2026 #8 Raising Hare (Dalton)

 

Raising Hare: A Memoir by Chloe Dalton
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

We can start with the fact that I've never really given a lot of thought to rabbits and hares being distinct animals, although it registered somewhere in the back-burner of my brain. I think I'm probably not alone. Dalton's memoir sets out to change that, at least in passing. When she encounters an abandoned leveret (baby hare), her life is forever changed (and that isn't hyperbole). Yes, it is a story of one woman and and at least at first, one hare. But it is also a very thoughtful meditation on the fragile ecosystem and how humans must struggle to maintain some sort of precarious equilibrium, as the balance was long ago upset. Dalton is transparent about her struggles and her questions (of herself, of the relatively isolated world of hare-related knowledge, of her little furry friend(?)). It is this questioning that keeps things from falling into the trap of an overly saccharine and anthropomorphized tale. She reels us in with her narrative in such a way that we find ourselves holding our breath as she writes of circling hawks and various other garden predators, any of whom would like a lunch of leveret. She introduces us to previous chronicles offered by hunters, poachers, and poets alike, who offer musings and (mis)characterizations of these enigmatic animals. Dalton seems conscious of adding her voice to the small trove of information so that sometime in the future, another leveret-encounterer might turn to her memoir for assistance.

The hare is never named and this is ultimately an act of respect, but, also, one suspects, an act of self-preservation. While Dalton works hard not to domesticate the animal, there is something else -- some undefined opportunity to commune (sort of) with another species. I picked this up in the airport because I had heard about it and I wanted something short enough to finish over the course of two shorter flights. I might not have gotten around to it otherwise, so I'll thank not only the airport bookstore, but also Denise Nestor's gorgeous illustration on the front cover (and those that are included inside the book as well). It is truly a delightful and tender read.

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2023 #33: Braiding Sweet Grass (Kimmerer)

 

Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants by Robin Wall Kimmerer
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Robin Wall Kimmerer, in her own voice on the audiobook, brings forth the lessons of sweetgrass and so much more, with compassion, erudition, and occasionally a tone that manages to embrace both anger and sadness. The main theme of the book advocates for regenerative reciprocity, a concept embodied by much of the natural world and echoed in the practices of many Indigenous peoples. Rather than Hardin's "Tragedy of the Commons", Kimmerer envisions an "Economy of the Commons", wherein "resources fundamental to our well-being...are commonly held rather than commodified." She balances her narrative in order to keep the vision in arms reach, or at least parts of it that we might endeavor to create.

A botanist and enrolled member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation, Kimmerer braids together the teachings of plants and those of her ancestors to create a work that is reminiscent of the "poetic sensibility" of Loren Eiseley, and gives rise to the increasingly popular work of people like Peter Wohlleben. The book is packed with information about indigenous culture and plant life, in equal measure, and the main criticism I have is that it could use a stronger editorial hand in places. There are moments when a metaphor starts to wear a bit thin, losing a bit of its "oomph" through constant repetition. However, these moments (which seem to increase toward the end of the book) are minor inconveniences in the face of what Kimmerer accomplishes.

Take language, for example. Kimmerer boldly weaves in linguistics to support her main contentions. Indigenous language offers concepts that bring us nearer to a true understanding of the natural world versus science, which she calls "a language of distance" (mind you, one in which she is fluent and leverages in powerful ways). In the chapter "Learning the Grammar of Animacy" she writes of the Potawotami language (an Anishinaabe dialect), wherein a noun such as "bay" (wiikegama)-- a body of water in English--is actually a verb--more "to be a bay"-- because it is living, part of the natural world. This respect for and lack of objectification of natural elements is a key point of contention between colonialist thought and indigenous thought, and as Kimmerer shows, really creates tremendous knots in our ability to co-exist peacefully with our natural world.

'To be a bay' holds the wonder than for this moment, the living water has decided to shelter itself between these shores, conversing with cedar roots and a flock of baby mergansers. Because it could do otherwise--become a stream or an ocean or a waterfall--and there are verbs for that too.

