Exquisite Litle Gems

This summer I've been taking an online field course in butterfly identification and ecology. Online and field may seem like contradicting terms, but, as with most things in the world of 2020, even nature has moved onto the internet. This format, of video chats and lectures interspersed with self-directed field work, is ideal for me this summer, when leaving home is both difficult (we are down to two vehicles for the three adults in the house, and the two of them with real jobs get dibs) and terrifying (I'm not sure which is scarier, the deadly virus or the lawn signs and flags championing the two people responsible for making the United States so virulent). When I need a break from writing or editing or housework or the inside of my own head, I grab my net, my binoculars, and my field guide and walk up the driveway to where our wild, raggedy field meets our neighbors' manicured lawn. Here on the edge, where milkweed blooms, is where I find most of my butterflies.

And find butterflies I do! Almost every day that I go out, as long as the sun is shining, I discover new-to-me species. In the six weeks of the class so far, I've identified more than 40 species of butterfly, about three-quarters of which I've never seen before, and even more of which I've never seen here on our property. How can I have missed all these exquisite little gems of creatures that have been here, sipping nectar and dancing over the flowers, for the last twenty years? It's as if my dresser drawers are full of emeralds and sapphires and rubies that I never notice because all I do is reach in and pull out socks and underwear.

I can draw two conclusions from this oversight: 1) I'm a rubbish naturalist; or 2) we don't truly see what we don't look for. There are a lot of terrible things going on in the world today—illness, death, vicious people intentionally trying to make others less safe, other people doing the same out of ignorance. I go looking for these stories every day when I read the news. But there must be other stories out there, too, the exquisite gems of courage, kindness, and generosity, if only we knew how to look.

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Book Stack ~ June 2020

My 2020 book challenge—to read 50 books from the stack by my bed (and other unread volumes already in the house). Previous months here: January, February, March, April, May.



June's reading stack was a good mix of escapist and serious, and though the stack is tall, only two of them count for my goal of reading 50 books already in my house (ordering used books online is just too darn easy).

In the escapist category, I ready three novels in one of my favorite sub-genres—vintage romantic suspense—My Brother Michael and Airs Above the Ground, both by Mary Stewart, and Black is the Color of My True Love's Heart by Ellis Peters, the latter being the one contribution in this category from my book stack (a library book sale find). These were all a delight. I've waxed rhapsodic about Mary Steward before, here and here, so I won't repeat myself. As for Ellis Peters, I'd only read her Brother Cadfael books a long time ago, so it was fun to read a contemporary (as in 50 year old) book by her.

In a more serious vein, I've been continuing to try to get myself caught up on nature writing. Writing the Western Landscape, edited by Ann Zwinger (the other book from the stack), includes selections from Mary Austin and John Muir. I'd never read Austin before but have always meant to, so it was nice to have this introduciton. I've got two of her books waiting in the wings and I'm looking forward to reading more. The Muir selections were interesting—one about the Grand Canyon that was clearly written for a popular audience and one about Alaska from his journals. I had started this book months ago and put it aside in the midst of the Grand Canyon piece, which is over the top purple prose. But I made myself pick it back up and the Alaska writing is so beautifully wrought, so subltly humorous, so truly lovely. It's fascinating how an audience—real or perceived—can influence a writer's style so much (also I'm sure the passage of time and development of skill plays a role). I hope to pick up Muir's Alaska journals someday soon.

I also read The Nature Fix: How Nature Makes us Happier, Healthier, and More Creative. I don't often pick up straight nonnarrative nonfiction, but I'm interested in this topic of course, and under the current circumstances, which are indeed stressful, I'm even more interested in how nature can help keep us healthy and sane. It's a fascinating read and should be in the hands of every teacher, doctor, and policy maker.

Finally, I read The Inland Island, by Josephine Johnson, who is a new discovery for me. This book, written about the plot of undeveloped land in the midst of encroaching suburbs where the author lived for most of her life, is magical. Her descriptions of the natural world are lovely, and her brief commentaries on war (Vietnam was happening at the time of her writing) are powerful.

What have you been reading?