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I find it difficult to summarize essay collections, but I’d say Ann Patchett’s main point in These Precious Days is:  “Life has been wonderful. I never could have predicted any of it. And I am so so happy. So very very happy.” (paraphrased) When I mentioned this to my husband, he commented that she sounded a bit smug, but I said, “No, not at all. She’s completely heartfelt and genuine,” perhaps influenced by the wholesome upbringing she alludes to when she describes her father and his comments on her writing – how her characters didn’t need sex, drugs or swearing in order to tell a good story – or perhaps indicated by her general life outlook of “no one deserves anything, life just comes, the good with the bad” (paraphrased from different sections) – how she was accepted to the Iowa Writers Workshop but denied admission elsewhere, how she published her first novel at 27 years of age, how she met her literary hero and inspiration (John Updike) face to face at an awards ceremony, and how she found deep friendship during the start of the pandemic, a friendship that culminated in the celebration of her friend’s lifelong dream.
This book is truly a celebration of life, written by someone who accepts its setbacks. So as I was reading, I wondered to myself: why is this book getting under my skin and making me so irritable? A successful essay starts strong, as if to tell the reader, “Ecoutez-moi! Listen up! I am about to tell you what I have come to say.” Ann Patchett does this. She grabs our attention, carries us through, and imparts her life advice and experience. This, however, is not a memoir. There is no central struggle for our main character. There are small battles (trying not to vomit while her husband practices repeated take offs and landings in a single engine plane somewhere west of Alaska) but no lifelong torment or deep-seated resentment or really any inner conflict. These essays are also completely void of blame. They are nearly void of sex, drugs and swearing. Which is refreshing, in a way, and in another way, I found myself wishing I was in the middle of a novel. I decided that there are two main differences between a novel and an essay collection. A novel, unlike an essay collection, centers a particular question or quest or struggle. The bulk of the pages hang in this question, with the conclusion and denouement reserved for the smallest segment at the end. Therefore, the reader is immersed in the tension of one singular story for such a length that a conclusion, when it comes, is immensely satisfying. Also, novels, of course, are fiction. There is no reading through them – as with essays – and wondering how you might react in a similar situation. Or rather, you might put yourself in a character’s shoes, but with a nonfiction piece, it could be entirely possible that you might have had a life such as the real life described on the pages, only it happened to another woman and not you. Perhaps novels contain brilliant turns of phrase or messaging sprinkled throughout, but you don’t have to take these messages as life advice the way they seem to come across in personal essays. As a writer, it was hard for me to read about Ann Patchett’s successes, even though they are well deserved. To have written a novel by age 27! To have discovered the joy of running a bookstore – a profession that surprises her but one that I was primed to embrace having just finished Ellery Adams’ series The Secret, Book and Scone Society with delightful (though someone self-important) bookstore owner Nora Pennington! And then there were other things that hit even closer to home, like the essay on giving away her things, including pricey flatware, and deciding that she didn’t have to be the woman she thought she would want to be when she was older, namely, the kind who collected all sorts of kitchenware. Along those lines, about six months ago, my husband and I filled a 15 foot U-Haul with things from our house, mostly seasonal or occasional items that we kept in the basement. We thought this would cull the supply in preparation for our upcoming cross-country move and possibly make the house look better when it came time to stage and sell. As we loaded everything in, each thing seemed important, a part of our story, and yet, after I pulled the rolling door closed on the back of the truck, I allowed myself to imagine letting it all go, just driving it off to a donation center and getting rid of it all rather than driving it across the country and unpacking it in a new house. How nice, I thought, it would be to unburden myself of all of this stuff, and of the need to keep things around for the sake of memory or just-in-case scenarios. But I couldn’t do that, which brings me to the next essay that was difficult for me to read: Ms. Patchett’s long-winded thoughts on why she doesn’t have children, why she never wanted children, and why she is irritated at people insinuating that her life is incomplete because of this. Perhaps I read her wrong, but I discovered, in this long essay that says many more things than this, that to her, children would have interfered with her writing. And, that she knew she wouldn’t be able to stand the mess. There is a room in my new house that the previous owners used as a wine cellar. When I toured the house one year ago the racks were full. I have since counted, and there is space for over 200 bottles of wine. I’m sitting in this room right now, attempting to carve out a writing space for myself away from my kids, away from the mess, away from the noise. The racks are empty, begging to be repurposed. The tile floor is bare, craving a rug covering on this day when the temperature is below zero. Yes, Ann Patchett, kids would have interfered with your writing, and you always wanted to be a writer, so why take that chance at derailing what you wanted? People have told me what makes me interesting is my many varied interests. Conversely, I look at people like Ann Patchett and am intensely curious. How is it, I ask her, that you could know so clearly what one thing you wanted, when there are so many things to pull at your attention? Clearly, personality plays a role. But the mess! I can’t stand the mess. But