My Review of My Name is Lucy Barton by Elizabeth Strout

Tags

abuse, acceptance, connection, Elizabeth Strout, escape, Fiction, goodreads, integrity, life journey, love, My Name is Lucy Barton, review, siblings, the past, the present, trauma

 

It’s been a couple  of days since I finished reading this book and I have been thinking about it since. What makes this book so gripping, almost haunting? It’s certainly not the plot, but definitely the voice of Lucy Barton that conveys the feelings of loneliness and isolation, and her attachment to her past, her family, her parents, and her present, her marriage and her daughters. Written in sparse language, accentuated with repetition to deliver her state of mind, her stream of consciousness, we get glimpses of Lucy’s life, her relationships or lack of relationships, and read between the lines. What is not said is poignant, as well as what has been said. A childhood deprived of love from her parents, poverty, and isolation from  the main stream of life. Lucy begins to read books to escape into another world and stays at school to do her homework to keep warm, rather than go home to the cold garage where her family lived during most of her childhood. Lucy is a good student and she breaks free from her past after her college education.

From Amgash, Illinois to Manhattan, New York, Lucy’s life changes, but the past remains with her as we gather from her conversations with her mother at the hospital where Lucy stays after an operation that has gone wrong. Lucy’s mother spends five days with her while they talk about the people in her hometown. Lives that have gone wrong, people who did well, yet experienced unhappiness in the end. Lucy hasn’t seen her mother for many years and she doesn’t see her for many years afterwards, until she visits her mother at the hospital where she dies. Lucy loves her mother, but her mother is unable to say “I love you.”

As well as the many characters from Amgash, Illinois, there are two important people in Lucy’s life that shape her career as a writer. Sarah Payne, the writer, and Jeremy, the sophisticated neighbour who dies of AIDS. Lucy loves her daughters and does not divorce her husband until they leave home. Yet, what her daughter, Becka, says afterwards is something that will stay with her all her life.

Her past is what makes Lucy. The fact that she comes from ‘nowhere’ is something her mother does not accept. It is also the reason that isolates Lucy from her new surroundings, and her husband. Jeremy says she needs to be ruthless to be a writer. Sarah Payne says, “You’ll have only one story. You’ll write your one story many ways.” Lucy knows if she doesn’t divorce her husband, she will never write another story. She finds another man who comes from ‘nowhere’ and embraces her life, her traumas, her dark side.

 

 

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2294446004

 

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Sunset Café

Tags

connection, flashfiction, loneliness, memories, old age, sadness, sunrise, sunset, the past, the present

 

 

 

Like the flickering sunrays at the end of the day, Emily was at the sunset of her life. The golden ball of light would soon sink into the sea, and disappear temporarily, until its rise the next morning. That was a ninety-nine percent probability. She had witnessed this certainty throughout her life of eighty-five years. The one percent she put aside as a possibility for things that might happen otherwise. Just in case.

Yet, her life, as an aged mortal, offered her no guarantees that enabled her to witness the dawn tomorrow morning. That was a fact. Besides, as an old person, her beauty had faded away while the eternal splendour of the sunrise and the sunset remained. People did not possess the rejuvenating powers of the elements of nature, which made them preserve their appeal, at least for the duration of a human lifetime on Earth. Their bodies and organs deformed, though their souls remained young.

A dismal picture. Decay and die. When exactly the decaying process began, she couldn’t put a finger on. Maybe it starts at birth, or after puberty? Who knows? We only begin to see its visual signs in mid-life, during our forties and the fifties, and it’s downhill from there.

Emily was not a religious person, but thanked her stars for still being in command of her body and mind. Her movements, thoughts and decisions still under her control, she had wanted to go to the seaside café to watch, perhaps, her final sunset.

At the Retirement Home she had moved into five years ago, relenting to her granddaughter’s will, watching sunsets and sunrises was not an option due to the location of the building and its small grounds. From her home, at the top of the hill in the village, she had seen a myriad of memorable episodes of the same scenes, with different variations of light, cloud and wind, making each one unique.

On this glorious day in April, she had risen at first daylight with the wish to see the sunset that day. Her transport arranged by the staff at the Home, she settled into her reserved scenic seat at The Sunset Café. Her handbag and the just-in-case cane next to her, she ordered a glass of Merlot to enjoy the show.

