my favorite so far. I read part of it while traveling on a train, which may have lent some extra charm to the experience. The book  left me breathless, exhausted and full. When I remember it, I still feel dizzy with pleasure.

Travel writers and travel plans.
Exactly three more weeks.

Cooking with the fresh stuff.




The colors slay me.

Sister time and family time.


I think this is one of the most beautiful pictures of Jenn I've ever seen or taken. It is all of her elegance, her calm, her depth- just in one picture. (P.S. She's not sleeping. She had no idea I took this.)

Home with Hobbes.



Someone got a harness and now loves to explore our balcony.

Visiting Nate at the museum. 

 

Animal loving.





Homework and tea.


This morning, with a little Irish news radio thrown in. It helps me feel like I'm back in Sixmilebridge.

Summering.




Happy weekend!

The End of May

Currently Reading: The Red-Haired Girl from the Bog by Patricia Monaghan and The Obituary Writer by Ann Hood

A quick pop-in! Three things:

I encourage you to check out my new essay published on the Literary Ladies Guide website, discussing nature in Anne of Green Gables. Here's the link: http://www.literaryladiesguide.com/literary-musings/beyond-beauty-the-natural-world-in-anne-of-green-gables/#more-1690
I'm just starting to get into this "writing-outside-my-blog" thing and I would really love to hear some feedback, so feel free to comment!
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Last week, I finished Life After Life by Kate Atkinson, which is probably the best novel I have read so far this year. It was mindblowing. And very difficult to describe, so I won't even attempt it. I can give you a glimpse, however, of the thoughts it raised in my mind as I read: how fragile and powerful are the trajectories of our lives; the pull and tug between free will and choice as the book dipped and flung itself into both; the ponderous, unanswerable questions of life and death and outcomes and consequences and the implications of our lives on the world, on each other, on history. How little things might lead to broader implications. How new decisions might still yield the same result. How little control we have over our destinies. How much control we have over our destinies. Life After Life was exquisite.
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Also finished The Selected Letters of Louisa May Alcott. (Can you tell I'm on break from school?) The letters, like the journals, were such a pleasure because I felt fully immersed in LMA's world, her voice, her perspective. I actually enjoyed the Letters more because they were more conversational and detailed- often, I felt like Louisa was just talking to me, describing her thoughts and her doings. Like Louisa, the words were fresh and vibrant, as if they were written yesterday. I feel a deeper connection to Louisa the more I read of her, and these Letters strengthened that connection intensely. In fact, having read collections of both her Letters and Journals, I feel like I know her intimately, as a friend, as a kindred spirit. She is more real to me now than ever before.
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So, a good May overall. June stretches before us, ripe with the promise of farmer's markets, museum visits, long walks, and a weekend vacation with friends up North. Books in the queue: In the Shadow of Blackbirds, some Ralph Waldo Emerson, Shadowfell, and Mrs. Dalloway. School starts again in two weeks, but I'm not focusing on that yet. My focus is on the good ahead.

Thoughts on a Journal

Currently Reading: The Journals of Louisa May Alcott and Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail by Cheryl Strayed



It's a privilege, really, to read someone else's private words. A privilege that, quite frankly, gives me a sense of unease and guilt as I read, knowing as I do that she really didn't want her journals to be read after she was gone. Several times these past weeks, I have found myself whispering a quiet apology as I open the covers and slip back in. But I feel I have given her journals the reverence they deserve, and so my guilt does not linger long.

She's witty. She's ironic. She's sharp. Those deep brown eyes don't miss a thing and she records what she observes and feels with a clarity, honesty, and insightfulness, even at a young age, that is truly remarkable. She writes about her world and her life with passion and earnestness, but with a dry wit, and with sarcasm or irony tinging her words. She can make me laugh out loud. She can make me reread a sentence again and again to wring every nuanced meaning from it.

Reading her journals is inspiring and exhilarating. But mostly, I just find myself enjoying her company. Her happy moments, her despondent days, her commitment to her family, her plans and goals, her tireless work ethic- I have gotten to know them all. And I have gotten to know her in a new way, in the raw, real words of her life. I witness the change in her voice as she grows older and her experiences shape her; I hear the world-weariness that never quite goes away, her attempts to resign herself to her duties and her life. I love her younger years the best, because I identify so fully with her there. As she gets older, her journals become descriptions of daily life, her family and her work, less about herself and her feelings. Her opinions are still there, still sharp- but she seems to write her journals less as a means of introspection and more as a narrative of her days.