does this mean I shouldn’t have been a mother? I think about the women I know who also can’t stand the mess and what wonderful mothers they are and think, no, this is not a reason not to be a mother. But it is one to manage…perhaps by buying a house big enough that it comes with a wine cellar that can be converted to a writing closet. (Wow, now that sounds romantic, doesn’t it?) My jealousy mounted at every essay and hit a peak near the end, just when her collection reached its own climax: For me, the pandemic accentuated a disconnection I had already felt with my friends and my community. For her, the pandemic ushered in an opportunity for life-changing friendship. So that was hard to read. I closed the book and felt the need to remind myself of certain truths: I always wanted to be a mother. I always wanted to be a writer. My literary hero Laura Ingalls Wilder didn’t publish until her sixties. Also, Ann Patchett is older than me, writing these essays with a perspective of someone much further down the road. Moreover, she is not a memoirist. There is one essay that delves a little bit into her writing life and practice of the craft, and in that essay, we see, just for a moment, her vulnerabilities, her reticence to examine the past, to examine her own early work. We see a reluctance to analyze herself or those close to her. In short, she is a different type of writer than me, and there is no sense in comparing. I am reminded of a quote that a writing instructor used at the beginning of a class I took a few years ago. Jean Rhys once said: “All of writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky. And then there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don’t matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake.” So do I give up, having not yet published a book at age 40? No, I write. I feed the lake. And if you are reading this, then I thank you very much.
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Sometime in college, I found myself missing all sorts of friends from throughout my life, including ones I made in college and then didn’t see much as schedules and focuses changed. I tried to tell myself I was lucky to have known them at all, whether they were still present in my life or not. I wrote down my thoughts on this and put it to music and ended up with a song about friendship and how sometimes the only thing left is an annual Christmas card. I hadn’t mailed Christmas cards in a few years, but since it seemed important to also announce our new address, I got my act together, albeit reluctantly. Reluctantly because as I made my list, I felt the pain of missing all of the people on it. Christmas cards are nice and all, but wouldn’t it be better if we could walk down the street and grab a cup of coffee together? I sort of felt like I was being asked to accept a consolation prize. I debated how many cards to order. So many consolation prizes. So many people to keep up with, to check in on, who I would never again see on a daily basis. And then I got a Christmas card in the mail from a friend. Someone I hadn’t talked to in years. And I was so touched that she still thought to remember me. And then I got a text from a friend saying that a boy we knew in high school had just passed away from cancer, leaving behind his wife and three kids, and couldn’t we get together soon? I told my friend yes and then located my address book and got to work. I found the name and college address of that boy from high school. I hadn’t known him that well, but there he was, right in my book, a name preserved in time for over twenty years. I found old addresses, ones I knew were out of date and ones I took a chance with and later learned were beyond the limits of mail-forwarding. I addressed 99 envelopes. Many times, I started to write our old address in the return section and would have to scratch it out and start over. This reminded me of how about a year after I got married I accidentally wrote my maiden name when signing a credit card receipt. It was like I had been incredibly vigilant for a year after changing my name but as soon as I let my guard down, I reverted to muscle memory. It’s going to take a while to undo the muscle memory of 11 years at the same address as well. Still, I felt better about the process as I wrote the names of my friends, even the ones I hadn’t seen in years, hadn’t talked to in years. (If I missed you, I apologize. Send me your address, and I’ll send you a card!) It reminded me of something I did on my 40th birthday earlier this year: I made a list of the friends I was glad to have in my life. I tried to think of a top 10. Then, when I realized I had more names to write down, I tried to make it to 40. Then, the list kept going. I was glad to have known them for big and small reasons, for short and long amounts of time. They were all important to me, and that was the whole point. I emailed some of them. And some of them will get a Christmas card. In the end, I decided that the cards weren’t enough, but I was glad to give and receive them. It was nice to be thought of. It was nice to think of my friends, which reminded me of the song I wrote in college, the one that went like this: Lucky Am I When you live in a place for only three months at a time When you find a new spot for an hour or so So many faces to meet and always new smiles I guess it’s only natural, some won’t last long But how lucky am I How incredibly lucky am I To have known you To have known you And how lucky am I How incredibly lucky am I To have known you Back then I saw your face several times a day Or our weekly coffee date round the corner in town But then you moved on from there and someone moved in And now it’s just a Christmas card. Guess I’ll talk to you next year But how lucky am I How incredibly lucky am I To have known you To have known you And how lucky am I How incredibly lucky am I To have known you For a short while For a long while Forever and a day For all of my life For a short while For a long while Forever and a day For all of my life How lucky am I to have known you….  This debut novel has it all: a hook, a clear setting, increasingly dire stakes, and a new voice from a character whose circumstances make you wonder, what year is it?
