Irreantum, Vol. 4, No. 2, Summer 2002

2002 summer issue.
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IRREANTUM
EXPLORING MORMON LITERATURE
MAGAZINE OF THE ASSOCIATION FOR MORMON LETTERS

SUMMER 2002 • $4.00
Terry Tempest Williams

Also featuring M. Shayne Bell, David M. Clark, Darin Cozzens,
Patricia Gunter Karamesines, Levi S. Peterson,
Neila C. Seshachari, Julie West Staheli, and Dan Wotherspoon
Fiction, reviews, literary news, and more
2002 summer issue.qxd 2/11/03 12:47 PM Page 2
IRREANTUM
MAGAZINE OF THE ASSOCIATION FOR MORMON LETTERS
E D I T O R I A L S T A F F
Christopher K. Bigelow . . . . . . Managing editor Marny K. Parkin . . . . Speculative fiction coeditor

Gideon Burton . . . . . . . . . . . . . Associate editor and AML-List Highlights editor
Scott R. Parkin . . . . . Speculative fiction coeditor
Tory Anderson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fiction editor Todd Robert Petersen . . . . . . . . . . . Essay editor
Harlow Clark . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Poetry editor Jana Bouck Remy . . . . . . . . . . . . . Review editor
Tracie Laulusa . . . . . . . . . Assistant review editor Edgar C. Snow Jr. . . . . . . . Rameumptom editor
A M L B O A R D
Gideon Burton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . President D. Michael Martindale . . . . . . . . Board member

Cherry Silver . . . . . . . . . . Annual meeting chair Tyler Moulton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Board member
Eric Samuelsen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Board member
Sharlee Mullins Glenn . . . . . . . . Board member Kathleen Dalton-Woodbury . . . . Board member
Gae Lyn Henderson . . . . . . . . . . Board member
A M L S T A F F
Lavina Fielding Anderson . . AML ANNUAL editor Terry L Jeffress . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Webmaster

Christopher K. Bigelow . . . . . . Magazine editor Jonathan Langford . . . . . . . . AML-List moderator
John-Charles Duffy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Treasurer Scott R. Parkin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Awards chair
Andrew Hall . . . . . Assistant AML-List moderator Melissa Proffitt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Secretary
IRREANTUM (ISSN 1528-0594) is published four times a or endorsement by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-
year by the Association for Mormon Letters (AML), P.O. Box day Saints. IRREANTUM is supported in part by a grant from the
51364, Provo, UT 84605, (801) 714-1326, www.aml- Utah Arts Council and the National Endowment for the Arts,
online.org. © 2002 by the Association for Mormon Letters. Washington, D.C.
Membership in the AML is $25 for one year, which includes an IRREANTUM welcomes unsolicited essays, reviews, fiction,
IRREANTUM subscription. Subscriptions to IRREANTUM may poetry, and other manuscripts, and we invite letters intended
be purchased separately from AML membership for $16 per for publication. Please submit all manuscripts and queries to
year, and single copies are $5 (postpaid). Advertising rates [email protected]. If you do not have access to e-mail, you
begin at $50 for a full page. The AML is a nonprofit 501(c)(3) may mail your text on a floppy disk to IRREANTUM, c/o AML,
organization, so contributions of any amount are tax deduc- P.O. Box 51364, Provo, UT 84605-1364. Submissions on paper
tible and gratefully accepted. Views expressed in IRREANTUM are discouraged. Upon specific request to [email protected],
do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the editors or of AML we will send authors two complimentary copies of an issue in
board members. This magazine has no official connection with which their work appears.
Summer 2002 2 IRREANTUM

IRREANTUM
Summer 2002 • Volume 4, Number 2
C O N T E N T S
Letters to the Editor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

President’s Message
Engaging the Environment through Poetry Month 1999: Two Notes from a Road
LDS Writing, Gideon O. Burton . . . . . . . . . 9 Trip, Bruce Jorgensen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
At the Confluence,
Editorial Danielle Beazer Dubrasky . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
This Issue’s Environmental Theme, Priesthood in the Garden, Stanton H. Hall . . 29
Todd Robert Petersen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Song for an Old Man’s Autumn,
Leon Chidester . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Interview Moving toward You,
Danielle Beazer Dubrasky . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Terry Tempest Williams Utah: Five Sacred Lessons,
Interviewed by Jana Bouck Remy . . . . . . . . . 14 Susan Elizabeth Howe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
Isaiah’s Elations, George Handley . . . . . . . . . . 45
Memoir Excerpt
Leap, Terry Tempest Williams . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Essays
In Search of the Elemental: An Elaboration
Poetry on an Entry from My Wilderness Journal,
Riparian Passage, Leon Chidester . . . . . . . . . .10 Levi S. Peterson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
Lambing, Leon Chidester . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 The Quest for Essences as an Archaic Religious
Flood, Danielle Beazer Dubrasky . . . . . . . . . . 13 Quest: Terry Tempest Williams’s Interrogation
Leaving Virginia, Danielle Beazer Dubrasky . . 22 of Faith, Art, and Earthly Life in Leap,
Weather Advisory, Leon Chidester . . . . . . . . . 22 Neila C. Seshachari . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
Getting Home from Ithaca, 1968, Keepers of the Stories, Dan Wotherspoon . . . . 46
Bruce Jorgensen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
(continued)
IRREANTUM 3 Summer 2002

C O N T E N T S
Stories Portrait of the Artist as a Young Girl: Coming of

Vigil, Darin Cozzens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 Age in Utah’s Earlier Days, Valerie Holladay
Desideratum, Julie West Staheli . . . . . . . . . . . 60 A review of LaVon B. Carroll’s Love, Sin, &
The Thing about Benny, M. Shayne Bell . . . . 64 Survival: Three Women in 1930s Utah . . . . 82
Candle, David M. Clark . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 I Liked the Book, But Not the Parents,
Natalie Martindale
Editorial A review of B. J. Rowley’s 16 in No Time . 83
Twenty-Five Years of Writing with One Ear, Adventures in History,
Harlow Soderborg Clark . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 Larry Jackson
A review of Gerald N. Lund’s The Kingdom
Essay and the Crown, Volume Two:
Come unto Me . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Poet in Search of a Longer Narrative Form,
Patricia Gunter Karamesines . . . . . . . . . . . 78 It Takes a Village to Raise a Purposeful Mother,
Susan Barnson-Hayward
Poetry A review of Colleen Down’s It Takes a
Mother to Raise a Village and Emily Watts’s
When in the Grip, Paris Anderson . . . . . . . . . 59 Being the Mom: Ten Coping Strategies I
What Abraham Has to Say, Darlene Young . . 68 Learned by Accident Because I Had Children
Song for His Left Ear, Dennis Clark . . . . . . . 75 on Purpose . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
The Foolish Pilgrims,
Patricia Gunter Karamesines . . . . . . . . . . . 80 Lessons in Friendship, Meredith Eaton
It Doesn’t Take a Rocket Scientist, A review of Julie Wright’s To Catch a Falling
Patricia Gunter Karamesines . . . . . . . . . . . 80 Star . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
Selected Recent Releases . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
Reviews
Passion and Paradox, Brooke Williams Mormon Literary Scene . . . . . . . . . . . 93
A review of Terry Tempest Williams’s
Red: Passion and Patience in the Desert . . . . 81 AML-List Highlights . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101

L E T T E R S respect for the artist and the audience. True, not all
stories are complex by nature, but Duffy’s point
IRREANTUM welcomes letters about anything in the that the story could have been more complex is a
magazine or related to Mormon literature. Send let- form of praise. You wouldn’t bother writing a for-
ters to [email protected], and be sure to include mal paper criticizing the lack of complexity in a
your full name and hometown. Letters may be edited television soap opera, for example, because its sim-
for length and clarity. plicity (simple-mindedness?) is inherent in its
form. Duffy obviously does not think it is out of
the realm of possibility to expect more of Dutcher.
Influencing the Culture Neither do I.
After reading the letter by Lisa Downing pub- Later, Parkin says, “Duffy seems to be looking
lished in your winter 2001–2 issue, I felt unsettled. for hidden messages that I’m not sure are really
Her letter expresses her frustration over efforts to intended.” Of one of the “hidden” messages of the
prepare a literary discussion for a Relief Society film that Duffy discusses, Scott says, “Certainly it’s
enrichment meeting, a discussion that never hap- in there and functions as a recurring theme, but I’d
pened due to a conflict over her selection. At first I hesitate to say that it’s a primary (or secondary or
was sympathetic, but upon further consideration even tertiary) message of the story.” Parkin seems to
I wondered if this is a case of “looking beyond the be saying that we should not use messages that were
mark” and a lost opportunity for influence. not consciously inserted into the work as support
There are some questions that need to be asked. for criticism about the work. I have two problems
Would she have been compromised if she had cho- with this: first, how can we prove which messages,
sen a “safer” story? In the course of the discussion, themes, etc. were inserted consciously and which
could some appetites have been whetted for IRRE- subconsciously? And second—and more impor-
ANTUM and other literary venues, and subsequently tant—in order for criticism to be criticism we must
some brave souls venture out? Couldn’t we dialogue assume that all elements of a work are functions of
better and seek suitable resolutions in order to the artist’s will. Otherwise, of what use is criticism?
move forward? I don’t say that it’s impossible that Dutcher made
Did I find her experience amusing, as she sug- some “mistakes” in the film or that elements of his
gests it was? No, it was really quite sad. Here was subconscious influenced it—but I do say that we
revelation in action, a call to effort and courage, cannot discount a critic’s argument (as Parkin
and she missed it. seems to be saying of Duffy’s) by saying that his
Marsha Bowns evidence is based on “unintended” elements.
Elk Grove, California Always I believe that criticism has immense value
to the potential improvement of Mormon letters
Regarding Brigham City and that we do no favors by going easy on each other
when it comes to criticism. When Duffy accuses
I enjoyed reading John-Charles Duffy’s paper on Dutcher of being simplistic, I see behind that a
Brigham City and Scott Parkin’s response to it in the belief that Dutcher could do better—or at least
spring 2002 issue. Both critics have excellent points that someone could do better. Criticism implies a
with which I agree. But I have a few comments in belief in the potential of an art. When we examine
response to a very small portion of Parkin’s paper. a work, we must give the creator all the credit for
Parkin complains that he’s “not sure it’s entirely every element of it as if each tiny part was placed
fair [for Duffy] to condemn Dutcher for failing to thoughtfully (which I believe Dutcher deserves).
deliver on Duffy’s hopes for more complex story- Though on the surface Parkin seems to have higher
telling.” But I feel that it is not without value for a praise for Dutcher than Duffy does, I believe that
critic to encourage greater complexity and point Duffy’s response is the more complimentary, for it
out where the work could improve. It implies a gives Dutcher the credit for consciously crafting
every detail of the film and engages Dutcher in a that the story was so simplistic and bland as to be
conversation that could lead to even greater work. of no value to a thinking audience.
I must point out that these comments of mine Young later suggests, “In order for criticism to be
address only a small portion of Parkin’s response. criticism we must assume that all elements of a
His entire response contains many valid and impor- work are functions of the artist’s will. Otherwise, of
tant points and is very thought-provoking and what use is criticism?” I strenuously disagree with
worthwhile. this idea. I hold that the artist does not have full
Darlene Young control over his work, and never has. I believe it’s
Pocatello, Idaho often the unconscious subtexts that offer the most
substantial and powerful messages. In this case I
Parkin responds: I wanted to clarify some of my just think John-Charles elevated a minor theme to
ideas in light of Darlene Young’s thoughtful criti- primary status, and I disagree with the conclusions
cism of my response to John-Charles Duffy’s paper he drew as a result.
on Brigham City. I believe the artist has great control over his
Young questions my response to Duffy’s original work, but I also believe that there is both context
paper by saying, “We cannot discount a critic’s and subtext associated with the artist’s work that
argument (as Parkin seems to be saying of Duffy’s) the author is largely unaware of and that can only
by saying that his evidence is based on ‘unintended’ be fully and successfully revealed by an outside crit-
elements.” But I haven’t asked anyone to discount ical community. I believe a critic can help an author
Duffy’s criticism. I came to different conclusions get more control over the explicit and implicit mean-
and argued my conclusions using Duffy’s observa- ings of his or her work, but ultimately I think there
tions as a foil for that argument. I offered the opin- will always remain one or more levels of interpreta-
ion that I thought Duffy was examining hidden tion that require a far larger context than any author
messages at the expense of more overt ones. I grant can provide within the pages of a single work.
that such hidden messages may well exist, but I’m not sure how much value there is in trying to
thought Duffy overemphasized a hidden message I establish what elements the author intended versus
don’t believe was in the film: that Dutcher (and those that came in subconsciously. If it’s in there,
with him Mormonism) saw the world only in it’s in there, and we can argue the relative impor-
black-and-white terms. I thought the film said tance of different points and which themes over-
almost exactly the opposite, and I argued that shadowed others. In fact, I would argue that one of
interpretation through the rest of my comments. the functions of criticism is to reveal not only the
Theoretically, by analyzing a work from many dif- overt messages, but the interpreted subtexts. Duffy
ferent angles we have a better chance to reveal the did that quite well; I just disagreed with some of his
work in all of its complexity. interpretations and many of the conclusions based
Am I required to accept Duffy’s (or even on those interpretations. I don’t think that’s at all
Dutcher’s) assumptions and critical methodologies the same thing as discounting his criticism.
as the only valid ones? I don’t think I am, though I Young later said, “Always I believe that criticism
do believe that I’m required to accept a well-argued has immense value to the potential improvement of
criticism as one real and valid interpretation (of, Mormon letters and that we do no favors by going
hopefully, many), which I do with Duffy’s paper, at easy on each other when it comes to criticism.” All
the same time that I interpreted it differently. Yes, I can say is, Absolutely! If I suggested that one
I disagreed with some of Duffy’s conclusions, but shouldn’t criticize an author’s/artist’s work, that was
that is not the same thing as saying he’s not allowed far from what I intended. I don’t argue that Dutcher
to have them. In fact, if the time ever comes when couldn’t have told a more complex story—he could
all viewers and/or critics agree on the ultimate have, and I hope he will in the future. But it
value and interpretation of anything, I will argue seemed to me that Duffy was rejecting the film as