I understand now the rhythms of her life; I see now that she had to write mostly to provide for her family. I find myself wondering what books she would have written if she had the time and the quiet she desperately wanted, if she could have written for herself, without the pressure of writing for necessity.

There is great beauty in her writing, even though it's a journal and not meant for a reader's eyes, which just shows that she was naturally talented, her writing just an extension of how she thought and spoke.

I haven't finished yet. I don't really want to. 

I was thinking of going on to one of her novels next, but I cannot pull myself away from her world, so I will be moving on to her collection of letters. Through the letters, I expect I will be seeing her life from a new perspective, a different angle, providing me with what I desire most: a multi-faceted understanding of her life. 

My First Piece

Currently Reading: The Journals of Louisa May Alcott and Through a Window: My Thirty Years with the Chimpanzees of Gombe by Jane Goodall

My piece on Little Women was printed at The Literary Ladies' Guide website several days ago, so I thought I would share the link with anyone who may be interested. I would be honored if you would take a peek:
http://www.literaryladiesguide.com/essays/1312/

I know it may seem like a little thing, but it is the first time my writing has been printed outside of this blog for others to read, and I am excited to share my writing with broader audiences. I don't intend to pursue a career as a writer, but it is something that sustains and fulfills me, and I at least want to see where it leads me. This experience has only served to inspire me further and given me confidence in my writing, which I am grateful for.

As for my reading, I am slowly savoring Louisa May's journals, taking a quiet, solitary stroll through them at a leisurely pace, so that I can be fully present in her world, aware of the sights and sounds and emotions of Louisa's life. Yet I have also been spending time in the forests of Tanzania, listening to Dr. Goodall ardently describe the chimpanzees she has studied and grown to love, illustrating their behaviors and social structures and temperaments. In nine days, Jane Goodall will be at an Earth Day conference I am attending, and reading this book is both rekindling the childhood hero-worship I had for Dr. Goodall and also stoking my excitement for the 15th.

I used to have a poster of this photo hanging on my bedroom wall. It's still one of my favorites.

That's all, friends! Have a great weekend!

Bits and Pieces

Currently Reading: The Journals of Louisa May Alcott

Bits and pieces of the last two weeks:

Spring break came and went, which allowed me to find time to read and finish my third Classics Club book, Early Irish Myths and Sagas by Jeffrey Gantz and my fourth Alice Hoffman, The Third Angel. Myths and Sagas took me almost two months, despite its small size. I have read much of the early Irish literature before, and each time it is hard to get through. Not because it's boring or uninteresting, but because each story is thick with detail and description. It is tempting to skim these tales, letting my eyes flick over the lines of names and places that are mostly unpronounceable. But when I take time to notice and study them, the words and names become so beautiful. I practice sounding them out, checking with the Irish pronunciation guide at the front of the book and smiling with pride when I remember some of the more difficult ones from previous readings. The tales also expand and broaden under my eyes when I savor them slowly. Descriptions of Cu Chulaind's shield or the house Bricriu builds can be tedious, but I try to read them for the history they portray, as much as for the storylines. "The Exile of the Sons of Uisliu" is still my favorite, closely followed by "The Dream of Oengus." (Both tales were the basis of some great Irish Literary Revival works too; long ago, the discovery of Yeats' poem "The Song of Wandering Aengus" began my fascination with all things Irish.) Ever since we returned from Ireland last year, I find that in each Irish book I read, I can picture what I read so much clearer. I know what the Hill of Tara looks like; I can see the deep woods and the crashing ocean foam in my mind as the words take me back to a place I fell in love with, that lives in me still.

 

As for The Third Angel? Alice Hoffman continues to amaze me. I don't know how much more needs to be said.
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Easter weekend, filled with family and prayers and gratitude to God. Good Friday was everything it should be: solemn, tear-filled, hushed, holy. With each light that is extinguished in the sanctuary, I am shocked anew by the raw and the sacred of the night. I left exhausted, utterly spent by the sheer emotion of marking a sacrifice.
But this is what our church looked like Sunday morning. (Courtesy of Pastor Robert). I would say that a balloon-filled sanctuary is the epitome of Easter celebration and joy.