She talks about the relationship between reciprocity and restoration and this idea that reciprocity is the real requirement for sustainability of our restorative efforts. It isn't the land that is damaged, she says, but the relationship we have to it. I think that is largely true, but it is a sound byte that doesn't get as thoroughly interrogated as it might.

Whether it is her own struggles with clearing pond scum so that her daughters might swim, embracing the multitudes contained in a strawberry, or illuminating the ecological ramifications of strategic and not-strategic harvesting, Kimmerer's book (first published in 2013) provides a path forward that may not save us at this juncture, but would undoubtedly make us better citizens of the planet.



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2023 #32: How Far the Light Reaches: A Life in Ten Sea Creatures (Imbler)

 

How Far the Light Reaches: A Life in Ten Sea Creatures by Sabrina Imbler
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is a remarkable book that manages to combine "memoir with marine biology" as the podcast Science Friday put it (which was the impetus for me to put the book on my reading list). What keeps it from a full five stars for me is the whiplash between the two, but I'll address that in a bit.

The words after the colon in the title are important here: A Life in Ten Sea Creatures. Imbler is a very gifted writer who sets upon the task of creating substantial and meaningful metaphor through ten creatures: the goldfish, the octopus, the sturgeon, the sperm whale, the yeti crab, the sand striker, the butterflyfish, the salp, the cuttlefish, and the immortal jellyfish. Imbler hones in on the characteristics and circumstances of each of these creatures and connects to those as a queer and mixed-race person. Ira Flatow's interview didn't quite prepare me for the level of intimacy that Imbler brings to this book, but I am better for it. The metaphors are not forced, but seem to blossom forth: "They are one of the best-studied jellyfish in the world, and yet no one noticed the moon jelly's power of regeneration until someone gave it time and trust that it might grow into itself." Often, it is the passages focused on the sea creatures where Imbler offers their most potent observations. There are passages that brought me to tears: "But life always finds a place to begin anew, and communities in need will always find one another and invent new ways to glitter, together, in the dark"--some of them hopeful, some of them recognizing the darkness in the depths of identity.

And this is very much a book about identity and taxonomy--biological and social. There are moments where just as you are caught up in either the science or the memoir, however, the prose switches abruptly. This seems like a stylistic choice on Imbler's part, but it didn't work for me, as I felt yanked out of things just as I was connecting to the intimacy of their narratives. I worry that the title and marketing (the Science Friday interview downplays the memoir side) might mean potential readers may miss out if deep sea creatures aren't a ready-made point of interest. Imbler's personal experiences no doubt mirror that of many queer youths, swimming in the murky waters of identity. I hope they know this book is for them, because Imbler's words reach up from the bottom like a kelp forest toward the light, and everyone is better for it. Perhaps if we could all embrace a little bit more of ourselves in the creatures we know and don't yet know, existence might be a bit less fraught.

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2022 #40 The Heartbeat of Trees (Wohlleben)

The Heartbeat of Trees by Peter Wohlleben
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I don't typically like the word "accessible" (at least in this context) because I think it comes loaded with bias and subtexts that don't really serve anyone, but this book does a remarkable job of blending solid research (yay! there are endnotes!), personal anecdotes, and let's say inspirational sensibility, if such a thing exists. Particularly wonderful is the way that Wohlleben tests his own cynic at times. I was prepared for a diatribe against some of the more touchy-feely assertions made by the tree-loving community, but Wohlleben's success lies in his willingness to explore all facets of an issue. He patiently explains how voltage works when it comes to touching trees, but also how our touch can impact plants through thigmomorphogenesis. Somehow the author manages to introduce a term like thigmomorphogenesis without losing his inviting tone. Part of this is because it is a story of Wholleben's learning instead of a simple narrative of what he has learned. There are a few awkward bits of English translation, particularly for English speakers in the US, but they shouldn't disrupt one's ability to appreciate this book.
Most valuable is how Wohlleben disrupts conventional/popular notions: e.g. using wood is NOT carbon-neutral. He seems to believe we all have a part to play -- forest-bathers, foresters, lumber companies alike-- and he often offers an idea of a solution (though we lack the blueprint for said solutions). A good read, and perhaps mildly frustrating as there were many times I wanted to put it down to go walk in the forest. :-)

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