inadequate because of its perceived simplicity, to dance and enjoy her newly developed body in
where I believe the film succeeded on its own terms front of the mirror, naked.
and was far more complex than Duffy gave it credit I am definitely sad that I embarrassed the mar-
for being. I thought Dutcher made a very good film keting people in my publishing house who were
and that it deserves some praise in the midst of the forced to talk with the booksellers whose customers
calls for improvement, praise that Duffy seemed to brought the books back for refunds. And I feel sad
offer precious little of. that I have suddenly become an anathema to the
I do think critics deserve to be challenged just as editors who must now read every word I write.
much as the storytellers do, and I defend that effort And I can’t blame them. The reason they must
as being nearly as worthy in establishing the critical now read every word is because in some strangely
dialog as the primary criticism itself. Duffy wrote blithe manner, I did not even notice what I had
criticism, and I commented on that criticism. done. How did that happen? Have I been reading
Duffy’s and my pieces tried to accomplish different too much of Paradise Lost?
tasks. Duffy wrote to challenge Dutcher; I wrote to The reason it is so puzzling to me is because, of
challenge Duffy. Different goals. all the goals of my life, I had so firmly made one to
I would like to see more legitimate academic lit- honor the tastes of the people I love so much who
erary criticism in the pages of IRREANTUM. I would must be forced to read so much garbage in national
also like to see more pop criticism offered both in literature. I am picking the spinach out of my teeth
response to the academic work and in direct comment and burying my head in my present work, wonder-
on Mormon letters. As Young suggested, Mormon ing how I am going to notice when I’m in deep
letters will not develop to meet its full potential if water. I’m afraid it has dampened my spirits. I am
we remain afraid to question the vision, techniques, sitting in a corner ruminating—certainly wonder-
and methodologies of our storytellers. Criticism of ing if it’s even possible to keep out of any kind of
all types and at all levels is part of the dialog that trouble ever.
will both improve the works of and increase the I wanted to offer work that would echo with
interest in our uniquely Mormon literature. symbols as well as archetypal references. Jeff Needle’s
And if we disagree, great! It’s in that dialog that review of my House on the Sound and just recently
a better future will be devised. It should be the goal a second genius review of Ghosts of the Oquirrhs are
of every Mormon author to start as many fights as the reviews I had wanted to read all my life—not
possible, else they’re not working hard enough, in only about my own literature, but about literature
my opinion. written by LDS people. They truly are reviews to
die for. After reading even the first one I thought,
I Said “Naked” “Well, now I can die.” I didn’t know I’d be sitting
in a coffin quite so soon.
I am sad (I’m not sure how sad) because I am in I was thrilled with Brady Udall’s The Miracle Life
trouble with some members of my beloved Mor- of Edgar Mint. But I knew that book wasn’t written
mon audience. I put a naked girl in my recent book for my beloved Mormon audience. And yet its
Ghosts of the Oquirrhs, and I feel as though I’d been depth, the overtones, were so positive, I could only
caught at a formal dinner sitting across the table be totally grateful that a writer of his stature had
from Bruce R. McConkie with spinach in my teeth. made it with the gurus of the East (and he has
So now it’s happened. I said the word naked, and become popular all over the nation). However, I
what’s more, I said the word breasts somewhere in still felt he sacrificed some purity of language, etc.,
the vicinity of the word naked. And even though to bend over backwards to meet the national mar-
my Cecily was only fifteen years old when she ket. I have known for a long time that what I wrote
undressed in her bedroom away from any eyes would not titillate the public who think of Mor-
(except the ghosts, of course), she had the audacity mons as prudes and polygamists. I have tried the

national market and have long been aware that I I am going to trust that reviewers like Jeff
don’t belong there. And now I fear with the few Needle, Terry Jeffress, Andrew Hall, Bruce Jorgen-
Mormons (who knows how few?) who have ever sen, Jonathan Langford, Jana Remy, Harlow Clark,
purchased something I wrote, there is that possibil- Richard Cracroft, etc. and the many others I’m
ity that I don’t belong with them either. missing who are so graciously willing to write
The man who sells a lot from our publishing about our work will find the gold that sifts to the
office is Lee Nelson. Lee has that uncanny natural bottom of the pan. Perhaps someone someday will
ability to tell a story that keeps the reader on the have a chance to point out the beauty in the dance
edge of the chair and an uncanny marketing savvy. of the innocent girl in front of the mirror who is in
He got his start with Storm Testament, and he has love for the first time in her life. I am so grateful to
sold fifteen to a hundred thousand books of each the reviewers for elucidating our writings, and I’m
title ever since. His new A Thousand Souls is really only sorry that I haven’t done my part yet with the
a fun read. I was not only impressed with its read- books I would love to review—simply because
ability but with its flirtation in the shady non-LDS there isn’t time for me to do the writing and the
areas. His theory is that if it’s a seller, the book- publishing and the theater (and the Church call-
sellers will not return it. I agree. It seems to be a ings, and the family, and the AML novel contest,
political thing. The readers will not say anything and the VIP Arts board, and the costumes for
about bestsellers. (“Who am I to argue with thou- Pirates of Penzance).
sands?”) Lee says he has said “naked” in his books I am so grateful to Chris Bigelow and all the
several times. After all, he’s the classic buffalo-ball great editors for their willingness to produce this
eater! I replied, “Yes, it seems it’s all right to eat fabulous IRREANTUM, which gives us a forum in
balls, but not to use them.” He laughed. At least he
which we can apologize and set some records
has a sense of humor. And at least I can laugh with
straight. I hope someone (besides my good friend
him. He is the one who also completely missed the
Jeff Needle) will read my Ghosts of the Oquirrhs and
danger of my including naked and breasts when he
read the book and enthusiastically recommended like it after all.
that it be published. Marilyn Brown
Well, I could sit here for a long time feeling sorry Springville, Utah
for myself, but I thought instead I would write this
little blurb and perhaps get a few smiles from my
good friends, the IRREANTUM audience—you, the
only people I know who can truly understand what’s
going on. When I found myself with a great need
to write a small apology for saying “naked,” I would
like to have written a brilliant essay in the style of
my friend Alan Mitchell (who was hilarious in the
last issue and must be kissed for calling me “sixty,
going on sixteen”). But I am not a brilliant essayist.
I just hope I have written an apology (of sorts).
Instead of cowering in my corner (coffin), I have
made a vow to get up, wipe the tears out of my eyes
and the spinach out of my teeth, and continue
offering more of the same. I’m not a ghost yet
(though it’s getting closer). I have begun my work
on the novelization of Richard Dutcher’s powerful
Brigham City, and I’m positive I will have more
spinach in my teeth on that one.

E D I T O R I A L Study of Literature and the Environment). But

there could be. Dan Wotherspoon illustrates in this
Engaging the Environment through issue the narrative resources Mormons have for
LDS Writing developing deepened ecological sensitivities. And
Terry Tempest Williams, whom we are happy to
By Gideon O. Burton, AML President feature in a special interview this issue, has clearly
shown the way for other LDS writers with Refuge,
When Adam and Eve were expelled from the her nonfictional, carefully crafted memoir that is
Garden of Eden, they quickly discovered how close also a testament to Mormon sensibilities (and
the relationship is between one’s physical and moral insensibilities) regarding the environment. We are a
environments. Indeed, our actions will always people torn between our ideals and our practices,
affect the settings in which we live, as surely as our believing the earth itself to have a spirit, even while
environments (natural or artificial) affect our lives. we continue a trajectory of development and land
Literature is one of the artificial environments in use from pioneer days that may be at odds with our
which our minds and spirits live, move, and have own theology.
their being, and has always been a vehicle for creat- As the worlds of Mormonism expand, in terms
ing and destroying imaginary places, as much as it has of a growing international (non-Utah) Mormon-
reflected and recorded real settings. Along the way, ism, and as Mormon writing expands, in terms of
literature heightens our awareness of the relation- new genres and new approaches to old ones, it will
ships we maintain with animals and elements alike. be harder to use the pioneer period as a template
Today, literary forays into environmental issues for understanding how Mormons do, or should,
blur the lines between the fictional and nonfic- treat their natural habitat. I think this will result in
tional, calling into question the nature and purpose more reliance upon imaginative writers, particularly
of literature. It becomes impossible to remain at a those who construct speculative worlds, to mediate
Wordsworthian remove: appreciative, but not active. what sort of environments Mormons will create
Too much is at stake. Great urgency attends so around themselves physically, socially, and spiritu-
much writing about the environment. If we do not ally. Scott Parkin suggested as much in a recent
act (or react), our great heritage will be lost. AML-List posting, pointing out how writers like
In this way I think environmental literature may M. Shayne Bell, Virginia Baker, Susan Kroupa,
be a branch of apocalyptic literature in both senses Dave Wolverton, and even Orson Scott Card have
of that term: revelatory, and suggesting that some engaged in important environmental issues in their
great (and devastating) consummation is at hand. speculative fiction. Following this same thread,
Between sensitivity to nature (God’s original cre- Jonathan Langford observed that non-Mormon
ation) and to the many versions of its potential writers may be doing a better job of articulating
destruction, there lies a potent religious trajec- an LDS sensitivity to the environment than Mor-
tory—as much as any political direction. Literature mon writers, giving the example of author David
makes us feel vividly and appreciatively the natural Brin, who
world, breathing life into it; and literature can make presents a fascinating ethos of stewardship in
us feel just as vividly the dynamics of deterioration his galactic community in which all the diverse
and death. To read literary explorations of the envi- races of the galaxy are united (more or less) in
ronment is to be thrown into life and death simul- their belief that it is the duty of intelligent
taneously, and it is natural to reach for a moral races to nurture and preserve environments as
framework in which to mediate this engagement. cradles of sapience (through evolution and,
However, thus far Mormon literary writings have later, directed genetic engineering by already
not been principally environmental; no LDS chap- sapient races). It’s not a Mormon perspective,
ter exists within ASLE (The Association for the but there are parts of it that come far closer to

my own particularly Mormon mindset than P O E M

writings I have read by those who are often
termed “nature writers.” Riparian Passage
Critical discussion of environmental literature in Reading the Map after the Fact
America today has shown the need to respect ear-
lier “nature writers” as much as some of the more Unpretentious issue of these lands,
politically oriented ecocritics writing today. Per- back to an inching interstate,
haps we would do well to follow suit, acknowledg- old Highway 91 wanders down
ing as authentic Mormon appreciation of God’s among fields and farms,
creation and its “ten thousand flowers,” and fully caught in an ebb and flow
respecting how the doctrine of stewardship has that replicates the final thrust
been an active, if imperfect, means for organizing of waters that once warmed
LDS land use—all the while not shying away from in these desert sumps,
the rough and tumble of environmental issues, ancient lakes that filled these basins
both locally and globally, within current Mormon before they cut the breach and dropped
culture and sociology. southward through the rift, down to
We know that the environment, as Todd hot Pleistocene seas.
Petersen mentions in his preface as guest editor, is
a divisive issue. But it is also one that is as rich and High noon and evening,
varied as the complicated ecosystem of a prairie. thrust and parry,
I am happy that the Association for Mormon Let- assault and grace.
ters can further, if just a little bit, what needs to be
a long and thoughtful conversation about Mor- The early heat rises and washes
monism and the environment, and I have faith that among the junipers that hold
our imaginative engagement of environmental this almost shoreline.
issues through literary means will realize as much Late, the wind-driven fields
utility as other kinds of response. lay calm, waiting the peace
of another washing:
oblique rays of the spent sun
break low against the red hills,
disperse and liquefy
like silt-laden spring floods,
and with the surge of shadows,
crimson flecked currents flow
back across the acquiescent farms.
Ebb and flow in a desert land.