The specifics of Adunni’s journey from ignorance and impotence to knowledge and self-advocacy are perhaps not too surprising. However, Abi Dare writes with an attention to setting and sensory and emotional detail that this reader had to keep turning the page. Adunni’s world is vivid and her needs are urgent. Moreover, Ms. Dare expands her story by giving Adunni a heart for those around her, whether they deserve it or not. She cares not only for herself but also for the rest of the girls in her village who have no chance at choosing their own futures. And she casts forgiveness on her father for the way he treats her like property, forgiving his failures as he succumbs to the pressures of his own circumstances.
Above all, this western reader learns just how difficult it might be for one Nigerian girl to navigate the world, how she must learn when to speak out and when to keep quiet in order to position herself for her next move. This is truly one of those stories that is in high demand from agents, publishers and readers: one that tells an untold story, one that gives voice to a type of person who previously had none. Ms. Dare, however, points no fingers. She acknowledges British rule over Nigeria. She acknowledges Nigerian corruption after independence. She acknowledges the brutality of “jungle justice” practices. She acknowledges the real families in the “jungle” who lean on their own law. It is my understanding that Ms. Dare isn’t asking for a revolution but more asking that we look and see and understand the complexity of all of the stories revealed in the world created in these pages. Ms. Dare is herself a Nigerian native, born in Lagos and educated in the UK, making me wonder how much of this story was researched, and how much of this story was lived. Whatever the case, I was confident that I could rely on this author’s descriptions. My one objection to the text was that it used on an imaginary book of facts in order to provide context to certain chapters and plot points, first making this reader believe that such a source was real and then providing a note at the end explaining that while the book is made up, the facts could be easily found on the internet. I would have appreciated a list of sources rather than just being asked to defer to a Google search, although I understand this would be incongruent with the formatting of a novel. I was hesitant to pick up this book, and as I reflect on why that was, I think it was because I assumed this book was about everything we got wrong in the past, “we” being mainly colonialists. However, after reading it, I feel this book is less a book about the past and more a book about the present, with specific ideas of where to move forward from here. This is a book for now, and having learned that, I feel its momentum, as if it advocates for itself, as if it insists on being passed along to you, the next reader. A friend of mine recently shared an article from the New York Times on healing prayer, and one neuroscientist’s mission to prove that it works. She thought the essay was lovely and knew I would find it interesting. And I did, in fact, find it interesting. Uplifting too. And yet, at the same time, I had to confess to my friend that it also revealed my own unbelief.