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I swept through Wanderlust by Elisabeth Eaves in only a few days, satisfying the traveling itch that has engulfed me with the first whispers of spring. At first I worried that, far from putting calamine lotion on the itch, it would only irritate it, making me long to leave and fly to new adventures. But the memoir was brutally honest, portraying the good and the bad of ceaseless travel in equal measures. Through the book, I relived the feelings I experienced in Ireland last May: the exhilarating, terrifying feeling of being a stranger among strangers; the awe of gazing upon beauty I could only have dreamed of; the self-consciousness that accompanies being dropped into a new culture; and the fulfillment of desires for adventure, culture, and knowledge. But Wanderlust did not shy away from the reality that constant movement is not always the answer; downfalls exist for those who can never find happiness in settling, who must always be moving in order to feel alive. And I was truly grateful, after reading it, that I am satisfied with the realities of schedules and routine, and that I don't have to be somewhere else to be fulfilled personally and creatively. The travel itch is still there but that calamine lotion felt good.
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Seed planting. With great trepidation, I might add. Spinach and two types of tomatoes. Since I've never started plants from seeds before, I'm nervous that I will inadvertently do something wrong; seeds and seedlings seem so fragile and every gardening website tells you something different to do. I feel so confident in the kitchen (most of the time) but I have no confidence in my gardening ability yet. But I'm glad I've tried- we'll see what becomes of it. Hobbes enjoyed himself that morning, watching over the plants and basking in the sunshine with them.



Wait until his cat grass starts to grow. He'll be ecstatic.
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Finally, some exciting news (for me) that I'm hesitant to share yet but will anyway because when something keeps you up all night with excitement, it's good to share it. I will be contributing a post from this blog on The Ladies' Literary Guide website; they contacted me yesterday about printing it on their site. (By the way, this website, which I was already familiar with, is truly fascinating for anyone interested in classic female writers. Definitely check it out.) Only in the past several months have I thought about spreading my writing beyond the borders of this blog, but it has still only been a thought in the back of my head until now. (Louisa May Alcott may have been an inspiration). I don't know what will come of it, but the excitement is there nevertheless, as well as further inspiration and desire to focus on my writing.

Happy Monday!

Morning

Currently Reading: Early Irish Myths & Sagas by Jeffrey Gantz, The Third Angel by Alice Hoffmann, and The Journals of Louisa May Alcott.

The morning spreads before me, all sun-dappled and blue. It is a morning made for inspiration and discovery. And so I sit, welcoming it and fulfilling its wishes by starting The Journals of Louisa May Alcott. All winter, I have waited to start this read; this morning, the anticipation is so palpable I just had to share a piece of it.

March Anticipation

Currently Reading: Early Irish Myths and Sagas by Jeffrey Gantz, Under Wildwood by Colin Meloy, and Eight Girls Taking Pictures by Whitney Otto

Anticipation. Wind blows drifts of snow across the road and past my window; the light outside is still a pale grey, colorless and brooding. But it is March nevertheless and the promise of brighter, color-drenched days hovers somewhere above it all. The hump of February has been traversed and spring is on its way. The anticipation is palpable, buoying my spirits and chasing away the shadows and dust of winter. Every spring is the same. Inspiration and anticipation for the future surround me like playful ghosts, reminding me of winter's eventual demise and the promise of opportunity and growth- not only in the natural world but also within myself. I relish this feeling and welcome it with open arms.

Today I anticipate. I daydream of warm weather, the sound of spring peepers, the earthy, loamy smell of freshly ploughed farm fields. (I crave it so much in fact that I prefer "ploughed" to "plowed". I think it looks more buoyant). I itch for the traditions of spring and summer that define the seasons for us: farmer's markets, long walks down farm roads, evenings on the balcony.



And I start to dream about the books waiting for me, the partners that will accompany me through the light season. This spring, I hope to return to Louisa May Alcott, in both her journals and at least one of her novels- I think I am going to first read Moods, since that was one of her personal favorites. Another biography will also soon be in order, most likely Madeleine Stern's Louisa May Alcott, since that has been deemed the quintessential Alcott biography. Also with the advent of spring, my travel bug starts biting, so I am trying to decide on Ireland/travel books that will ease the itch. So far, Wanderlust: A Love Affair with Five Continents and People of the Sea seem to be the top contenders. There's also a memoir called The House on an Irish Hillside that I am absolutely desperate to read but have not been able to get my hands on yet. From the reviews (and the author's blog/Facebook page), I am in for a worthwhile trip. Any other recommendations for armchair travelers?