Rise and response.
Hue and savor of a verdant hush
and last drops, red,
in the bottom of a thirsting glass.
—Leon Chidester

E D I T O R I A L roar from the pulpits and pens of the apostles.

Concerning the issue of declining forests, Joseph
This Issue’s Environmental Theme Fielding Smith wrote:
It is the business of presiding authorities in
By Todd Robert Petersen, Essay Editor
the stakes and wards of the Church to study
thoughtfully and to forward the interests of
It is difficult to discuss LDS environmental liter- the people. It is to be hoped that these author-
ature as such, because, for whatever reason, there is ities will look into the matter of establishing
so little of it to be found. Writers such as Terry the forestry industry, and see if something can
Tempest Williams have spoken wisely and eloquently be done in their sections of the country to
(and critically) on behalf of Mormon beliefs on the inaugurate the planting of trees on private
environment. Hugh Nibley has lent his pen and his estates for the supply of lumber in years to
prodigious mind to the subject, reminding us that come. . . . We here therefore suggest that one
extractive industry operates under what he calls the of the public duties which every Latter-day
“Mahan” principle: that a person can murder and Saint owes to the Church and to his country
get gain. Thomas Alexander has written what could is the extension of valuable timber forests
and should be called LDS environmental history. upon both private lands and public domains.
The scriptures are replete with discussions of land (Juvenile Instructor, August 1, 1903)
and nature. But aside from that, there is little that
might be called “environmental,” which in many Similarly, Ezra Taft Benson was a strong advocate
circles is a term that has become a hiss and a of combining the spiritual and the temporal and
byword. In any case, there is surely no school of creating a kind of LDS environmental ethic. One
thought or generalized approach. of the better examples of his position, no doubt
For this issue of IRREANTUM, I went to writers I tempered by his tenure as Secretary of Agriculture
knew and asked for writing they had that might under Eisenhower, comes in the following statement
deal in some way with the creation. I wanted to delivered as part of an address in the early ’80s:
wait until later to stamp it with the scarlet letter: A common problem is a concern for our envi-
“E” for environmentalist. This was partially to ronment. It is not likely that someone who
avoid the problem of definitions and partly because does not love his neighbor will be concerned
there is no real list of LDS environmental writers with his adverse impact on the environment. . . .
out there. In fact, in the spring/summer 2002 issue The outward expressions of irreverence for life
of Weber Studies, Terry Tempest Williams indicates and for fellowmen often take the form of
that she has trouble with the term “nature writing.” heedless pollution of both air and water. . . .
She says that compartmentalizing the literature [P]hysical and spiritual laws are interrelated.
into this or that box allows us to run the risk of Pollution of one’s environment and moral
compartmentalizing and marginalizing the land impurity both rest on a life-style which par-
itself. Better to let things breathe. And indeed takes of a philosophy of “eat, drink, and be
many told me that they didn't really have anything merry”—gouge and grab now, without regard
that might fit what I was looking for, though in to the consequences. Both violate the spirit of
many cases I told writers I was not looking for stewardship for which we will stand account-
“environmental” writing as such. able. (“A Spiritual Approach to Man-made
As the stories, poems, and essays came in, I began Problems,” BYU–Hawaii, February 11, 1983)
to scour the words of the Brethren, trying to see Elder Neal A. Maxwell, using much of the language
what they had to say on the subject of the creation of the environmental movement itself, as well as
and how people perceive and treat it. The silence I some of its imagery, wrote in For the Power Is in
found in LDS literature was instead a pronounced Them that

Man is acquiring a new respect—almost too Saints are tied to the land through their history and
late—for the wondrous order and ecology of the counsel of their leaders. With so much frontier
nature, in which the relationships of organ- history among the Saints, one would expect more
isms and their environments reflect natural discussion of it.
cycles and rhythm. The pollution of our The personal essay—the primary vehicle of envi-
atmosphere and streams, the denigration of ronmental writing in Mormon letters—has dealt
nature’s mountain wonders, and the general primarily with missionary and conversion narra-
loss of man’s direct interface with nature tives, as well as with discussions of theological and
(which may be greater a spiritual need than spiritual issues. But the worm is starting to turn,
we of the asphalt age realize) have suddenly I think. I hope this issue of IRREANTUM can help.
shown us, more clearly than many of us have Its grandfather is a book edited by Terry Tempest
ever known before, that the order of nature is Williams, William Smart, and Gibbs Smith called
violated at our peril, and that man may not New Genesis, which has been an important step in
walk the earth with interruptional impunity. opening up a dialogue on the sacredness of the nat-
Man’s task of establishing dominion over the ural world. It showcases the many voices of LDS
earth is not to be achieved by arbitrarily people who care deeply about the land and their
imposing his will on his environment, but by communities. I believe the writing in this special
acting in harmony with law. issue does much of the same kind of work.
This concern with man’s developing a In the past, perhaps Mormons have shied away
more harmonious relationship with nature by from the paganism and liberalism of environmen-
abiding by its physical laws is timely and legit- tal discourse. Perhaps we are leery of the position
imate. When we interrupt or destroy the against population growth popular among those
larger ecology of man’s relationship to God who wear the tag “environmentalist.” Whatever the
and to his fellowmen, we are violating tran- reason, there is now a growing attention to nature,
scendental laws that are as immutable and as wilderness, landscape, and environmental concerns
inevitable as those breeched laws of nature for among LDS writers of all stripes, and this issue of
which we are now beginning to pay a terrible IRREANTUM hopes to showcase this direction. We
price. (Later installments will be even more have work from Terry Tempest Williams, Levi Peter-
severe.) That we do not fully understand these son, Susan Howe, and others. Much of the work
transcendental spiritual laws neither excuses doesn’t fit the strict definition of nature or environ-
us from learning of them, nor excuses us from mental writing, but then again nature writing itself
their harsh consequences when we violate rarely fits the strict definition of nature writing, just
them. (9–10) as Mormons rarely fit the strict definition of Mor-
mon. Because there is no great tradition, and
What I found is that our “environmental” litera- because there seems to be a wide range of LDS
ture (or indeed most of our regular literature) does nature aesthetics, perhaps this volume can serve to
not, in general, take such politically challenging promote some dialogue on the matter.
approaches as do our own leaders. Other non-LDS This issue is dedicated to the memory of Neila
nature writers do seem to sound a lot like our own Seshachari, the AML’s president-elect at the time of
Church leaders or vice-versa; furthermore, we don’t her passing earlier this year.
see much formalized nature writing in the tradition
of Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau,
John Muir, Mary Austin, Rachel Carson, Annie Dil-
lard, Barry Lopez, and others. There are whispers
out there, but not many. This strikes me as strange,
considering the degree to which the Latter-day

P O E T R Y Flood
Cold charm of moon
Lambing slices through the wisteria
“. . . until the confronting, the shaping, the bestowing we planted to remind us
side of things springs up to meet me and embraces me of that other cut land
so that I know the world in it?”
separated from Utah by the Green River,
—Martin Buber the Mississippi, the Shenandoah—
it has never flowered
Arms bloodied to the elbows in dry windy springs.
he kneels with his ewes
another spring, passionate Our town spreads out along an alluvial fan:
in his calling as midwife the old river trickles past houses
to a flock that is focus slanting into gypsum soil—
of his reality. Cold April plaster cracks, doors won’t close.
morning; frightened yearlings:
some few will drop them on their own; Gypsum moths flew into
most will need skilled urging; the front porch light
for the others, on hot Virginia nights,
he sums in anguished numbers fell to the front step,
the lost, ewe and lamb,
that will not make it through wings singed.
this narrow pass. Our house settles deeper
He feels it all and knows his world. into night’s creaking,
its walls shored up by shards.
August evenings in high mountain
pastures, sheep bedded down, A storm breaks over mountains
he whittles, off a bit from the fire shadows houses in the valley,
and chatter, where he can watch churns up the river into a muddy flame
the far ridge trail the flock licking walls of soaked sandbags.
of evening stars into shadows
of deep space. We clasp hands,
Bent in dexterous touch, he follows and step out
the aspen grain, and sensing shape, to the flooded streets,
dog, donkey, cart or chain, my heart an untrembling wall.
he moves with skill to deliver what waits
within. Lifebearer, he feels his world —Danielle Beazer Dubrasky
and gives it form.
—Leon Chidester

I N T E R V I E W England Review, among other national and interna-

tional publications.
Terry Tempest Williams In 1991, Newsweek identified Williams as some-
one likely to make “a considerable impact on the polit-
Interviewed by Jana Bouck Remy ical, economic, and environmental issues facing the
western states this decade.” She has served on the gov-
Terry Tempest Williams is perhaps best known for erning council of the Wilderness Society and was a
her book Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family member of the Western team for the President’s Coun-
and Place (Pantheon, 1991), in which she chronicles cil for Sustainable Development. She is currently on
the epic rise of the Great Salt Lake and the flooding of the advisory board of the National Parks and Conser-
the Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge in 1983, along- vation Association, the Nature Conservancy, and the
side her mother’s diagnosis with ovarian cancer, Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance. She has testified
believed to be caused by radioactive fallout from the before U.S. Congress twice regarding women’s health
nuclear tests in the Nevada desert in the 1950s and and the environmental links associated with cancer
‘60s. Refuge is now regarded as a classic in American and has been a strong advocate for America’s Redrock
nature writing, a testament to loss and the earth’s Wilderness Act.
healing grace. The San Francisco Chronicle wrote, As an editor of Testimony: Writers Speak on
“There has never been a book like Refuge. . . . [It is] Behalf of Utah Wilderness, she organized twenty
utterly original.” American writers to pen their thoughts on why the
Williams’s most recent book, Red: Patience and protection of these wildlands matters. When President
Passion in the Desert (Pantheon, 2001), traces her Clinton dedicated the new Grand Staircase-Escalante
lifelong love of and commitment to the desert, inspir- National Monument on September 18, 1996, he held
ing a soulful return to “wild mercy” and the spiritual up this book on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon
and political commitment of preserving the fragile and said, “This made a difference.”
redrock wilderness of southern Utah. Formerly naturalist-in-residence at the Utah
Departing from the natural landscape, another Museum of Natural History, Williams now lives in
recent work, Leap (Pantheon, 2000), is an unex- Castle Valley, Utah, with her husband, Brooke
pected pilgrimage into the habitat of Hieronymus Williams.
Bosch’s medieval triptych masterpiece The Garden of
Delights. With spiritual candor, psychological imme- Remy: How did you find the courage to write
diacy, and emotional intensity, Williams uncovers so candidly about your family’s experiences in
deep connections between contemporary life and the Refuge? Was the writing process a healing expe-
world of this startling, 500-year-old painting depict- rience for you? As you travel and meet other
ing Paradise, Hell, and the Garden. women with similar experiences, how do you
Her other books include a collection of essays, An reach out and comfort them?
Unspoken Hunger (Pantheon, 1994); Desert Quar- Williams: In writing Refuge, I wanted to honor
tet: An Erotic Landscape (Pantheon, 1995); Coyote’s the memory of my mother, Diane Dixon Tempest,
Canyon (Gibbs Smith, 1989); and Pieces of White and my grandmother, Kathryn Blackett Tempest.
Shell: A Journey to Navajoland (Charles Scribner’s I knew the first requirement in creating this mem-
Sons, 1984). She is also the author of two children’s oir would be to try and tell the truth as I saw it, felt
books: The Secret Language of Snow (Sierra Club/ it, remembered it, in respect to the integrity of their
Pantheon, 1984) and Between Cattails (Little lives. They were women of tremendous courage.
Brown, 1985). I had to try and find that same kind of courage on
Her work has been widely anthologized, having the page, even if that meant risking my own com-
appeared in The New Yorker, The Nation, Outside, fort level within the boundaries of emotional and
Audubon, Orion, The Iowa Review, and The New cultural landscapes. I kept thinking of a passage in