My new church in the Chicago area prays for its neighbors. My previous church did this, of course, but my new church does this in specific ways. My previous church drew its congregation from many surrounding towns, and my new church is no different. But each week at my new church, a deacon or support person from the church prays for a specific town included in our draw area and what the people there may be facing. They also pray for specific churches in that town. Occasionally, a specific person is named, but mostly, the names dropped are the names of the towns and the names of the churches. Even so, I have to tell you how powerful it was to sit there with my head bowed and hear the name of my new town and then hear the prayers said with me in mind. Perhaps the church leader had divine inspiration regarding what to pray for, or perhaps I’m just in a stage and season of life where most people need the same things, but whatever the reason, it really felt like the prayers were said specifically for my family and me. I remember a few of them now. I will voice them again, for myself, and for you, reader, should you find yourself in a similar position to mine. On the eve of this new year, as someone in a new place, I pray: For new friendships and belonging For reconciliation in relationships For employment and needs met For closeness to God and his people For love, joy and hope. As for my friend who sent me the article, I told her I had a hard time believing in healing prayer. When my own mother was battling breast cancer, I hedged my bets and prayed for wisdom for the doctors and clear treatment plans. I didn’t pray for a cure. In the Bible, miracles are performed to bring glory to God, which is a way of saying to draw people to him. Will curing my mother bring glory to God? Will my getting a job bring glory to God? I find it easier to imagine that making new friends and hosting community events and actually telling people about God will bring glory to God. I have definitely focused my efforts in these areas in the past. But now I think, maybe it’s okay to ask God for what we want in other areas. Maybe it’s okay to get specific. Maybe it’s not up to me to know ahead of time how the granting or not granting of prayer will be used for God’s glory. Maybe it’s just up to me to pray and lay out the cares of my heart, having the faith that God could intervene, having the faith that he will make all things right in his time. It’s hard, this prayer thing, whether praying for a miracle or praying for something we actually believe we should try to go out and get ourselves. God, give me discernment to know where to put my efforts, and remind me always to begin with you. Amidst all of the strife this year has brought regarding women’s health issues, it was refreshing to hear about one practical step I could take to help women who find themselves with an unexpected pregnancy. After all, that was once me. I remember lying on the ultrasound table and hearing the tech hesitantly ask, “Um, do twins run in your family?” An unexpected pregnancy and twins on top of that. The paper on the examination table rattled as my whole body trembled with the news and I wondered where I would sleep four children under the age of four, including three children under the age of two. It could have been worse. I can remember one woman I visited as a medical student. She knew she was pregnant. She was about 30 weeks along when we saw her. But she wasn’t just pregnant. We also had to inform her that she was pregnant with twins, that her umbilical cord was dangerously positioned such that she needed hospitalization and close monitoring, and on top of that, she had a sexually transmitted disease that indicated her partner had been unfaithful. She didn’t tremble when we told her, but she slowly closed her eyes and stopped talking to us, her medical team, as if closing her eyes might shut out the world too. When friends and neighbors asked what they could do to help me after my own twin delivery, I asked for three things: playdates for my two toddlers, dinners, and diapers. Sure, the latest toys and books and gadgets would have been fine. But first, we needed an abundance of the basics. So when a representative from Caris* climbed the stage at church last month and asked for diapers, my first thought was, “There’s no way we can ever collect enough.” One baby needs thousands of diapers. Our church’s goal of collecting 10,000 diapers this season sounded like a lot, at first, but then again, not very much at all when we heard of how many women and families this organization sought to support. I told myself that this was one of those times that doing something was better than sitting on your hands and worrying you wouldn’t ever solve the whole problem, so the next time I was at Target, I bought two boxes of diapers in the sizes Caris said they needed most. I have purchased diapers from Target countless times over the years. I remember I got into a rhythm with it – watching the sales and making sure to get the bulk discount. On wipes too. Then I would approach the checkout and hope the cashier would ask me about my babies. I wanted someone to witness it. I wanted to explain how many babies I had at home, how I still had four children in diapers and training pull ups, how I still needed emotional support long after the post-partum flurry of gifted diapers and dinners had faded (though I still remain incredibly grateful for all of that – we didn’t cook dinner ourselves for three months after my twins were born). I hadn’t thought about any of that in a long time, but buying diapers last month unearthed it all and made me uncomfortable about approaching the checkout. I didn’t want anyone to assume I had babies at home. I didn’t want to take undue sympathy. And if they asked, I didn’t want to have to explain that the diapers weren’t for me, that I shouldn’t need their sympathy. I didn’t want to explain that I was helping with a diaper drive. Because, wouldn’t that mean that I had it together enough with my own life to help? Wouldn’t that mean that I was claiming I knew best what was needed? Clearly, I was overthinking it, but I still used the self-checkout. Now I think maybe a short conversation with a cashier would have been nice. “No, these aren’t for me, and they aren’t enough for anyone else. But maybe they’ll do a little good. No, my babies are older now, but I still have four of them. Mothering babies is hard, and mothering children is hard, and mothering preteens is hard.” After all, the cashier was probably a mom too. She probably had her own story to tell. We don’t have to hide our stories, though I understand the impulse. And if Caris can help make a difference in the lives of a few new mothers, then maybe they will understand that they don’t need to hide either. Maybe they will understand they are seen and loved, and that there are people out there who want to help come alongside them on their journey too. *Caris is a faith-based nonprofit organization in Chicago that seeks to help women with unplanned pregnancies through counseling and practical support.  |