With so much to look forward to, it's hard to wait and savor the present. I try to do a little of both though, balancing the "now" with the "soon." But spring is coming. It's almost here. And I'll be ready.

In Villette

Currently Reading: Early Irish Myths and Sagas by Jeffrey Gantz, Under Wildwood by Colin Meloy, and Wonderstruck by Brian Selznick

A Sunday morning. Calm, quiet, peaceful. Quite different from our Friday night, in which more bad news shook us to our cores and caused us to reevaluate our present and our future. It is terrifying to stand at the cliff edge and look down, unable to see what is below. But as we always do, we shook ourselves free of the immediate fear and started to make the first fumbling steps in this new darkness. And this morning, we breathe and we close our eyes and we breathe some more. We find solace in the simple comforts, which for me is usually between the pages of a book. On my way out the door to work yesterday, I impetuously grabbed the copy of Louisa May Alcott's journals sitting on my bedside table and flipped it open, praying for some guidance, for some advice, for some perspective to ease the churning in my stomach. My eyes fell on an entry from February 28th, 1868. Louisa had just spent several months in Boston, feverishly writing, and was preparing to go back home to Concord. In looking back on what she accomplished during those months, she wrote, "Not a bad two months' work. I can imagine an easier life, but with love, health, and work I can be happy; for these three help one to do, to be, and to endure all things." Yes. Yes. Sigh of relief. Once again, I felt that connection we share, she and I. And I went off to work feeling determined, with my chin up.
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I have been hoping to write about Villette since I finished it almost two weeks ago. It was my second read for the Classics Club, and my second Charlotte Bronte, so I think that makes it pretty significant. My first impression was the familiarity of the writing- if I had no inclination of the author or book title, but merely "read it blind," I think I would still know it was Charlotte Bronte. Even though I had never read it before, the style was so familiar because it was so apparently Charlotte.



Because I had read Lyndall Gordon's amazing biography on Charlotte beforehand, I felt prepared for Villette. I read it with an eye for what it said about Charlotte- her life, her experiences, her opinions- and I think this colored my experience of it. Ultimately, it is a book in which the plot is only secondary. Character reigns supreme over the novel- that of the narrator, Lucy Snowe, as well as those around her. The focus of the book lies primarily with the development of Lucy's character. Lucy Snowe is a woman of storm and shadow- the first she denies and stifles within herself, the other she uses to hide and protect herself from what she does not want to face. The metaphors of storms and shadows occur over and over throughout the narrative, reflecting Lucy's inner world as it describes the outer setting. The stormy nights are the ones in which new discoveries are made, new secrets come to light, and when she must internally struggle with herself and her life's path.

And the shadows? When I think of what exactly a shadow is, I see how well it fits with Lucy. A shadow is not distinct or clear, it can be altered, it is not a true representation of the real object, and (perhaps most importantly here), it can be interpreted in a myriad of ways. Figuratively, Lucy hides herself in the shadows, content to stay hidden and keep her true, inner self from others and even partly from herself. She does not even truly open herself to us, her readers. Unlike Jane Eyre, she is more cautious and reserved, less open about details. She does not reveal everything to us, leaving parts of the story unexplained and hidden from view. In the story itself Lucy is often invisible, her friends and acquaintances taking center stage while she quietly observes and narrates from the sidelines. She tends to disappear beneath the lives of those around her, unobserved and content to be so. In fact, whole chapters often go by where she hardly makes an entrance. She also hides in plain sight from each of her friends and acquaintances. Each one sees her differently, interpreting her by a different light, for they see her as she wishes to be seen by them. Therefore, she is never truly seen because she is not seen as she is. She becomes insubstantial, a mere image of herself, as a shadow is only a representation of reality. I did wonder how much of this is true of us? Don't we change our demeanor and personalities based on those we are interacting with; aren't we different around different people? If that is the case, then when are we truly ourselves? Is it with those we are only the closest to or are our true selves an amalgamation of the various parts we present to others?