one of Emily Dickinson’s letters. She writes, “Life is We ended up in the lobby of the Mayflower
a spell so exquisite, everything conspires to break Hotel and watched the horror on television with all
it.” How can we not respond? I had to believe that other Americans, not being able to distinguish
in writing about the death of a loved one, that what sirens were on the TV and what were outside
which is most personal is most general. And so in a on the streets of Washington. Within minutes,
very real sense, “nakedness was my shield,” to quote Washington, D.C., became a police state.
a Buddhist koan. With the publication of Refuge, Stories. We all have our stories. But the terror of
that turned out to be true. Many people responded that day, that week in D.C., not being able to get
to our family’s story because they too had gone home, still registers in my bones. This was the
through the process of cancer with someone close beginning of the book tour for Red. My publisher
to them. I could see both the grief and compassion wanted to know if I wanted to cancel the six-week
in their eyes. We are told a story, and then we tell tour. I said I simply wanted to be of use, that per-
our own. We are bound by our vulnerability as haps this was the fate of Red, to take these words
human beings. To make this connection on the and find a context for where we found ourselves
page or in the world is its own form of comfort. It now as a nation.
makes us feel less lonely, knowing that a shared Much of Red focuses on issues of democracy and
grief is grief endured. why America’s redrock wilderness matters to the
soul of this country. Pantheon was very supportive.
Remy: I read that your recent book tour The reading scheduled that Friday in Washing-
became a series of “vigils” to honor the thou- ton, D.C., at [the bookstore] Politics and Prose
sands killed on September 11. What were some became a vigil. The booksellers were wonderful.
of the highlights of that experience? How do you Together, we tried to create an atmosphere of safety
feel America has changed since 9/11? where people felt comfortable to speak. Over two
Williams: The publication date of Red: Passion hundred people gathered together. Candles were lit
and Patience in the Desert was, in fact, Septem- as we sat in silence. I read a short passage and then
ber 11, 2001. I was in Washington, D.C., for the turned the microphone in the other direction, as we
opening of the Nature Conservancy’s photographic all listened to people share their thoughts and feel-
exhibit entitled “In Response to Place.” I had writings. Stories. It was incredibly moving. I remember
ten the foreword to the book published simultane- a cab driver from Afghanistan came in with the
ously with the exhibit. The photographers and person he was driving to the bookstore.
myself were at the Corcoran Museum of Art that “I am afraid,” he said. “There is a hole in my
morning—scheduled for a press conference at heart. We all share this same wound.”
10:00 A.M.—when we received the news that the For the remainder of my book tour, I tried to be
World Trade Center had been hit by planes and sensitive to where I was and what the situation
that the Pentagon had just been struck. We were required. It literally changed day to day, place to
directly across from the White House. The security place. Many times, the planes were empty, the
guard basically said, “We have reason to believe the security severe. The time from September 11 to
White House is next. Run.” Chills shot through us October 6 seemed like a grace period where we
all as we vacated the museum. It was chaos outside. faced our vulnerability and love of country
Gridlock. People running across the White House together. It felt like as Americans we were truly
lawn with their cell phones to their ears. The next contemplating what mattered in our lives. It was a
thing I recall is seven of us crammed into a cab. time of pondering the questions together with great
The driver turned around very matter-of-factly and compassion.
said, “And just where would you all like to go?” It When the United States began bombing
was at that moment I realized there’s no place to go; Afghanistan on October 7, something shifted. The
we are here. conversations became something different. “You

are either with us or against us.” The rhetoric of nized that wildness exists in both art and landscape
war replaced the thoughtful deliberations. And and both the work of the artist and the activist
then with the anthrax scares, fear entered the pub- draws on spiritual beliefs; call it inspiration, moti-
lic discourse, once again. I tried to read passages vation. And it is deeply personal.
from Red that offered some kind of solace in the My father will give anyone who has finished
name of the natural world and all that endures in Leap a prize. When I asked him what he thought of
wildness. I also tried to read passages that focused the book, he said, “I’m stuck in Hell, and I don’t
on the power of democracy, that to question even want to talk about it!”
in times of war is another form of patriotism. I know it’s a difficult and strange book, but it is
This was a very tender time, a very intense time. the book I had to write. Hélène Cixous says, “The
There were many days and nights when I was both only book worth writing is the book that threatens
exhausted and scared, but I found great strength in to kill us.” I believe her.
the people I met, in the power of community. Per- There was one very gratifying moment that I
haps the most meaningful encounter was in Boul- will share with you. You never know if a reader will
der, Colorado, where Hopi elders were in attendance understand what you are attempting to do, espe-
at a particular gathering. They spoke of what we cially if you are experimenting with form, which
might do to help bring about the transition from I was in Leap. Shortly before Elder Hugh Pinnock
the Fourth World to the Fifth World. It was a gift died, my father and I went to visit him. He was a
to hear native wisdom at a time when there was so childhood friend of my father and a very close
much hysteria in the media flying about. friend to our family. When we arrived, he invited
How has September 11 changed us? I think it is us into their living room. On his table was a copy
too early to tell. The attacks on the Twin Towers of Leap, with dozens of marked pages and passages.
registered on the Richter scale as an earthquake, a For over two hours, he asked me questions and
seismic shift. Is it too much to suggest that we may gave me his impressions of the book. It was an
be in the midst of a shift in consciousness, as well? exhilarating discussion on religious ideology, con-
Do we dare to see this wave of destruction as a wave cepts, and principles that ranged from personal
of renewal? visions to authority to the Creation and how an
ethic of place might be realized within the Church.
Remy: In Leap, you make some pretty clear He truly understood the spirit of the book, partic-
connections between environmental ethics and ularly the notion of restoration, whether it is the
artistic ethics. Could you speak to how that restoration of a painting, a landscape, a body, or of
ought to affect LDS writers and their attempts the restoration of the gospel of The Church of Jesus
to write about their faith? Christ of Latter-day Saints. He gave me an extraor-
Williams: “Oughts and shoulds” always make dinary gift through his faith and belief in the cre-
me nervous. I think each writer finds his or her ative process, which is a spiritual process.
own path within the questions that propel him or Each of us must follow our own creative hunger
her to write. In Refuge, the question I was holding in our own way, with our own gifts. I believe this is
was “How do we find refuge in change?” With Leap a matter of conscience and consequence. Leap
(which I view as a sequel to Refuge in many ways), brought me to a place of peace out of a place of
the question keeping me up at night was “What do struggle.
I believe?”
The medieval triptych painted by Hieronymus Remy: Some theorists have suggested that the
Bosch inspired me, allowed me to see various pat- body is perhaps a better source of language and
terns and connections within my own religion and understanding than the mind. What do you
homeland. The painting became a meditation. think about these ideas, and how do you think
Each panel began a different conversation. I recog- an LDS writer could use them to overcome

something like the use of religious clichés or Williams: Maybe I am in denial, but I don’t
institutional thinking? believe there is an antagonism in the Church toward
Williams: The body does not lie. Therefore, if environmentalists. If we read Genesis about the
we write out of the body, we are writing out of the power and beauty of Creation, if we read about
truth of our lives. This creates a language that is the obligation and responsibility of stewardship
organic and whole. Original. We listen to what toward the land, if we think about what commu-
is coursing through our veins, what is held within nity really means in the broadest sense—I think
our hearts, what is registered in our bones. Call it you can find all these ideas and tenets, if you will,
cellular knowledge. Something akin to instinct. It rooted deeply within the principles of the gospel.
is here, perhaps, where we write muscular prose that True, there may be individuals within the Church
lifts our ideas to both a higher and deeper place who do not respond to ecological concerns or who
where the full range of our intelligence can be found. may view environmentalists with suspicion of one
If we are simply writing out of our heads, there is kind or another. I certainly have encountered that
no weight to our words. They become abstrac- kind of hostility. But that belongs to the realm of
tions that dissipate into the air. This is the realm of politics, not religion. And for the most part, I do
rhetoric. The body is the realm of the story. And believe there is a desire to move toward more
it is in story that we bypass rhetoric and pierce the respectful conversation and dialogue between dif-
heart. We feel it first and understand it later. Mem- fering parties. In the end, I believe there is more
ory resides in the body. Memorization resides in that brings us together than separates us. As writ-
the mind. ers, one of our challenges is how to create narratives
I think we fall into religious clichés when we that open hearts rather than close them. How to
become afraid of the deep reflective work that write in a language that can be heard.
organic writing requires. Clichés follow answers There is a very strong movement in this country
and almost always lead us to sentimentality. Noth- centering around the greening of Christianity. I
ing surprises or delights. Original prose that think we are finding it within Mormonism as well.
breathes and bleeds follows the questions, the mys- I think it is about seeing the world whole, even
teries, the place where we dare to say, “I don’t know holy, not compartmentalizing spiritual concerns
where I am going on the page.” It is the place of here or environmental concerns over there. We are
discovery and revelation. This is where we can talking about the dignity and sacredness of life.
begin to trust the body. The body carries the phys-
ical reality of our spirits like a river. Institutional Remy: Why are there not more LDS writers
thinking is fearful of rivers because rivers inevitably writing about the environment or practicing
follow their own path, and that channel may what is called “nature writing?”
change from day to day, even though the muscle of Williams: Again, I think it is choosing to com-
the river, the property of water remains consistent, partmentalize literature into various genres, cate-
life sustaining, fierce, and compassionate, at once. gories, and self-imposed distinctions. We don’t
To write out of the body is to write ourselves into a have to do that. Some of our strongest LDS writers
freedom. It is here we can let go of fear and trust are creating beautiful, complex characters in tangi-
the joy that is held in each movement of the hand, ble landscapes that we can see and hear, taste and
word by word by word. feel. Levi Peterson is a writer of place. His charac-
ters wear the character of the landscape they
Remy: Is there an antagonism in the Church inhabit. Certainly Eugene England was a writer of
toward the tag “environmentalist”? If so, why is place whose evocations of the natural world were
that? And do you think it has had an effect on rooted in the sacred whether he was fly-fishing or
many LDS writers’ choices to skirt environmen- hiking in the Wasatch Mountains. I think of Mar-
tal topics in their writing? ilyn Arnold’s work, particularly her novels; they are