Memories of long gone beloveds on her mind, she sipped her drink as the colours in the sky changed from golden to pink and coral. The orange sun turned into a crimson hue, and sank into the sea.

Emily lit a cigarette and inhaled. Thinking about her long lost daughter and husband, tears welled in her eyes. The loss of a child is the hardest to bear in life. I could have gone, she could have stayed. Life is unfair. Still, believing Bill was up there somewhere with her, gave her some consolation. At least, she’s not alone. My darling, you wouldn’t be able to cope with it. She fought a losing battle with the illness.

Emily’s mobile rang. She fumbled in her handbag, found the phone and pressed the key. “Hello.”

“Nana, how are you?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart. Just watching the sunset, maybe for the last time?”

“Oh, Nana, why the last time? Don’t make me sad.”

“Sorry, Natalie, I didn’t mean to upset you. Just memories.”

“I know, dearest. Listen, I’m coming to pick you up next Friday to stay with us over the weekend.”

“Ah, you’re planning a birthday party?”

“Yes, and without you, I’d be sad. Say, you’ll come.”

“Of course, I’ll come. But I’m hoping you’ll accept a cash gift from me. No nice shops around here to find something special for your fortieth, and I might buy the wrong thing.”

“Thank you, darling Nana. We’ll go shopping together, if you like.”

“I’ll enjoy that, sweetheart.”

“See you, Nana.”

Emily put the phone in her bag and sipped the remainder of her wine. The pinkish brush strokes against the pale blue sky seemed to promise a few more sunsets and sunrises in her life.

 

 

 

Photo credit:

The view from Lapad Bay © raspu / Moment Open / Getty Images

 

 

Full Moon

Tags

connection, full moon, highwayman, magic, mystery, the universe

The full moon, last night, or rather, in the early hours of the morning reminded me of this wonderful poem :

 

The Highwayman

By Alfred Noyes

PART ONE

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding—

         Riding—riding—

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.

They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.

And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,

         His pistol butts a-twinkle,

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.

He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,

         Bess, the landlord’s daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked

Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,

But he loved the landlord’s daughter,

         The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;

Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,

Then look for me by moonlight,

         Watch for me by moonlight,

I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,

But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;

And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,

         (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)

Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

PART TWO

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;

And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,

When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,

A red-coat troop came marching—

         Marching—marching—

King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.

But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.

Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!

There was death at every window;

         And hell at one dark window;

For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.

They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!

“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—

Look for me by moonlight;

Watch for me by moonlight;

I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!

She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years

Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,

         Cold, on the stroke of midnight,

The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.

Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.

She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;

For the road lay bare in the moonlight;

         Blank and bare in the moonlight;

And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,

The highwayman came riding—

         Riding—riding—

The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!

Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.

Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,

Then her finger moved in the moonlight,

         Her musket shattered the moonlight,

Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood

Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!

Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear

How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,

         The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,

Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,

With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.

Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;

When they shot him down on the highway,

         Down like a dog on the highway,

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

.       .       .

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

A highwayman comes riding—

         Riding—riding—

A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

 

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.

He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,

         Bess, the landlord’s daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/43187

The Healer

Tags

addiction, agony, animals, clairvoyance, connection, devotion, flora and fauna, gossip, gratitude, healer, healing, helping, herbs, lotions, love, nature's gifts, people, plants, potions, sadness, seer, slander, therapeutic, witch

 A woman’s story for Women’s Day and Women’s History Month

Amber left the last town behind her, deciding village life would be better for her. All she wanted to do was to help people with her gift, but it always back-fired. After the gossip and slander, she had ended up as an outcast. The medical authorities criticized her, calling her a charlatan, a witch, and a quack with a sick mind. The people she healed were grateful and awarded her with donations though she never asked for a fee. Going from town to town, she sometimes stopped at fair grounds and practised her clairvoyance skills. She would sit in a stall and feel the people before they walked in. A single glance into their eyes told her their stories and their future, a future sometimes she felt she should not impart.