Lyndall Gordon stated that Charlotte's novels all represent Charlotte's struggle to balance Reason and Passion, while not becoming overcome by either. After reading that, I saw how true it was in Jane Eyre and I watched for it in Villette. Sure enough, it was there. Lucy Snowe's story is affected and altered by the fact that she fights against her nature and her passionate inclinations. This too ties into her desire to stay hidden in shadow. Desperately she tries to stifle the part of herself that yearns for more, focusing on the necessity of "knocking on the head" her longings and desires. When she starts to feel a passion for Dr. John, she figuratively buries those feelings and their potential by literally burying his letters beneath the earth. Lucy is content to stay in the shadows because she feels safer there- not safe from the threat of others, but safe from herself. She fears the deeper parts within herself, which I think is one of the most tragic aspects of the book, for it alters her life and the person she becomes. In Lucy, I think Charlotte is trying to demonstrate to herself, as well as to her readers, the danger of letting logic and reason possess you fully; perhaps this was also Charlotte's way of reminding herself that it is necessary to let passion and desire in, despite the fears.

I think readers today can still identify with this struggle- of trying to understand ourselves, of wrestling with our natures, of trying to be something we are not. I know that I often fight against who I am, both the negative and the positive, and struggle with the desire to be someone else, that elusive "other" I think I should be. Villette, as well as Jane Eyre, resonate with me because I am still defining myself and finding my place in the world, just as Charlotte was and just as her heroines strive to do. As Villette (and Jane Eyre) demonstrate, the process does not require one to have all of the answers or the perfect life plan. Instead, it involves using each experience- with all of its uncertainty and risk- to discover and lay bare what is hidden within me. To not hide from who I am, but to allow it into the light. To be open to the potential of new discoveries, and embracing- not hiding from- the fear and trepidation that accompanies each revelation. To be strong enough to recognize and embrace who I am, without denying what I am and what I feel. Jane Eyre demonstrates this by doing it, by being true to herself, by following her inclinations and listening to her inner self. Lucy Snowe demonstrates this by not doing so, by hiding from any expression of her inner self, by denying her passions and desires, by choosing a safe but unfulfilling life over the promise of something more.

With Villette, Charlotte's works continue to exert a powerful force of brilliant insight, demonstrating just how timeless her works really are. Jane Eyre will always remain my favorite, but I am more pleased than I expected with the experience I had in Villette, and am more of a Bronte fan than ever before.

A Piece of Myself

Currently Reading: Villette by Charlotte Bronte and Wildwood by Colin Meloy

Winter is slowly dragging on, never quite making up its mind whether or not it wants to be over. Tantalizing whiffs of spring hang in the air on the warmer days, only to be masked by gusts of snow blowing over the farm fields and reminding us that winter is still here to stay. Nevertheless, Nate and I dubbed today our "cleaning day," finally putting away the Christmas decorations (I know, we're pathetic!) and brightening the interior with anticipation of brighter days to come. I always have a difficult time in the winter- the lack of sun and chances to go outdoors makes me moody and sullen. By February, my cheerful/optimistic side goes on vacation, while my grumpy/morose side takes the field. Poor Nathan. He's a trooper though, especially since I tend to fight the negative feelings with everything I have.



I moved my pot of ivy to the coffee table and that alone makes spring seem closer than ever. So this morning, I am back to cheerful, enjoying little things like a clean bathroom, a mug of hot cocoa, almost-finished homework, and an afternoon of writing and Villette. Tomorrow I am meeting a good friend that I haven't seen in far too long, and I look forward to that too.

Last week, Nate and I finished Little Women, my first for Classics Club. This was my third re-read, but Nathan's first introduction to it. We did it right- Nate stretched out on the couch or on the bed as I read out loud, enacting each scene and character, complete with voices. I'm sure Jo would have been proud of me.