filled with a love of the land, particularly the sub- We have received some very moving letters from
tleties and erosional power of the desert. Susan readers saying that the essays in this anthology pro-
Howe’s poetry is infused with the lyricism and vided them with “cover,” that they could bring
hope of nature. Emma Lou Thayne’s poetry and forth their views on conservation issues more freely
prose is a celebration of Creation in every line or without ridicule. And other readers have said they
sentence. Her voice is a voice of praise, and it is have appreciated the scriptural references that sup-
grounded in her passionate familial embrace of port a stewardship toward the Earth within Church
Mount Aire, Sun Valley, or Bear Lake. We may not doctrine. It gives us a sense of history, a people in
think of these writers as nature writers, but they are place, something we can build on in creating an
writers whose work carries its own sense of wild- ethic of place.
ness. Orson Scott Card is another example. His
novels create other worlds with their own natural Remy: In Leap, you discuss your relocation to
histories. southern Utah. How has this move affected your
spirit and/or your writing? What advice do you
Remy: Has the publication of New Genesis: A have for someone contemplating a similar
Mormon Reader on Land and Community change, whether geographical or occupational?
effected change related to the Church and envi- Williams: Moving to the redrock country of south-
ronmental issues? ern Utah has been a great gift for both Brooke and
Williams: I honestly don’t know. What pleases me. It is a much slower pace. We live in a landscape
me is that it is being used as a text in various classes where rocks tell time differently. Time and space.
and departments at Brigham Young University, In the desert, there is space. Space is the twin sister
which means it is creating a discussion around of time. If we have open space, then we have time
environmental issues and the Church. This is all we to breathe, to dream, to dare, to create, to play, to
were hoping for with New Genesis: to create con- pray, to move freely, so freely. This is a landscape of
versation. I also know it is being used in book the imagination. You can hear yourself think in the
groups and study groups. When we conceived of desert. I have become completely addicted to still-
this idea, Bill Smart and Gibbs Smith and I wanted ness. I am not so easily seduced by speed. I find I
to dispel the stereotype that only Democrats and just can’t move so quickly in the world. It’s the
non-Mormons cared about the environment. We silence. This deep, resonate silence. Very humbling.
didn’t believe that. We wanted to bring together a I love living in an erosional landscape where the
diverse group of LDS people who love the land. We lesson of the day is change. It encourages our own
wanted to show that this is a bipartisan issue that changes. I love the extremes of the desert, the
transcends party lines. And we wanted to ask the intense heat and the intense cold. The wind. There
question, How has the natural world influenced is a reason this country looks the way it does. Wind
your testimony of the gospel and, conversely, how is the architect of beauty, movement in the midst of
has the gospel influenced your view of nature? peace. This is what I seek as a writer. Art is created
Again, we felt the most powerful way we could through the collision of ideas, forces that shape,
engage in this kind of dialogue would be through sculpt, and define thought. There is a physicality to
personal stories. I love the stories that are held in beauty, to any creative process. The wind reminds
that collection, from “The Natural History of a me of Spirit—what we feel, what has the power to
Quilt” by Martha Young Moench to the story told change stone, yet we cannot see.
by world-renowned biologist Clayton White of Living in these redrocks and near the Colorado
going to see peregrine falcons on top of a hospital River has brought the necessity of wildness and
in New York City and walking through an AIDS why wilderness matters out of the abstract into the
ward before he could find his way to the birds, to real. It terrifies me to think what would have hap-
Hugh Nibley’s treatise on air pollution. pened to us if we hadn’t moved. Movement. Yes, it

takes courage to leave the known for the unknown, Williams: Mormonism is one of the lenses I see
especially when you are comfortable and estab- the world through. We cannot escape our condi-
lished. But both Brooke and I love taking risks, to tioning. Why would we want to? I grew up in a
make ourselves a bit uncomfortable, to see the Mormon household where that was the focus of
world with beginner’s eyes. This is how we grow. our lives. It was the fabric that held everything else
And if we are growing as human beings, then our together.
writing is growing alongside us. I think it’s still so much a part of me. I cannot
Brooke and I did not plan this—it just hap- separate out the various strands again; it’s my con-
pened, or rather we allowed it to happen. When the nective tissue. Given that, there are other lenses
opportunity or possibility presented itself, we took that I see the world through as well, and that cre-
it. We didn’t really think about the security we were ates an artistic tension in my work.
leaving behind, certainly not the practicality of I have worked with the same editor for over fif-
what this move would mean. We honestly didn’t teen years, beginning with Refuge. He is extraordi-
have a clue how radically our lives would change. nary in his support of the Mormon elements of my
We were rooted in Salt Lake City. We had a voice. work. In both Refuge and Leap, he advocated for
Here, we will forever be newcomers. I am just more material regarding the Church, to always go
beginning to learn the language of what it means to deeper and further than I may have felt comfort-
live in rural Utah. But it felt right. Maybe it goes able. We don’t see how interesting and peculiar our
back to what the body knows, that cellular knowl- religion is, so much is taken for granted, a given.
edge that carries its own wisdom. I remember distinctly with Refuge in one of the
We are in the middle of our lives; why not shake later drafts, he said, “Write against your instincts. . . .
things up a bit? Every morning I wake up here in When you feel you have said too much about the
this beautiful valley, I think to myself, I don’t have Church or your feelings, say more, go deeper, take
enough time to see all I want to see here, to learn all us further into the ideas.” He was right. But I can
I want to learn. And I love the diversity of our tell you, it was not easy. It is never easy to push
neighbors. It’s a real community, rural and raw. We against the rigidity of the status quo, but in the
are in the process of defining together what it end, I believe it’s about your own integrity. Again,
means to weave together a village adjacent to telling the truth as you feel it. One of the curious
wilderness, how to extend our notion of commu- situations I have found myself in as a writer is that
nity to include all life forms: plants, animals, rocks, outside of Utah, I am seen as Mormon, whereas inside
rivers, and human beings. Utah I am seen as an “edge walker,” an unorthodox
It’s very different living in the desert versus visit- Mormon. What that says to me is that we just have
ing it. There is an intensity here that can be very to write out of the center of our own lives.
difficult. You are exposed in an exposed landscape. I love what the writer Clarice Lispector says:
Nothing hidden. It’s good to get away at times. “I now know what I want to stand still in the mid-
And then there is always the blissful return to dle of the sea.” If you worry about what other
silence, that ringing silence. This is the source and people are going to think about you, you better just
inspiration of my writing. put down your pencil for good. Writing will always
offend someone and provoke powerful emotions. It
Remy: How do you feel that your Mormon- can also inspire. I believe writing has the capacity
ness is reflected in your writing? Have you ever to save our lives, both as writers and as readers.
encountered problems with your editors about Regarding LDS readers being uncomfortable
the Mormon elements of your books? On the with the “unorthodox” behaviors in my books (this
other hand, are LDS readers uncomfortable makes me smile; it sounds like some kind of aber-
with the “unorthodox” behaviors you describe rant sexual behavior), there’s no question some
in your books?” people have been offended. I can think of the scene

where Brooke and I break open a bottle of cham- Remy: Some Mormon authors believe that
pagne on the edge of Great Salt Lake. I realized that inspiration plays a part in their artistic creation.
would bother some people, but I also realized Do you ever feel that what you are writing is
that at that particular moment, it was a gesture inspired?
within our own marriage to celebrate that which Williams: I do not feel my writing is inspired by
was ours. It was what we did. It would be a lie to God, if that is what you mean. I do feel, however,
pretend Brooke and I are devout, practicing Mor- that any serious, deliberate act of writing is inspired
mons; we are not. But there are many aspects of our by the burning white heat of our desires, our ques-
religion that we cherish and hold on to. Must it tions, our passions.
always be all or nothing? I think life is a continual And there are many sources of inspiration.
accommodation and adjustment of our beliefs, if
we are honest. Remy: What works of Mormon literature
There have been so many offensive moments in have you personally most enjoyed?
my books for some LDS readers, now that you Williams: To tell you the truth, I am not exactly
bring it up, that there are too many to list, from sure what constitutes Mormon literature. Again,
criticizing Mormon crafts like glass grapes to the I’m uncomfortable with these distinctions. I loved
fact that Brooke and I don’t have children to theo- The Giant Joshua by Maurine Whipple. I loved the
logical complaints centered around my asking the biography of Annie Clark Tanner, A Mormon
question “If there is a Godhead, where is the Moth- Mother. Judith Freeman has written some powerful
erbody?” These critiques don’t bother me. I think it novels with insight into the culture, such as The
is good to have these kinds of discussions. I cer- Chinchilla Farm and her most recent book, Red
tainly don’t have any answers. Water. Freeman’s voice has a literary elegance. Lau-
I think of the passage in Leap when Brooke and rel Ulrich is an exquisite writer of great depth and
I choose to burn up our marriage certificate. Again, perception. Dorothy Solomon is a voice of grace,
it was a gesture on behalf of renewal. Anyone who integrity, and wisdom. I admire her writing
has been married for a long time understands the tremendously.
need to rewrite the script one wrote in one’s youth. I have appreciated Levi Peterson’s voice in his
For us it was about growth, daring to ask some short stories, the humanity of his characters. Cer-
tough questions about what we want in our life tainly, Emma Lou Thayne’s poetry is a compas-
together now in our forties, which is very different sionate embrace of tolerance and peace. I think
from our needs in our twenties. It is allowing each Carol Lynn Pearson’s poems are full of courage and
other to bow to not only their own potential, but insight. I also appreciate the writing of Walter Kirn,
the potential of the marriage. I think it is about Orson Scott Card, Linda Sillitoe, Marilyn Arnold,
stepping back and taking a deep breath and saying, and Lyman Hafen. Eugene England has given us all
“What is working here, and what is not?” courage and inspiration to continue on the path
I have to say, on the other hand, I have also had of individual truth while still standing tall within
very beautiful and poignant letters from LDS read- the faith. In working with students around the
ers that are very supportive, where they have found country, I am seeing some brave and beautiful nar-
strength and recognition within my books that ratives written by younger Mormon women,
gave them the courage to continue on their own Louisa Bennion from Spring City, Utah, among
individual path within the context of the Church. them. But to limit any one of these writers to
I believe it is healthy to have a diversity within our “Mormon literature” is to diminish the fullness of
beliefs and interpretations. To me, that is the sign their work as writers.
of a gracious, compassionate, and expansive theol-
ogy. I believe there is room within The Church of Remy: Tell us about your writing habits: how
Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for all of us. often do you write, how do you balance it with

other things, any rituals or conditions you must its own form of advocacy. It is a dance with pain
have for a good writing session, and perhaps and beauty.
some comments about whether you use notes,
outlines, research, multiple drafts, etc. Remy: What are your favorites among your
Williams: I do not write every day. I write to the works? Which one has been the hardest to write?
questions and issues before me. I write to deadlines. Williams: I suppose that is like asking a mother
I write out of my passions. And I write to make which one of her children is her favorite. I couldn’t
peace with my own contradictory nature. For me, say. Each book was conceived through its own
writing is a spiritual practice. A small bowl of water question. Each book sent me on my own pilgrim-
sits on my desk, a reminder that even if nothing is age. Each book brought about its own sense of
happening on the page, something is happening in inquiry and liberation. Each book wedged its own
the room—evaporation. And I always light a candle struggle inside my heart and then released me into
when I begin to write, a reminder that I have now another peace of mind. Each book has its own fin-
entered another realm, call it the realm of the Spirit. gerprint and character and audience. Each book
I am mindful that when one writes, one leaves this has a life of its own, apart from me.
world and enters another. My books are collages
made from journals, research, and personal experi- Remy: How did you become a writer? In what
ence. I love the images rendered in journal entries, ways do you think you’ve developed as a writer
the immediacy that is captured on the page, the during the course of your career? Are there
handwritten notes. I love the depth of ideas and things you can do now that you don’t think you
perspective that research brings to a story, be it bio- could have pulled off successfully when you
logical or anthropological studies or the insights were first starting to write? What do you do to
brought to the page through the scholarly work of keep developing as a writer?
art historians. When I go into a library, I feel like I Williams: These are tough questions. How does
am a sleuth looking to solve a mystery. I am com- anyone “become” a writer? You just write. I have
pletely inspired by the pursuit of knowledge always written, always kept a journal, always loved
through various references. I read newspapers vora- to read. Perhaps as writers, we are really storytellers,
ciously. I love what newspapers say about contem- finding that golden thread that connects us to the
porary culture. And then, you go back to your own past, present, and future at once. I love language
perceptions, your own words, and weigh them and landscape. For me, writing is the correspon-
against all you have brought together. I am inter- dence between these two passions.
ested in the kaleidoscope of ideas, how you bring It is difficult to ever see yourself. I don’t know
many strands of thought into a book and weave how I’ve developed or grown as a writer. I hope I
them together as one piece of coherent fabric, while am continuing to take risks on the page. I hope
at the same time trying to create beautiful language I am continuing to ask the hard questions of
in the service of the story. This is the blood work of myself. If we are attentive to the world and to those
the writer. around us, I believe we will be attentive on the
Writing is also about a life engaged. And so, for page. Writing is about presence. I want to be fully
me, community work, working in the schools or present wherever I am, alive to the pulse just
with grassroots conservation organizations is another beneath the skin. I want to dare to speak “the lan-
critical component of my life as a writer. I cannot guage women speak when there is no one around
separate the writing life from a spiritual life, from a to correct us.”
life as a teacher or activist or my life intertwined
with family and the responsibilities we carry within Remy: What’s ahead for you? What’s coming
our own homes. Writing is daring to feel what up in the near future, and what are you working
nurtures and breaks our hearts. Bearing witness is on now?

