Book Review - A Trick Of The Light by Louise Penny

Once again Louse Penny blows my mind with a smash hit!  A Trick of the Light, her seventh in the Chief Inspector Gamache series, has surprised and astonished me.

After seven volumes of her novels, plus a near daily reading of her very candid and personal blog, I feel like I know Louse Penny pretty well.  We've even enjoyed some personal correspondence.  Still, the depth and breadth of her imagination, coupled with the richness of her humanity, leave me stunned every time I finish and reluctantly close one of her books.

I don't spoil novels by even dropping hints about their contents.  This time, though, I'm tempted.  There is so much I would like to tell you.  So much I'd like to entice you with.  As always, I'd like to suggest you go back to the beginning and start with Still Life.  This series is best enjoyed in order.  I know lots of people who've read one or two out of order and say they stand alone just fine.  It may seem so, lacking the big picture.  But the series is becoming more and more, for me, all about the big picture.  About my own big picture.  As if Louse knew me as well as I think I know her.

Now, as I am a Mormon, and as I have a mostly Mormon audience on LIVE AND LEARN; it has come time to talk about the elephant in the room.  This volume is quite abundant in its use of the F-Bomb.  Perhaps I should address this issue separately, but this is the time it matters most for me, so shoulds aside, I'm going to address it now.

I don't like that word.  It curdles my blood.  I wish it never existed.  I rejoice that nothing worse seems to be emerging in it's wake; but as its use becomes ever more common I don't think I'll ever be resigned to hearing or reading it.  I could, and previously have written diatribes about the crude, base, degrading ignorance it represents.

That said, I still recommend this book.  Please be patient and let me tell you why.  There is a reason people use such vile language, perhaps several.  Usually, it is associated with a desperation to be heard.  More and more humanity is crying out for relevance and meaning.  More and more, that desperation has invaded mainstream lives.  When we were in Montreal, a tour guide informed us of the hundreds of empty churches in that once devout city.  It is happening everywhere.  People have cut their moorings and in many cases justifiably so.  Subsequent generations have often never known the blessing of being tied to something stable, reliable.  Myriads are adrift, frustrated, and increasingly desperate for safe harbor, anchorage.

Is it any wonder that desperate to be heard, frustrated, they turn to language that calls attention to their plight?  In my work with fellow addicts I encounter such desperation on a regular basis.  My heart is filled with compassion for them.  The more I listen, really listen to their hearts, the less desperate they become to be heard and the less frequently they lash out with such language.  They are hurting and like the woman in labor, who often says things she would ordinarily not say; I feel to excuse them.

I don't like the F-word, but today it has new meaning for me.  It is no longer the expletive of a scum bag, but a cry for help.  A plea for compassion; which all to often is met with rejection that compounds the agony of the drifting soul who uses it.

Please don't be tempted to judge Louise Penny for sharing, in a frank and poignant way, what I am so feebly trying to express.  I guess she could soft petal the desperation, loneliness and emptiness of which this word is so common a symptom, by somehow toning it down; but then, I for one, would not have learned the lesson.

Louise, herself, is not so crass, nor is Chief Inspector Gamache.  I take comfort in that.  It gives me comfort that neither she nor her protagonist are adrift and that their example and centeredness are so juxtaposed to the other that we can see, and so, want what they have.

There is a difference between prudence and prudishness.  If you choose the former, you will love this book (The previous volumes are not nearly so full of such language.  This one is.  For a reason.)  If you choose the latter, you won't benefit from the story either, probably.

A Trick Of The Light is about contrasts, about opposition, about light amid darkness.  If you refuse to consider the darkness, you'll hardly appreciate the light.

A Trick Of The Light is about honesty, about the truths and lies we tell ourselves, and others.  It is about truth's effect on relationships.  Truth is I am better and more honest with myself for having read this important book.

Way to go Louise.  A Trick of the Light is your best yet.  Bury Your Dead is still my favorite.  But this one is certainly your best.

Five glorious Stars

My review of Louise Penny's Bury Your Dead.