She arrived at a charming seaside village called Mermaid’s Cove and strolled down the narrow cobbled streets, looking around. Not too big, not too small, this is just fine. A two-storey stone house with an overgrown garden came into view. She felt sadness coming through its windows. The drapes drawn tight across. The front door looked forlorn, its paint chipped and splintered, colour faded. An estate agent’s sign caught her attention and she stepped in.

“I’m looking for a house to rent. The stone house around the corner, is it available? It looks deserted.”

“No, madam, that house is occupied. A lady lives there with her daughter. I have a small cottage by the woods if you’d like. It’s in perfect condition and has a lovely garden.”

When Amber saw the cottage of honey-coloured stone and a thatched roof, she fell in love and rented it. In the village, she bought a bicycle, some provisions, and returned to spend her first night in her new home. Before she went to sleep, thoughts crossed her mind. Never deal with people, again. A castaway in a sea-side village, that’s what I’m going to be.

The new day dawned with the sounds of nature. Birds chirping, a squirrel munching nuts on a tree by the open window. She stood and watched, inhaling the sweet aroma of the herbs and blossoms. Sitting in the garden with a cup of tea, she observed her new surroundings vibrant with the activity of the flora and the fauna.

Over the following days, Amber discovered herbs in the meadows and the forest she could make her potions from. She called all animals in distress to her garden. They came, with their injured limbs, wounds, bites, and many birds with broken wings. She healed them applying her lotions and treatments, gave them love and set them free once they recovered from their ailments.

The children of the village visited her garden and saw the animals recuperating. They called her Lady Healer, and brought their pets in need of attention. Amber told them stories about the animals and the therapeutic plants that helped them. The word spread with the wind and even the village Vet brought her cases he had difficulties dealing with. Sometimes she went along with him to farms in the neighbourhood and helped him diagnose the problems.

One day a woman came to her door. Amber took one look at her and knew she was the lady who owned the stone house in the village.

“Hi,” she said, “Can I help you?”

“I believe you can.”

“You’re in pain. Someone close to you is in distress.”

“Can you help, please?”

“I only deal with animals, not with people.”

“But you’re a healer, aren’t you?”

“That’s what people say. I try to help the animals in pain. People hurt me if I perform healing on them.”

“I understand how some people can be cruel and ungrateful. If I tell you I have spent a fortune trying to cure my daughter’s addiction, would you believe me?”

“I can see it, yet, like I said …”

“If I tell you she’s only twenty-eight, her teeth are falling from crack cocaine and she only weighs forty-five kilos, would you consider it? I’ve tried everything. Psychologists, psychiatrists, rehab, acupuncture, hypnotism … nothing worked. Meanwhile, I have sold and spent the funds from four properties. My house here is the last property I own, inherited from my parents. If I don’t give her money, she goes into prostitution. She’s had three abortions, and the last one was after five months of pregnancy. Murder, but that baby would never be normal. If I give her money, she indulges. Please help.”

Amber looked at the mother’s anguished face and pondered. “Does she want to be healed? If not, nothing will work.”

“She does, yet doesn’t want to go through any of the treatments again.”

Amber sighed, this was a test. “If she does, she must come here and tell me. I have one condition. No one must know.”

“You have my word. I’ll never tell anyone. Thank you.”

Jade, the young woman with a hazy, green gaze showed up at Amber’s doorstep the next morning. Her eyes spoke, yet Amber needed to hear it.

“Help me, please.”

“I need an assistant to look after my animals, convalescing. They need love and care. Can you do it, regularly, on my schedule?”

“I love animals.”

“Good. Follow me.”

Amber showed her the herbs and plants stacked in jars on the shelves in the kitchen, and instructed her about their therapeutic qualities. Marigold, coriander, lemon balm, mint, mullein, thyme, oregano, rosemary, lavender, chamomile, St John’s wort, capers, sage, nettles and wild mushrooms. Then, her herbal mixtures for different remedies. Afterwards, she made a list for Jade’s chores.

Each day before Jade left, Amber gave a her a cup of herb tea. A week later, Jade’s eyes looked brighter, her skin fresh and youthful. She was good with the animals, she spoke their language.

At the end of three months, Jade, completely rehabilitated, continued her education to become a veterinary physician, and helped Amber with the animals during her school-breaks.

Amber cycled down to the harbour, sat on a bench and watched the sea. Castaway on a fishing village to save a soul …