Williams: I honestly have no idea what’s ahead, Weather Advisory

what’s coming up for me. I find that very exciting.
What I can tell you is that the next year is wide Are you sure that’s what you want?
open. I am not working on anything in particular. Life at just under six thousand feet
I have made a conscious decision to retreat and gives you seasons both erratic and
focus on home. We are restoring the place where severe. I worked there for a while,
we live with native plants so it blends more natu- road construction, a trailer in wind-filled
rally into the juniper and sagebrush flats. I am read- cottonwoods north of town.
ing a great deal of poetry. It is time for me to lay I know the place, believe me.
low and listen.
For now, I just want to walk in the desert. Early winter will find you first
as warm rain, light through the foliage
of Indian summer, but at a wind’s shift,
the storms turn cold, penetrating, and
ultimately to snow. Wet, heavy with ice,
P O E T R Y
or powder in the desert air, it will fill weeks.
Late winter will overwhelm you with winds
Leaving Virginia that rise from beginning spring, already
Our first night in the desert underway at elevations much lower
stars we have only glimpsed to the south. You’ll hang blankets
through a humid gaze at your windows, trying to shut out
glitter bright as ice. the chill. You can’t; don’t try. It cuts
through the coarsest stuff, and continues
We seem on the edge of everything— days on end.
the Mojave spread out to the west
of the grid streets of a Mormon town. That same wind, now warmer, will blow in
Houses soften their angles at dusk; a rapid, not quite spring that will not last;
hollyhocks blend with the larkspur. wind that dries up the mud, lifts the kites,
shreds tulips and iris blooms; winds that
Women disappear behind graciousness— scatter pear petals on the afternoon and
a smile that tells nothing. push on into summer.
Their shadows stretch in the twilight
that darkens a kitchen window Still from the south, now hot, you’ll learn
as they sweep out corners to pray for dusk when the assault
holding the wand of a broom. calls truce, only to return at dawn.
Dog days of high summer and the winds
A mirage of white dogwood petals subside, leaving gardens and gardeners
wavers beneath sand skimming the patio. dropped in the heavy air, pleading for drink;
quick violence of a thunder storm, or
—Danielle Beazer Dubrasky measured flow of mountain water loosed
down irrigation rows. And on the job,
leveling some roadbed, blade and gravel,
there is neither spate nor shade but only
sun. Who knows what you will find.

You will welcome fall as a respite among M E M O I R

golden cottonwoods, an intense and cloudless E X C E R P T
blue, an endless stretching equilibrium
that tries to recompense with fruit and grain. Leap
For some it is enough. Time and seasons
will tell for you. By Terry Tempest Williams
—Leon Chidester [The following text appears on pages 78–91 of the
2000 Pantheon hardback edition.]
Getting Home from Ithaca, 1968 What it all comes down to is that we are the sum
I was twenty-four then of our efforts to change who we are. Identity is
and could love a place enough to die in it. no museum piece sitting stock-still in a display
Mine: not one I owned case, but rather the endlessly astonishing synthe-
but the one that owned me; sis of the contradictions of everyday life. . . . I
and it took two years in a place I’d never own, believe in that fugitive faith. It seems to me the
would never own me, only faith worthy of belief for its great likeness to
the human animal, accursed yet holy, and to the
to give me to it. mad adventure that is living in this world.
Seeing hills in autumn afire I am the figure walking the tightrope between two
past trees’ believing, volcanoes, one erupting, the other the haunt of
ghouls. The iron rod I hold onto for balance is
I desired those woods, beginning to melt. The flag on top of the outpost,
felt with my feet a trail once white, is now charred.
to the reservoir’s flat silver sheet; Below me on the River of Sorrows is a boat with
a blood-red sail. What was once fueled by passion
found, stumbling in February is now powered by regret. There is no way to know
snow, cascaded ice the outcome of our lives.
in the slate-gray gorge; I stand on the tip of my toes to see beyond the
flaming horizon of the Millennium looming in
swam, when the falls the future.
flowed again, naked 2000
to stream-smooth rock and shaken shadow 1500
but knowing in the nerves Fin de siècle.
a yellow hill, long
like a lizard asleep, Hieronymus Bosch must have lived with these
prophecies of doom in the twilight of the Middle
and hunched behind it Ages, as well. He too must have performed the
a grizzled shoulder, tightrope walk stretched across the dualities of
pocked basalt, dry, Heaven and Hell, right and wrong, Good and Evil,
the sacred and profane. And as the rope became
mottled with pinyon. even more taut, did he feel the pulled loyalties of
—Bruce W. Jorgensen his art and his religion? Or did he use the same
muscles to paint as he did to pray?

DID HIERONYMUS BOSCH PRAY? the war dead through time are stacked. The soldiers
keep marching as I become just another traveler
As I stand on a bridge spanning the boiling waters staggering and stumbling over bodies, bloated bod-
of Hell, armies of men march past me. They have ies, stinking bodies, collapsing bodies, bodies known
not awakened from their embattled nightmares. and unknown, under the weight of decay. I puke
Bosch endured the aftermath of the Plague; the and vomit and cover my eyes and mouth with blis-
shadow and flames of the Spanish Inquisition tered hands, until I see even in darkness the ghosts
under the reign of King Ferdinand and Queen of Moors, Jews, Aztecs, and Incas—all those who
Isabella in 1479; the Spanish conquering of were not Catholic or Catholic enough during Spain’s
Granada and demise of the Moorish kingdom in Golden Age—rise from the furnaces like smoke,
1492, consolidating the monarchy of Ferdinand of curling themselves around the throats of the still
Aragon and Isabella of Castile; that same year he marching soldiers until they decide when and where
would have heard of the excitement of Christopher to taunt them.
Columbus’s discovery of America; He would learn, There are more soldiers than ghosts.
in 1493, of Pope Alexander VI publishing the papal Someone in Hell takes my arm and leads me to
bull Inter cetera divina dividing the New World another ladder, which I climb. My eyes open to a
between Spain and Portugal; in 1503 he would sea of blood.
have found the Casa Contratación (Colonial From afar I thought this lake was simply the red
Office) established in Madrid to deal with Ameri- reflection of flames. There appeared to be no end to
can affairs. the resourcefulness of the damned and their knowl-
And had he lived a full one hundred years, edge of how to bleed the pores of sinners, wave
El Bosco would have lived through King Ferdi- after wave.
nand’s death in 1516 and Charles V’s, his grand- And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and
son’s, inauguration as the new king of Spain who death and hell delivered up the dead which were
inherited Austria, the Spanish Netherlands, and in them.
Burgundy. He would have seen the Spanish empire And in the black caves surrounding the sea, what
expand as Hernán Cortéz conquered the Aztec looked like kelp beds rising and falling with the
Empire in Mexico and, in 1531, Pizarro overtook tide are the tangled arteries and blood vessels
the Inca Empire in Peru. In 1556 Charles abdi- stripped from the bodies of the Inquisitors. Who
cated in favor of his son Philip II, who inherited will offer prayers over these ropes used to hang
Spain, Sicily, and the Netherlands, who led the charge those who hung the heretics, the innocent?
of the Counter-Reformation against the Protestant The sound of pounding waves is matched by
states in Europe. It was an “empire upon which the drums made from the skin of miserly men and
sun never set.” women stretched tight. Beaten by ghouls, the heads
Spain was a blood country and El Bosco, a sub- of these drums register screams, wails of grief rup-
ject of her empire, painting in his beloved Nether- turing from a place so deep within I shake with a
lands, was one of her acquisitions. terror that threatens to break bones. My descension
And what have we witnessed in the twentieth and ascension in Hell, climbing down one ladder
century? and up another, has given me an aerial view of
We turned our heads. The names of the damned power and desire gone mad, the chaos created
are etched on the skin of the dead whose bodies when the heart is murdered.
raised mountains. Bleeding heart. I knew it as a child in my grand-
I follow El Bosco’s soldiers in Hell over the mother’s yard. It grew beneath the largest spruce
charred bridge around the blood-soaked soil sur- tree, hidden. Bleeding hearts, red and white petals
rounding the River of Sorrows to the site of perfectly fused to create secret chambers, chambers
the Universal Battlefield, where the bodies of all left closed, only to dangle from the green leafy

stems. Bring the color green into Hell. It is nowhere Is there no touch of mercy in the breast?
to be found. Bleeding hearts. Perennial. Pink. They Men once were we, that now are rooted here.
appear each spring, growing best in shade. A bleed- Thy hand might well have spared us, had we
ing heart creates beauty in darkness, dares to stay been
and send roots down. They were the only flowers The souls of serpents.” As a brand yet green,
my grandmother refused to cut and bring inside. That burning at one end from the other sends
I have climbed to the highest point in Hell to A groaning sound, and hisses with the wind
distance myself from the heat. I see something I That forces out its way.
have not noticed before: a bleeding heart torn in The report from the pathologist reads “benign.”
half standing upside down on the white brim of the I do not have breast cancer. I am relieved, but a
Hollow Man’s hat. Some might insist it is a pink melancholy hangs over me. This story tires me,
bagpipe, a medieval instrument turned into an breaks me down, erodes my spine. Mother had
aberration. But what are our hearts if not both breast cancer, so did my grandmothers. They are
an instrument and an aberration when measured dead. I am alive. Why?
against sharp cruelties? I still hold a memory in my Last night, I had a dream that the mountain
hands of tenderness for all the heart-shaped blos- across from where we live had been clear-cut.
soms I picked up after they had fallen on the black, My grandmother is sitting on the chaise in our
damp soil. Taking the petals into my hands, I den. I say to her, “How did this happen and so
would close my fingers carefully around them like soon?” She is dressed in white and says nothing.
a cradle for all that was vulnerable. I run outside to see if it is really true.
I am creating a narrative on the forest floor out
Is Hell nothing more than the tortured chambers of found objects—pine needles, sticks, and branches,
of our own hearts? pieces of bark, cones, stones, feathers, moss—it is a
sentence written in the native voice of the woods.
I enter the body of the woman stretched across the I do not know what it says, only that I am its scribe.
strings of an enormous gold harp. Love is the great- What I feel as I place these “letters” on the ground
est crucifixion. is that it is a way to stay the cutting, long, flowing
sentences rising out of the duff that acknowledges
There are forests burning in Hell. the death of trees.
••• A friend sends me a large wooden ball. It is made
In Bosch’s Hell there are forests burning. out of yew, yew that heals the cancers of women.
Taxol. This is a tree I know from the Willamette
I walk into the forest and encounter tree spirits Valley where she lives. Pacific yew, so elegant below
who cry out in pain. Souls torn from their bodies the towering cedars and firs. I remember watching
by suicide are transformed into the knotted trunks the slash piles burn, the pungent smell that inevitably
of trees where harpies now choose to nest. follows the chain saws and timber sales. I recall all
the clear-cuts I have stood in, walked through in
“If thou lop off Utah, Idaho, Montana, Oregon, Washington, and
A single twig from one of those ill plants, British Columbia.
The thought thou has conceived shall vanish The silence.
quite.” The heat.
There at a little stretching forth my hand, The mutilations.
From a great wilding gather’d I a branch, The stumps.
And straight the trunk exclaim’d: “Why The phantom limbs still waving above my head.
pluck’st thou me?” The hillsides from a distance look like a woman’s
Then, as the dark blood trickled down its side, body prepped for surgery, shaved and cleared, ready
These words it added: “Wherefore tear’st me thus? for the scalpel.