Book Review - The Miracle of Freedom - 7 Tipping Points that Saved the World by Chris and Ted Stewart

Seldom has a book held such a soul deep captivity on my attention as Miracle of Freedom - Seven Tipping Points that Saved the World!

It is so easy to take the liberty we enjoy for granted; or it has been.  It is not so easy any longer.  I will always cherish the journey this book took me through to arrive at my current and profound appreciation for what we've been so freely given.

Of the 110 or so billion people who have lived on this planet only about four percent have lived under any privilege resembling the freedom we currently enjoy.  The rest, the great majority, have languished under oppression so appalling as to make me wonder how it could possibly be.  How could human beings be so cruel, thoughtless, greedy?  Speaking of the privileged and abusive few.  Or, how could the masses be so passive, in their squalor, deprivation and subjection?  Then you are forced to realize that for millennia, no one knew of or thought of life any other way.

I was amazed at how Stewart and Stewart made such a profound case for such obscure moments in world history.  I was amazed at how few were the brave souls who stood against oppression to give us what we now enjoy.  Clearly, the blessing of liberty was not the norm.  Clearly, it took thousands of years to prepare the earth for what we currently seem to take for granted.  Certainly, the hand of God was in those pivotal moments when, against overwhelming odds, a few brave men and women stood against forces that would have prevented progress toward this glorious age of abundance and emancipation.

This book is an interesting read; full of stories, miracles, inspiration and awe.  I could hardly put it down.  It filled my heart with gratitude and hope; while it reminded me how fragile and temporary our freedom might be, should we lose track of its value and lose courage for the constant battle that is required to maintain it.  Left to itself, the natural tendency is toward decay and so it is with individual liberty.

I will never again look at my blessed freedom with such careless disregard.  The depth of my gratitude, as I write this, amazes me.  How could one little book make such a profound difference?

Somehow, as I read the book I realized that freedom doesn't emerge on a national or global scale before it emerges in individual lives and hearts.  Many of those to whom we owe so much had personally climbed out of the captivity of ignorance, fear, doubt, excess and depravity long before they gave that gift to their fellow citizens.  So it must also be, with us.

Five Stars!

Surrender

As usual, I am up in the night.  That's right.

I don't know anybody who tries harder than I do, with less results.  Or, so I've been telling myself lately.  My frustration level has been through the roof.  I'd better not bore you with the details.  Suffice it to say that lately, no, for as long as I can remember, every thing I touch seems to turn to crap.  It seems like I have the anti-Midas touch.

I subscribe to the notion that if you find yourself in a hole the best thing to do is quit digging.  I have have made Herculean efforts to do that.  Still, it seems the hole is digging itself.  It's as if all my previous digging created some sort of inertia that has become self perpetuating.

My pit of bondage keeps growing, exponentially.

Tonight I found myself complaining that my belief in Mosiah 7:33 has become sorely shaken.  The promise of relief from bondage was offered if I would turn to the Lord with full purpose of heart and serve Him will all diligence of mind.  I have accepted that it must come on the Lord's time table and in His own way.  I had hoped that my burdens might be lightened in the interim; but they only seem to get heavier.  So I beat myself up for having something less that full purpose of heart, something less than all diligence of mind.  Having lost my mind, its a wonder I can apply any diligence at all.

I went back and reviewed my service of the past several months.  I also examined my faithfulness and examples of my application of trust.  Both seemed to fall into the Second Mile category.  So why am I still sinking deeper into this pit of bondage and despair?

With no small measure of gnashed teeth and clenched fists, I seethed, "If I could sweat all the sweat, and cry all the tears, and bleed all the blood in the world, it still wouldn't be good enough, would it!"

To which the Spirit quietly replied, "That's right."

Movie Review - Lark Rise To Candleford

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I've watched a lot of television my 61 years, and never have I enjoyed a program so much as BBC's Lark Rise To Candleford.  Adapted from Flora Thompson's trilogy by the same name, (which I am currently reading by the way) the series, in four seasons, depicts rural life in a village and neighboring hamlet of Oxfordshire, England of the late 19th Century.

