this book of letters is so exquisite! i've devoured it-- watching the intimacy grow between these two poets over the sharing of the small things that become profound is so, well, extraordinary really-- from the cautious formality of the first handful of letters to the movement toward the familiar and fond-- nicknames and "love" to close--and then the beginning to reveal personal crises and preoccupations--
to share hearts and the pain in them-- as silko writes: " i believe more than ever that it is in sharing stories of our grief that we somehow can make sense out-- no, not make sense out of these things...but through stories from each other we can feel that we are not alone, that we are not the first and the last to confront losses such as these..." (68), and that stories need to be told BY our hearts
-- but then to have experienced this power of correspondence myself-- with friends throughout the years, since 7 year old pen-pal-ing, into this year of daily correspondence with a dear colleague-- this makes the connection to the living, breathing text that much deeper--
like, they write about PLACE-- wright responds to this beautiful lyric meditation of silko's saying "[when you love a place, really and almost hopelessly love it, i think you love it even for its signs of disaster, just as you come to realize how you love the particular irregularities and even the scars on come person's face.]" (32)
and then there are these little gems.... about the possibility that "childhood [can leave] ....an eternal summer in [one's] heart" (34)
and about roosters....
and about the art of making lace, and this wondering why something like this-- so impractical and so time/energy intensive-- survives centuries...
and about love and attachment--wright references spinoza, saying "that the human being is a miraculous creature, and his miracle consists of his capacity for love. he can love anything, from an atom all the way to god. but it is just here...that the tragic difficulty arises. for man must realize that his capacity for love gives him no right to demand that anyone love him in return. not anyone. not even god. i have found that a hard thing to face, but there is something in it that goes beyond pain...." (46)heartbreaking
and OMG wright writes :) too about poems in this way that rings so true: "now they [his new poems] will lie there by themselves for a while until they change. they almost always do. a poem is a very odd duck. it goes through changes-- in form and color-- when you leave it alone patiently, just as surely as a plant does, or an animal, or any other creature. have you ever read a book by someone which you KNOW has been written too quickly and impatiently and then published too soon? such books always remind me of tomatoes or oranges that have been picked still green and then squirted full of artificial colors. they look nice on supermarket shelves, and they taste awful. i remember reading such books and feeling the glands under my chin begin to ache. they made me feel as though i were getting the mumps." (58)
and then THIS: "i feared i might be imposing on your private feelings by offering you a glipse of one of my own scars. But no one could live with such passionate imagination, and write as beautifully as you write, without bearing some scars also, and it was these that i wanted to tell you i recognize and-- in my own way-- bless. we all seem doomed to a freedom to choose between indifference and sadness...." (73)--
and silko's reply: " in that way we help each other-- i never thought about it-- it just felt like something i must write to you. i am overwhelmed sometimes and feel a great deal of wonder at words, just simple words and how deeply we can touch each other with them...." (74)
god, it's incredible--
and there is such compassion between them-- and how they share their writing...and their travels and teaching lives; there's the reality of their difference in age (silko 31ish and wright in his 60s(?)) but their kindredness is so apparent and so sweet-- and it is SO apparent that this corresponding-- this conversation-- is inspiring each of them....
and then this tragedy of an ending...silko's last letter, that wright never read... in which she closes with this: " it is so overwhelming to see your writing on the post card and to feel how much i miss your letters. there is no getting around this present time and place even when i feel you and i share this other present time and place...i treasure the words you write-- your name most of all. but no matter if written words are seldom because we know, jim, we know...." (105)
i am just sitting with that now--
i love this book-- it's authenticity-- these voices, these stories, these lives, intertwined.....