I hold this yew ball in my hands, close my eyes. or was named but no longer
Heartwood. Wood round like the cyst my body recognizable even
created, now removed by a surgeon, the same sur- what vanished out of the story
geon who removed my grandmother’s breast, his finally day after day
hands holding the knife—cut and release. What was becoming the story
have I released? so that when there is no more
Where do the clear-cut breasts of women go? story that will be our
Where has the tissue of my body been thrown? I story when there is no
should have asked for it back so I could have buried forest that will be our forest.
it in my garden like a sunflower seed.
I want to be buried on Antelope Island out on What do I do now with the open space in front
Great Salt Lake. It is not legal, but my husband and of my heart?
brothers have promised to sneak my carapace onto
the land, dig a good hole, then cover it with rocks, The severed hand of Christ falls off the gambling
a fine perch for horned larks. table overturned by Bosch. Again, bets are wagered
Mormons believe you should be buried with in favor of our own disembodiment. We will be
your feet facing east so you can rise in the First Res- lonely. We will be hungry. We will be tricked and
urrection. I want to face west toward the lake, fooled. Pan for gold on the river’s edge. Step into
toward the setting sun, toward the unknown, my the river and sink. A hand waves above the surface
body easing back into earth, food for beetles, of the water. We wave back. No one sees it is a
worms, and microbes. I am satisfied to be soil. The drowning man’s gesture for help.
songs of meadowlarks and curlews will be my
voice. Stampeding bison over my grave are the only The Nightjar Magistrate who sits on his golden
eternal vision I need. throne in Hell, a hell where we are consumed not
White roses sit on our dining room table like just by flames but literally by the things we love.
doves, the doves I saw cross over our home in uni- Birds. I am being consumed by a bird, a nightjar or
fied flight on the morning of my surgery. Are we goatsucker, who knows what violations I have com-
ever at peace? mitted on Earth to warrant this kind of punishment.
Yesterday, my breast was cut open, a cyst We are all complicit in the destruction of life.
removed. I was unconscious as part of myself was To destroy: destruir. Present tense: destruyo. Imper-
taken. I dream of mountains being clear-cut. My fect: destruía. Indefinite: destruí. Future imperfect:
eyes open, the hills outside our home are still wild. destruiré. Conditional: destruiriá.
It is only when I look in the mirror that my body Present.
reveals the trauma. Tense.
Bear tracks in the snow coming down from the Imperfect.
mountain. They are filled with blood. I see the blood Indefinite.
of my mother and grandmothers. I smell the potent Future.
sap of yew, slash and burn, cut and release. I cup Imperfect.
my two breasts, one tender, one firm in my hands. Conditional.
My friend from the forest and I are canoeing in All these tenses at once. I am a body of verbs
a lake. The mountains that surround us are burn- standing in El Bosco’s Hell. How do I speak to this
ing, the trees are burning. blue-skinned ogre whose feathers have been
I hear W.S. Merwin’s voice: plucked? Is there time to learn a new language? Am
I too old to learn a new language? The Nightjar
but what came out of the forest Magistrate is not going to wait to hear what I have
was all part of the story to say. He does not care what I have to say. He
whatever died on the way wears a three-legged kettle on his head as a helmet.
The animals are taking their revenge: hyenas tear- as a salve to mystery, not a manifesto of truth. We
ing flesh, a rabbit piercing feet, pigs licking, rac- too can interpret the truth and make it our own. It
coons beating, a wolf molesting, a squirrel strangling, is our nature to question. It is our nature to create
a monkey ringing, a moth-priest is blinding a man meaning and make myths out of our lives. Each
with its beak. religion creates an anthology of stories, some oral,
The animals are taking their revenge. some written, as an attempt to make the sacred
concrete. The Bible. The Torah. The Koran. The
A woman (or is she a coyote disguised?) wears a Hopi Prophecy. The Book of Mormon. Creation
dress made of what appears to be human skin with cosmologies around the world deliver us to a place
a collar of human hair and walks down the streets of compassion and reverence. We see the world
of Madrid. The skin’s irregularity upon closer whole, even holy.
examination is the pinch and pull of where navels Spiritual beliefs are not something alien from
were, nipples, and sphincters. The dress is beauti- Earth, but rise out of its very soil. Perhaps our first
ful, chic, and costly. gestures of humility and gratitude were extended to
People walking by suddenly stop and stare. They Earth through prayer, the recognition that we exist
say behind her back, “What a perverse idea.” by the grace of something beyond ourselves. Call it
God. Call it Wind. Call it a thousand different
Another woman stands in the middle of the city names. Corn pollen sprinkled over the nose of deer.
with the letters of the alphabet pinned to her clothes, Incense sprinkled from swaying balls held by a
her shabby clothes. She walks in circles. Some stand priest. Arms folded, heads bowed. The fullness we
on the sidewalk and mock her, call her mad, want feel after prayer is the acknowledgment that we are
her removed from the street. A monk stops and rec- not alone in our struggles and sufferings. We can
ognizes her as a Buddhist prayer wheel. engage in dialogue with the Sacred, with God and
••• each other. A suffering that cannot be shared is a
A letter arrives from home. Six men and women, suffering that cannot be endured.
largely scholars and intellectuals, all living in Utah, And some feeble-minded children in the
have been excommunicated from the Church of kitchens have
Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for exercising beliefs discovered tiny swallows on crutches
contrary to the doctrine. Apostasy. It is being called that could pronounce the word love.
Black September.
There is a history of excommunicating men and I think about love in Hell as I am dying. Yes, in El
women who believe beyond convention. But an Boscos’ Hell, I am dying. I think about the Mor-
institution can never excommunicate a spirit from mon concept of Hell: That part of the spirit world
its body. Cut the trees down. Believe the green inhabited by wicked spirits who are awaiting the
stand is gone. Then walk among the stumps when eventual day of their resurrection. . . . There they suf-
the wind blows through and feel the phantom fer the torments of the damned; there they welter in
limbs bowing to what remains, what can never be the vengeance of eternal fire; there is found weeping
destroyed. and wailing and gnashing of teeth; there the fiery
We have forgotten the art of a living theology. indignation of the wrath of God is poured out upon
Look at Hieronymus Bosch to remember. His lan- the wicked.
guage of images, visual poetry, is a lyrical meditation. We are taught Spiritual death is hell . . .hell must
We have forgotten that God’s declarations are deliver up its captive spirits. Hell will have an end.
always heard, seen, and delivered through our own
creative interpretations. Without language, we could I am the woman half inside, half outside the blue
not speak of God. We can never escape our own bubble being expelled from the bowels of the Night-
formulations, conjectures, translations. Religions begin jar Magistrate that feels like being caught between

the walls of a narrow room whose door is locked for misery is when we can no longer perceive
when the earth quakes and the ceiling cracks, the beauty. To feel beauty. Hell is the Great Forgetting.
plaster falls, the walls are moving, the floor is mov-
ing, and suddenly everything breaks open and you What is the key?
are thrown outside, exposed to chaos, amazed to be My body is draped over the key, the key that is
alive, eyes safe, still breathing, legs free. hanging from a hook on a pole that is lodged in the
I walk the streets of Madrid anonymous, face- skull. I am always losing the keys, forgetting where
less, attached to no one. I do not cast a shadow. If I put them, misplaced them, last saw them. It is the
I were to die, no one would know my identity or key that always brings me back. Excuse me, I forgot
whereabouts. The sky is grey. The buildings are my keys, have you seen my keys? Keys to the Gospel.
grey. The mood is grey. The color of retreat is grey. I seem to have temporarily lost them. Closed doors.
Nothing has meaning. I can find no meaning. I stop Locked doors. There are rooms I may never enter.
and lean against a stone wall. Across the street, there The Temple is closed. I have lost my key. Where is
are red fliers stapled to wooden posts. Release him. the key, the skeleton key made to fit many locks?
Free him. Do not forget him. It looks like an image Here is the key. I am caught in the doorway of my
of Christ. I cross the cobbled street and see it is an religious past.
image of Leonard Peltier. How strange to see him
here in Spain. I wonder who put up these posters— It grows dark around me as I enter the portal
an American, a Spaniard, an Oglala Sioux? behind the red hills. Five blackbirds fly out of the
Boundaries dissolve. Teachings dissolve. Where ass of the man the Nightjar Magistrate is devour-
did we come from? Why are we here? Where are we ing. I follow a naked individual, man or woman,
going? I honestly don’t know. Say it again. I honestly who can be sure? who wears the carapace of a
don’t know. Nothing makes sense. El Bosco’s Hell is horseshoe crab as a helmet. How do we arm our-
seeping into the world. selves against that which we fear? It is becoming
I am afraid. I am afraid of justice, poetic justice. I darker and darker. My mind is unraveling.
am afraid of license, artistic license. I am afraid because
in the context of modernity, a path of amnesia is I strike a match and stare into the small flame.
being created, a state where the art of forgetting
is perfected in the name of comfort and denial and What am I afraid of?
distraction. Where is the truth? What is the truth?
Sanitize the truth. The perfection of amnesia is the P O E T R Y
erasure of memory. Clean, clean, clean. Without
memory there is no emotion. Without emotion Poetry Month 1999:
there is no experience. Without experience there is Two Notes from a Road Trip
only abstraction.
There is no solid footing in Hell. The first of April,
The ghoul in the pink frock is flashing his desert highway: rabbitbrush
barbed tongue. His eyes are glazed. He does not tufted with snow.
frighten me now because I don’t care. I am too tired
and fractured to care. I wander through this April Second, Hovenweap
scorched and tarnished landscape feeling trapped
and defeated by all the obstacles and stalemates I Empty seven hundred years,
encounter. Hell, I am certain, is the place where Built on rock, of rock and mud,
one is afforded no movement. These ruined towers make no defense
Motion. Emotion. To remember what moves us, From snow on the wind.
inside, outside. Perhaps the most profound barometer —Bruce W. Jorgensen

At the Confluence 3
You look out at the sky
1
broken open with stars
Spent on the edge of sleep
we bridge a river with the flute
There are some words
you bought because you loved
that words can’t say
its silver sheen and velvet case
though you’ve never learned to play a note
By morning the cold
as the road curves over
branches snap from their weight
snow-covered hills, a desert valley
and you lie quiet as it gets light
4
over the flute
A stream pitches itself
broken apart in velvet—
over rocks
its beauty plays for its silence
under branches
struck white
I lie next to you
in one of those lights on the hill
Last year’s bud scales
where you press your palm
press their gloss around buds
against my back—
all that either of us
Snow falls on branches
will yield to the city—
a smog of glistening lights—
The key to your leaving
blue, yellow, red, orange
—I remember a house—
each window stained with light
of the morning alarm breaking
A woman holds her hands open
its cry over the hour
and we fill them with flowers
2 —Danielle Beazer Dubrasky
I love you even more
because of my infidelities
with afternoons of fuchsia Priesthood in the Garden
drinking their secrets hanging
from fringed parasols Just after the crocus
Their rainbow heads parting the wet soil
My hands swollen from the humid air And midway though daffodils
I finger mimosa fronds But before the alyssum leaf is green
magnolia leaves or the pansy’s full blossomed beauty
am dusted by the confetti
of something sprung— The call goes out
cherry blossoms or lace wing The priesthood is summoned.
hatched and lifted to cat tails
Time to extricate those stake center flowerbeds
My mindful trysts—a passage back— from the capricious grip of winter
that end in a garden near the stream bed Dangerous, spider-like tentacles of avaricious grasses
advancing
beneath a soggy lasagna of dead leaves.