I have always loved Little Women. There is no need for me to explain what it is about the writing and the characters that are so powerful and endearing, for I know that many, many readers have experienced that too. We laugh at Jo's antics, and feel Teddy's heartbreak, and weep when Beth takes her last breath. But this time, the book tugged at me a little bit more, pulled me in a little bit deeper, and spoke to me in a way it never had before. I can't put my finger on why that is. Perhaps it is because Nate and I read it out loud together. It is amazing how much difference it makes to read with your voice, for it turns words from flat, two-dimensional blotches of ink into a conversation, a dream, an inward sigh. (Reading out loud has always been far superior to me than reading quietly... probably to the detriment of my family, but they never seemed to mind). The book took on a new life when I read it out loud, more real than before, more concrete, more alive. And sharing the reading experience together turned every evening into a literary date night. Now, I will always have the memories of sharing Little Women (and all of the discussions and laughs and tears that accompanied it) with my husband.

Maybe the book meant more to me this time around because I identify even more with Jo now that I've gotten older. How could I not see myself in her when I was a child- dramatic, feisty-tempered, bookish, and imaginative as we were? As a girl, I realized it was OK to be who I was, because Jo was too. But now, as a young woman working on discovering who I am and what my role is in life, Jo comes back, feisty as ever, to show me that we can still be ourselves, even with new responsibilities and expectations. We can still have moody February days, and be dramatic, and wonder whether we will ever achieve what we desire, yet still be good sisters and wives and daughters and mothers. Neither Jo nor I really changed when we grew up, and that gives me so much comfort.

And maybe the book means more to me now because I have recently been learning so much about its author, Louisa May Alcott, who is also a kindred spirit to me. Knowing the context of Louisa's life, as well as her relationship with the book, really helped me understand it in a new light. Nate and I often stopped to discuss the description of Mr. March, or Jo's relationship with her mother or with Beth, in light of how that reflected Louisa's own thoughts and realities. I believe it was Eve LaPlante's Marmee & Louisa which stated that Jo March is Louisa's alter ego, but she is also just as much Louisa as she wished she were, rather than Louisa as she was. Whereas Jo is loved and humored, despite her scrapes and mishaps, Louisa had a much harder time of it, very often misunderstood by her own family. Instead of living poor but comfortably in a stable home, the Alcott's moved all over Boston and Concord, from one temporary house or boarding house to another, and were often separated as the girls grew older and worked to support the family. In Little Women, Louisa wrote of herself and her sisters' childhoods, but she also imagined a new childhood for all of them, a childhood she wished she could have had. That knowledge and understanding illuminated Little Women for me in a new way and made the re-read both rewarding and unforgettable.

I know that Little Women will always be a book I come back to for comfort, guidance, and enjoyment. It will be a book I will read to my children. It will be a book that will still teach me, even as I age. And I hope I will never cease to find a piece of myself within it.

My Weeks With Charlotte and Louisa

Currently Reading: Tolstoy and the Purple Chair by Nina Sankovitch, Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, Wildwood by Colin Meloy, and The Yellow House by Patricia Falvey

I have had a difficult time starting this post, which is odd since the books I want to discuss are ones I absolutely loved and which had a deep impact on me; yet for some reason I am having trouble translating those feelings and responses into words. However, I will try.

Recently, I have wrapped myself up in the lives of two female authors so completely that I have found it difficult to become absorbed in other things. Though I have read voraciously these past several weeks (finishing nine books and currently working on four more), Marmee & Louisa by Eve LaPlante and Charlotte Bronte: A Passionate Life by Lyndall Gordon have been my favorites of the bunch. While I had planned on reading LaPlante's book, thanks to a great recommendation by my reading twin Mabel at Maple & A Quill, once I started reading about one inspiring, strong-willed woman author, I wanted desperately to read about another. So from 1850s Concord to 1830s Yorkshire I went, journeying through the lives of two remarkable and different-but-similar women.

 

