Olive, Again by Elizabeth Strout

Elizabeth Strout's Olive, Again only confirms her as one of my favorite contemporary writers of literary fiction.

The temperamental Olive in her later decades demonstrates qualities that only come with experience and self-reflection, enabling her to be an instrument of grace to others. She is still a straight-shooter who sees things unvarnished, her truthfulness sometimes abrasive.

The stories in this book revisit characters from Strout's fictional world of Crosby, Maine. 

This was a hard story to read. At age 67, my husband and I have undergone several surgeries this year. I am all too aware of the brevity of life and how we allow ourselves to be propelled through the years impassively until some change in our abilities stops us up short. We reconsider our mistakes; our view of the past and its relationships become torqued with new understanding. We wonder how we could have allowed love to become a battleground, fear to fence us from our dreams. We become invisible, an unwanted portend to others of their own inevitable future. We recognize that we are strangers to each other--and are incomprehensible even to ourselves.

What kind of life can we live in these ever-shortening days? The answer is in the line that had me in tears: "I think our job--maybe even our duty--is to--" Her voice became calm, adultlike. "To bear the burden of the mystery with as much grace as we can."

Life is a mystery. People are a mystery. There are no answers, no easy to follow instructions to guarantee success and happiness. 

Like Ranier Maria Rilke wrote in his Letters to a Young Poet, we must "be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked doors and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer."*

I don't know if Olive's story is completed. And I am not sure I want to follow her to her end. It's all too close to home. Strout is a fearless writer who dares to confront us with things that disturb our equilibrium. We recognize ourselves in her characters. 

I read a free ebook from the publisher through NetGalley. My review is fair and unbiased.

Olive, Again
by Elizabeth Strout
Random House Publishing Group - Random House
Pub Date 15 Oct 2019
ISBN 9780812996548
PRICE $27.00 (USD)

* excerpted from Letters to a Young Poet by Ranier Maria Rilke, translation by M. D. Herter Norton, W. W. Norton & Company

Earworms

The last few weeks have been rife with earworms. You know--music playing continually in one's head. 

There was Eric Satie's music which I listened to again after reading The Vexations by Caitlin Horrocks. In particular, The Gnossienne No.1 stayed in my head.

Satie's music was followed by Suite Judy Blue Eyes after reading The Fourteenth of September by Rita Dragonette. Her main character's nickname came from the Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young album that was such a hit in 1969-70.

Last week I finally saw Jersey Boys about the Four Seasons. Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You was one of the first 45 records I ever bought in 1966. I can sing all of the words, and it's in my range.

Last month I came across Songs My Mother Sang Me and I played it over and over on Youtube, then found I had piano music for it and have been trying to learn to play it. So heartbreaking.

During the July Fourth fireworks display, which takes place in the city park a block away, I took our grandpuppy into the finished basement to be away from the noise. I turned on my iPad music to Gordon Bok, songs which always felt calming. One of the songs I played was Seal Djiril's Hymn.

It broke my heart. The music has this sad wistfulness, this longing and regret.

The summer after I graduated from Temple University my husband and I went to the Philadelphia Folk Festival, camping in an open field. The music was a wonder. One of the singers we were introduced to was Camden Maine's Gordon Bok.

We were smitten by Bok's rich baritone voice and amazing instrumental skills. He sang the most beautiful songs about the sea and fishermen and a vanishing life, and rich legends and stories shared in song.

Seal Djiril's Hymn is sung by Bok and Anne Mayo Muir. You can hear it on Youtube here.

Long are the days gone, andiranda
Long down the sad and windy years
Long from the land of our desire

Rain comes and wind and snow, andiranda
Stormcloud and squall do shroud the sea
And peace shall follow us no more

Now through the hollowing green wave we wander
Long down the stormy seas and sad
Long from the land of our desire

Years when the sun was our provider
Milk of the meadows gathering
Winds brought the riches to our door

Now are the days come, andiranda
When to the seas again we go
Now do we cry for those green years

Why, when the winnowing sun was keeping
All of our harvest and our toil
Made we no peace among our kind?

Why, when the summering wave was swinging
And all our hills and trees were green
Did we not sow our fields with love?

Hearing the song again left me heartbroken. Because it was so long ago that we first heard Bok. Because of the place his music had in our shared life, including the mixed tape my husband made for when I was in labor with our son. Because it has been so many years since we last saw Bok in performance, when he and Anne Mayo Muir and Ed Trickett came to Lansing, MI, Bok ill and unable to sing. And because the song itself is so very, very poignant.

This month I turn 67. I think about how many years my parents and grandparents were allotted. The number of years still ahead in which I might be productive and leave something behind are limited.

I worry about the world and the future our son will have, wondering if freedom will continue or be lost, how quickly climate change will alter the world causing food shortages and mass migration and warfare over resources.

Yes, why have we made no peace among our kind and sown our fields with love?

I am troubled by so many things today. Climate change and water pollution and invasive species and wildfires. How government does not reflect the will of the people by moving forward with sensible gun control, enforcing voting rights, and protecting personal freedoms. How our country has chosen to embrace punitive measures to solve problems, creating mass incarceration and the immigration crisis.

Why, when the winnowing sun was keeping/All of our harvest and our toil/Made we no peace among our kind? /Why, when the summering wave was swinging/And all our hills and trees were green/Did we not sow our fields with love?

So, as I listened to these words from Gordon Bok during the July Fourth fireworks, I was nearly in tears. What have I done to make peace and sow love? What can I do in my remaining years?

It is not a new concern. As a girl I felt the push to DO something, suddenly shaken to wake up from the dream-state of mere living to claim a greater life.

At times, an airplane--no jet, not then-- droning
overhead would shake my world of make-believe to its roots
with reality's heavy awareness.
My heart would beat a faster tattoo, and restless,
disquieted, but directionless, I rushed outdoors 
to breath freer air, escape the restraint of walls,
to seek the questions I already felt swelling 
in my girl's breast, the mystery I could not name.
I only knew that I must shake off
girlhood's cushioned hermitage, to live and work, 
now, suddenly aware of mortality's unaccustomed weight, 
because I heard, and looked up from play,
to catch sight of a mystery outside my window, 
common, yet profoundly unsettling. 

excerpt from The View From Windows by Nancy A. Bekofske 

I thought that life as a clergy wife would allow me to do good in this world. Perhaps I did something--who knows. And these last years I thought that book reviewing would do some good, promoting books that enhance our understanding of others, the important issues of our time, helping to 'only connect'. And yes, to support writers, many of whom will be writing and influencing after I am gone.

Seal Djiril leaves the land and life as a man to return to the sea.

Now are the days come...When to the seas again we go...Now do we cry for those green years...

Did I waste my green years? What recompense can I make in these my last years? What is enough?

Earworms. Some come with memories. Some come with discomfort.

So now my personal playlist in my brains is looping a whole series of music, ranging over my entire life.