This program demonstrates the obvious advantage of series television, for the development and history of each character can hardly be so well addressed in any shorter form of video entertainment.  Each character is rich in purpose, meaning, individuality and charm, and I loved them, every one.

The stories were heart warming, inspirational, credible and informative.  It was indeed a different time and place.  One which we would all do well to experience and appreciate.  Even in the late 1800's change was causing difficult problems and while different than the troublesome changes we are experiencing, much might be gained if we were to consider them from Candleford's distant perspective.

We all have wonderful roots in the working classes of our past.  It has done my heart good to gain a greater appreciation for what it is they did, that we might so easily ride upon their shoulders.  But, lest you think this a dreary proposition, don't be dissuaded, the charm, good cheer, courage and wisdom of these workers of the land are truly inspirational and often downright hilarious.

The casting was superb.  I cannot imagine a single character better cast by someone else.  The stories, festivals, culture and times literally came alive in every episode.

We got them through Netflix and felt it was a bargain.  We are hoping the kids might get together and give us the series to own, perhaps for Christmas.  We expect to watch it again and again!

Five enthusiastic Stars

The Interloper - Chapter One

There he is again, creeping through my subconscious.  Shadowy, filmy, lying opposite me in my bed.  Why is it he instead of Sweetie?  I reach, but he is gone.  I get up to find her at the computer, weary, but wide awake.  I wander back to bed to find it empty.  I crawl in and slip away from awareness.  Later, turning, I sense warmth beside me.  Startled, I strain to see in the ambient light, and relax; it is she, not he.  I close my eyes and it seems I see better than before.  There in the semi-darkness I see his shadow slip down the hall, or do I?.  Up, I search the house.  Nothing is amiss.  I have to pee and waking, I climb out of bed with a feeling of dread.  I can't go back to sleep so I read in hopes drowsiness will return before dawn.

I fall asleep in the recliner, covered, cozy.  Later, my back stiff, I move to my bed and find him lying beside her.  I reach for the bat I keep behind the bedroom door but turning back he is gone.  It has happened so many times before, I shake it off and climb beneath the covers and warm my cold feet near her warm ones.  Arising, I find the dishes done and suppose Sweetie has done them in the night.  


The church bells are ringing, it is seven o'clock, better get up.  I am surprised to find myself in the recliner, though I remember coming down to read.  My heart is sick and my muscles ache.  I walk to the kitchen.  Somehow, I am surprised the dishes need washing.  Something's not right?  Of course they're not done, we left them that way when we went to bed.  I wish I could go back to bed.

                                                 _____


I've had this recurring dream.  Not quite a nightmare, but very nearly.  For years, I only remembered having had it previously, while dreaming it again.  I would awaken disturbed and out of sorts, but with no conscious recollection of what had strummed the discordant string I felt still vibrating in my soul.  I only know it reoccurred over time because when I finally awoke amid the dream, I knew what was going to transpire next; and it did.

Over time I have learned to observe my dreams from a vantage point near consciousness, but shy of wakefulness.  I don't know what to call this state.  It is rather like watching a movie.  I can observe the dream and be an outside observer of the action and still remain in the darkened theater of sleep.  I don't always get this privilege, but it happens often in my Interloper dream.

Sometimes I can even observe things in the wakeful world without waking myself.  In the case of the Interloper, this ability only enhances the agony and wonder of it.

                                                _____


I've named the Interloper.  I call him Echo.  Echo, because it's as if I never really see him, just the echo of him.  I know echo refers to sound, but in my dream he is an echo of light.  Its as though he's vanished just before I see him, but the vision is still somehow bouncing off the walls.  Sometimes it is not the walls; but the faces of loved ones.  It's as if there is a flash of delight in their eyes, that suddenly disappears at seeing me.  I can't tell if I really saw it, or just hoped I did.  Somehow, I sense a flicker of shock in them, like sucking a straw expecting soda and getting water.  Shock, and disappointment.  In my dream, it seems Echo precedes me everywhere I go.  And disappointment follows.