I really find it hard to describe the excitement I get when I pick up books by or about either Louisa May Alcott or Charlotte Bronte. I have found, through their works and especially their personal writing, a deep affinity with both, a friendship of understanding that exists only in words. I first discovered this when I read Eden's Outcasts by John Matteson last year, a biography about Louisa and her father. (Follow this link to my post from last April). In Louisa, I recognized something of myself- we are different, but we are also so very much the same. With the new publication of Marmee & Louisa, I was interested to examine the other end of the spectrum from Matteson's work- Louisa's relationship with her mother. In doing so, I learned a remarkable lot about Abigail Alcott and gained a new-found respect for the woman who is largely ignored in much of Alcott scholarship but who figures so prominently in Louisa's own work. Here, Abba's journals and letters were explored, and her history and background given more central focus. A kindred spirit to her daughter, Abba too felt passion and expressed it in her writing, and strove to make her voice heard; ultimately, she did not succeed in her life's ambitions, but she was able to nurture and watch her daughter make the strides she could not. The plight of "woman" in 1800s America is keenly felt in the story of Abba Alcott, and I felt my blood boiling more than once for the injustices that held intelligent, free-thinking women like her back from their full potential. Even Louisa, who fulfilled her dream of writing and earning an independent wage, was not famous for the themes she explored in her other works, but for the children's stories she was asked to write as a woman, something that truly bothered Louisa. This book explored more fully Louisa's attachment and affection for the women in her life, namely her mother and sisters, as well as their influences upon Louisa's life, perspectives, and writings. It allowed me to learn about Louisa in a fuller context, as did the biography/history I read a bit later about Transcendental Concord called American Bloomsbury by Susan Cheever. LaPlante's book was a celebration of what women like the Alcotts endured and achieved, and most particularly, examined the strength of the mother/daughter relationship. It was a beautiful work, one that filled me up with inspiration, like a full stomach after a satisfying meal. Yet it still left me hungry for more.



I vacillated between another Alcott biography or a different biography altogether, and settled on reading about Charlotte Bronte, another woman writer who pushed the boundaries of feminine propriety and determined to make her voice heard. Charlotte Bronte: A Passionate Life was the one- in form, it is a biography, but it is actually more of a discussion of Bronte's work and the life experiences that led to the themes, characters, and style of writing found in her novels.Why I never realized before how much more I could learn about Jane Eyre by reading about her creator, I will never know. I feel, once again, a deeper appreciation and understanding of Jane Eyre because I finally feel as if I know and understand what Charlotte was trying to say with her work. Through Gordon's book, I was given an introduction to the way that Charlotte viewed the world, her perspective and her thoughts, and how she voiced her views with her writing. Much of her work has an autobiographical tinge to it, which I knew, but details that Gordon offered up were eye-opening. For instance, I had never known that the character of Helen Burns was modeled on Charlotte's older sister Maria, who also died of consumption at their harsh boarding school. Another aspect of Jane Eyre was revealed as part of Charlotte's own struggles: "Part of Jane's experience is to know the extremes of a seething, chaotic life and one of disciplined order. It is here that Charlotte Bronte gave form and meaning to the private extravagance of her own life tugged between the claims of the self and the claims of society." Gordon goes on to explain that Jane must try to find a balance between the heat of unrestrained passion (her initial relationship with Rochester) and icy indifference and cool reason (St. John Rivers), and does so when she finally returns to a changed Rochester. There is so much in Charlotte's life that will now color my reading of Jane Eyre; in particular, Gordon gave a fantastic analysis of Rochester and of Bertha, stating that while many modern feminists decry the treatment of Bertha, especially at the hands of a woman writer, Bertha is meant to symbolize the type of woman that Charlotte detested- "rich, thick, insensitive beauties." Bertha also acts as "a warning of mindless passion," of what one can become when reason does not temper passion. Charlotte sees Bertha as the cause of her own misfortune, treating her as "a warning more than a character." Charlotte's writing explored how women could express themselves fully in a society that had strict expectations of what a woman should and should not say. She felt a fire within herself that she did not see in many other women she knew, besides her equally forthright and passionate sisters.

I can see now that Charlotte and Louisa have many things in common: their passion, their refusal to be anything but who they were, their desire to make their voice heard through writing, and their dependance on expression and writing as a part of themselves. Both women wanted to speak out as women to depict what women were actually like, and they both explored the drawbacks women often faced. Both women suffered from spells of depression and loneliness, finding solace and meaning in their work. I find it no coincidence that one of Louisa's favorite books was Jane Eyre, for I think both women shared a similar perspective of the world, despite differences in location and age.

Both Gordon and LaPlante discussed Charlotte's  and Louisa's other works in great length as well, which has inspired me to pick those up someday soon. Astonishingly, I have barely read any of either Charlotte or Louisa's novels, despite viewing them as two of my favorite writers. Jane Eyre of course is my literary bread-and-butter; of Louisa's writings, I have read Little Women several times and have read a few of her short stories. I love reading about them so much, that now it is time to meet them in more of their own work. But, true to form,  I still have more biographies planned and I can't contain the spark of excitement in me when I contemplate revisiting both women. All in all, I have spent several wonderfully enjoyable weeks in the minds and souls of two remarkable writers, and I have come away feeling more inspired than ever before.

Snapshots

Currently Reading: One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp

Let me set the mood, for my current scene is too delicious not to share. I am home alone, waiting impatiently for Nate to come. The steady sound of rain hitting roof serenades the quiet and is only accompanied by the clacking of keys and the tick of our clock. Hobbes crouches on the desk next to me, intent and watchful. It's quiet, semi-dark, as rain drips patterns on our sliding glass door and the day outside slowly becomes night. This moment is peaceful, perfect for reflection, which is the mood I have been carrying with me all day. If moods had colors (true Mood ring style), what would "reflective" be? Soft gray, like the rain clouds in the sky? Sepia-toned, with that hint of nostalgia and memory? The bright yellow of lamplight? Today it might be a little of each. With thoughts winging and soaring around my head, I plan to let them land where they will.
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Eden's Outcasts is still with me, even several weeks later. It is a difficult task to tell the story of another's life and John Matteson did a phenomenal job. Most of the time, I forgot I was reading someone else's words and analyses, which is the mark of a great writer- to slip invisible beneath the pages. While reading, I often found myself wondering about what Louisa's life would have been like if she had lived in the present day- would she have still accomplished what she did? Would she have lived longer? Would her family life have been the same? It is interesting to think how much of our personalities, accomplishments, and failures are products of our times as well as our natures. The same holds true for her father. Bronson was a figure of his time- what would his philosophies and educational doctrines have been away from Transcendental Concord? The book was a wonderful amalgam of a discussion of two individuals who both exercised great influence over the other. The final sentence of the book is quote-worthy: "As writers, as reformers, and as inspirations, Bronson and Louisa still exist for us. Yet this existence, on whatever terms we may experience it, is no more than a shadow when measured against the way they existed for each other."
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Nate's home! Time to make some dinner.....
OK, I'm back. Swedish meatballs in the oven and I'm ready to go...
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As of last week, I was a James Joyce virgin. But since our Ireland trip is coming ever closer, I decided I needed to dip my toes into one of Joyce's works. Dubliners it was! I enjoy reading short stories, although I don't always do so. (Kate Chopin's "Story of An Hour" is still my favorite short story to date.) Dubliners was like an arc, starting with a story from a child's perspective and ending with a character in late middle age. The first and last story also contained a death of sorts, bringing the collection of stories full circle, like the sun traveling east to west. Another unique characteristic of Dubliners was that each tale acted as a snapshot, a still-life painting of a pivotal moment or moments in the main character's life and understanding of self. Only one story opened with any sort of description of the character or surroundings; the rest simply dropped the reader into a thought or an action, as if we inadvertently time-traveled to this particular scene, with no history of what came before and no idea where we are, or snuck into a movie halfway through. Far from disconcerting, it was exciting. It forced me to pay attention to detail and learn the situation by reading into the character's dialogue or facial expressions. And what a rich cast of characters! Each were confronted with truths about themselves and their lives, forced to perceive their existence in a new way. Some encapsulated a night or a few days, others captured moments, mere glimpses of an hour. All of the stories was new and different, with no air of staleness or crustiness. One would never know it was written almost 100 years ago. While I feel I learned even more about early 20th century Ireland through this telescope of stories, I also think Dubliners accurately examined all human nature and human experience, regardless of time or place. It was definitely worth the read and I feel pleased for having read it. Joyce has always been on my list and while I have never been brave enough to tackle Ulysses, I look forward to diving into the Joyce canon a little more fully in the future. Favorite stories from Dubliners: "Eveline", "The Boarding House", "A Painful Case", and "The Dead". All very different, but all worth great reflection.
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Hobbes is trying to catch the raindrops that slide down the exterior of the door. So cute, so futile. I love that cat. And now I end an enjoyable weekend, one spent savoring my final (for now) sleepover with one of my best friends, since she moves away in two weeks. Goodbyes are never easy and this one is especially difficult, for we have shared six years of adventures and laughs and soul-baring. But I must remind myself that I am blessed to have someone to miss. Missing someone means you are loved and have loved in return. A new chapter begins.