When faced with such a daunting task E S S A Y

the priesthood holder applies three simple, straight-
forward, time-honored rules for deciding what goes In Search of the Elemental:
and what remains: An Elaboration on an Entry from My
Rule 1. It must have a flower at least 1 inch in
diameter
Wilderness Journal
Rule 2. It must be at least 9 inches tall By Levi S. Peterson
Rule 3. (known informally as the “Westmoreland
rule”), May 7, 1972. With Althea and Karrin, I have
Sometimes a flower must be sacrificed for the good made my spring pilgrimage to Flaming Gorge this
of the entire flowerbed. weekend. We camped last night at Little Hole, the
point where the Green River emerges from Red
I know that these revelations must strike terror in Canyon seven miles below the dam. Although we
the hearts of the sisters who, parked our camper in a government campground,
late last fall, labored over each bed: wilderness seemed close. It was the river that gave
daffodils, crocuses, pansies, alyssum this touch. At midday we walked up the river into
tall plants and ground cover, large flowers and Red Canyon for a mile or two, and now I am sit-
small, early and late bloomers ting on a boulder watching the river surge and roll.
To keep the garden alive, a parade of color through On either side of the river, the pink quartzite cliffs
spring and into summer. of Red Canyon rise a thousand feet or more with
an uncompromising perpendicularity. Overhead,
The arrival of the priesthood imposes a type of silhouetted against the distant blue of a narrow sky,
Darwinian selection upon the garden— two eagles wheel in unending circles.
Survival of the most obvious The anxieties I carried from Ogden are gone,
Leaving the tall, the early and the large and I am serene. My serenity, I recognize, comes
blossom from my response to the river. I am intimately, even
And erasing ground cover, small blossoms and forcibly, aware of its presence. Elsewhere the Green
late bloomers. is muddy; here, because its silt has settled behind
Abbreviating a two-month garden explosion to just the dam, it is cold and, appropriately for a river
one short week. of its name, of a shimmering emerald hue. The
imponderable tonnage of its water swirls and surges
In defense of the brethren, it must be noted that: down the course of its deep canyon. It is not fran-
1. Speed is always to be revered over selectivity, tic or anxious here. It does not roar or fret or foam,
and that but moves with a solemn and relentless energy. I
2. There are no guidelines in the General Hand- feel myself in the presence of elemental force. It is,
book dealing with the vagaries of the in fact, elemental force that, on this particular day,
Priesthood in the Garden. makes wilderness memorable to me, and it is with
elemental force that I find myself preoccupied.
—Stanton H. Hall Force moves, attracts, repels, alters, shapes. It is
energy. It is in everything; perhaps it is everything.
I know force inwardly from the contraction of my
biceps and from the intensity of my emotions. I
know it outwardly from thunder and lightening,
from wind, from growth of living things, from
evaporation of liquids, from weathering of rock. As
for the elemental, it is that which is basic and unal-

terable. It is the simple components from which this river would be riddled with space. The space
complex things are constructed. It is found in all within matter is filled by energy. An electromag-
things in all places. It is the universally applicable netic force exerts itself across the space between a
and the irreducibly real. nucleus and the electrons which orbit it. An even
I speak especially of the elemental because one greater force, called the strong force, exerts itself
encounters the term over and over in wilderness lit- between particles within a nucleus. A lesser force,
erature. People say they seek wilderness in order to called the weak force, is postulated to account for
experience the elemental. Wilderness lovers are the expulsion of particles from a nucleus during the
convinced that in the wild they discover their sim- spontaneous decay of a radioactive atom. Finally,
ple and unadulterated origins, they commune with there is gravity, the tendency of masses to attract
the intangible, they come upon a reality which is smaller masses toward their center, which physicists
indivisible and self-existent. In wilderness they find consider the least of the recognized atomic forces.
the insignia of their kinship with all things because Ironically, gravity is the force I am most familiar with.
all things are composed of the elemental. I see it in operation at this instant, drawing this
At this moment I am thinking this water is a sur- river down its channel toward a lower elevation. It
face beneath which I would like to peer. I would is these forces that give so-called solid matter the
like to inspect the depths of this river, not as a diver appearance of solidity. Without them the particles
might inspect them, but as a physicist might of one atom could easily slip through the par-
inspect the matter of which this liquid is com- ticles of another with no more than an occasional
posed. This river of moist, emerald water is a trans- accidental collision.
lation my senses make of an unknown writing for A scientific world view is as fraught with mystery
which as yet no Rosetta stone has been found. as any theology. Nonetheless, I believe in science.
Water is matter, and matter has a character which Practical results, not all of them benign, establish
eludes my senses and into whose ultimate reality I its authority. Electrons are routinely stripped from
would like to penetrate. I am frustrated by the lim- their atoms to light my room and operate my dish-
itation of my senses. I regret that, despite the most washer. Nuclei are split to propel aircraft carriers
fervent application of mind, I am fated to error, and to operate the dynamos that strip the aforesaid
hallucination, and misconception. I yearn for the electrons from their atoms. I remember an old
elemental. woman in Belgium who told me she didn’t believe
This water is composed of molecules so small in God; she believed only in the Virgin. That’s the
that I must take the word of scientists as to their way I am with science. I’m a believer though I am
existence. Each of these molecules is composed of confused as to precisely what it is I believe in.
even smaller atoms—two atoms of hydrogen, one Science instructs me that mass is convertible to
of oxygen. Hydrogen and oxygen are called ele- energy and energy is convertible to mass. It is pos-
ments because it was once thought their respective sible that particles are simply crests or concentra-
atoms were irreducible and were therefore among tions of waves of energy, that everything that exists
the ultimate building blocks of cosmic matter. It is is force in one of its various guises. If I could per-
now known that atoms are not irreducible. They ceive atoms, how would they present themselves?
are composed of electrons which encircle a denser Through imagination I peer into the matter com-
nucleus. A nucleus is composed of a startling vari- posing this water. I see it is a seething assemblage of
ety of smaller particles, the rearrangement of which energized particles, of tiny blobs of mass linked by
can transform an atom of one element into an pulsing energy fields. I see strings of atoms that coil
atom of another. and twine and twist. These atoms have no color, no
There is an enormous space between the elec- texture, no odor, no sound. They are pure pulsa-
trons and nucleus composing each atom. Even if it tion, sheer motion. There is enough energy in a
were frozen into ice, the matter which composes thimble-full of them to blow up a city.

My vision evaporates and I am sitting beside a me of the simple, pure, elemental force that is
river of the senses. It is a moist, glistening flow. Its everywhere applied in the universe, the force from
currents roil, sigh, and suck. Aquatic plants ripple in which all other forces are compounded, the force
its depths. Yellow flowers nod on the bank near my that binds all things into the kinship of universal
feet. Rosy quartzite cliffs rise on either hand. Eagles being. I am sobered and profoundly attracted. The
circle, clouds drift. The sun prepares to disappear river has aroused my thirst for omnipotence, for
behind the cliff, and shadow covers half the river. the power to do the all sufficient.
This wild river is a symbol. That is, it represents
more than it actually is. In its symbolic character it
Wilderness has an evocative is typical of wilderness generally. Wilderness has an
evocative power over the human mind. It suggests
power over the human mind. meanings far beyond its actual being. Sitting on
It suggests meanings far this boulder by the Green River while eagles make
their serene circles on the great air currents rising
beyond its actual being. from Red Canyon, I recognize again that wilder-
ness is not a mask for providence or paradise. But I
recognize that, if it does not mask the fact of my
I admit to the failure of my senses. They can’t immortality, omnipotence, and magnitude, it is at
penetrate to the atomic structure of this water. least a symbol for them and it is such a symbol that
That is a frustration I will have to live with. Yet I in its evocative presence, I live as if it were the fact
feel myself most intimately conjoined to the ele- and not the symbol.
mental at this moment. I here recognize elemental So my thinking has shifted from the force that
force, I commune with it, I yearn to gather its vast actually resides in this water to the force that my
and comprehensive character within my grasp. The personality craves. In the implacable flow of the
senses, if they operate authentically, if they are not Green River, my intimate need for power and com-
overridden by dreams and hallucinations, create petence are aroused and satisfied. For a brief hour,
their own kind of irreducible reality. I have lived as if I were immortal, omnipotent, and
The elemental is comprehended by being and immense. Wilderness, with its incalculable config-
impulse to be. Being and impulse to be are terms that urations, textures, and colors, stands figuratively
summarize to my satisfaction both the visible world for the fulfillment of the living impulse within me.
and its invisible structure. They are elemental because I am happy for this and do not find wilderness
they are universal; they pertain to everything that mean and reprehensible, because it is only a symbol
was, is, or will be. Within them resides elemental for paradise and not the actual fact of total and per-
force: the force necessary for existing, the force nec- manent fulfillment. I do not find wilderness less
essary for becoming that which doesn’t yet exist. significant because it stands for my death as much
I understand that this river is an infinitesimally as for my life. I am not obliged to brood upon death,
small portion of universal force. It could even be and a little life is infinitely preferable to none at all.
argued that here, in Red Canyon, it is a domesticated I am happy to know that wilderness can evoke and
river, emerging as it does from the generators of give vent to the life locked within me.
Flaming Gorge Dam. Yet by my ordinary standards, I recall that my wilderness journal is filled with
it is big and wild. Possessing no greater force than the word symbol. Over and over, I have recognized
my body, disposing of no tools other than sticks that wilderness stands for something in me. A jour-
and rocks, I am impotent to halt or divert this river. ney into wilderness is a journey into myself. Wilder-
Between its banks millions of tons slip seaward. Its ness is a mirror for the human spirit. In wilderness,
currents jostle, eddy, and intertwine. Its magnitude humanity finds a reflection of itself.
awakens my respect for universal power. It reminds

P O E T R Y Moving toward You

(For Josh, 1968–1988)
Song for an Old Man’s Autumn
Snows delay, and slow 1. The Sun Shapes a Tree
November’s autumn stretches Mother calms us at night—
endlessly across these fields, the story of three children
her easy gold now muted who live on a floating island:
in frost-touched tan and gray.
Haze has softened summer’s In a glass bottom boat they sail
earnest valley; out toward over anemones and sea urchins
open flats, someone burns to a coral reef where sting rays
white clover and rabbit brush glide along the riffle,
along dried ditch banks.
while our sister Mara, almost twelve,
Though corn stalks stand waiting, braids and unbraids her waist-long hair,
tissue tin and trembling smiles her half smile.
in the brittle air, snows
do not come. translucent medusas with the low tide,
Alfalfa fields, fall pastured their tentacles in seaweed.
and bare; wheat stubble,
unturned, bleached and less militant. Our hands cramped around scissors
we cut out paper accordions
Gathered among cottonwood and ancient of two girls and a boy.
elms, winds lift twisted fingers of leaves
that no longer clasp, last seed You draw a snowy hedge around the house.
tufts from broken milk weed pods, The floor tilts toward me.
and smoke from burning banks The sun shapes a tree.
that rises pungent before the storm.
A paper boy
Killdeer and mourning dove, snipped from the others
lost from these furrows, find silhouettes the floor.
solace down other edges
of the world. Hummingbirds are 2. The Earliest Hours
spent, crickets stilled, yet
snows hold. Every plant dies in her house—
In pale warmth of afternoon, the potted chrysanthemums
from a corner of this arid valley white begonia, primrose, even the geraniums.
I watch smoke rise.
Mother is not a gardener.
—Leon Chidester Outside, the transplanted azaleas,
pea vines and tomatoes dry up in the dust.
Border zinnias, bright as bumble bees

on the day young Mormon deacons planted them,
stubbornly hold out long as they can without water,

but soon their lemon-yellow as if I were on acid and

fades to the color of old fruit rind. I see where your mind
The only day she works in the garden might have gone.
is the morning of your funeral. 4. Toward a Summer

Her bare hands have dug and planted
since the earliest hours. From among altos
Mara looks up and sees you
She didn’t sleep the night before. singing in the back of the church—
The ground kept waking her with its coolness,
the way it holds secrets so deep within itself. for less than a second
her pupils admit you
In a vague frenzy before she sees only the wall.
she digs small homes for petunias,
color of May. Go forward across the street
whistle your way
3. As Open As past the changing lights
A billboard: Stardust Motel toward a summer gone.

the exit sign: Valley of Fire Winter’s here but the leaves
Sand and creosote, broken bottles haven’t all fallen.
Sparkling before your head The branches

smashes the windshield still smell of sycamore,
near rows of telephone poles. honey locust,
Your name thrives in a desert a cold spell

as open as the sky doused in snow
that rains down dry-throated gullies a spruce.
soaks cleft mud flats. —Danielle Beazer Dubrasky

Your name lies flat on the grass
near a copper vase filled
Utah: Five Sacred Lessons
with water and flowers
where the road ends If this land rose from its place
in wind and Joshua trees. and opened, filled with light,
a woman would come from inside.
I hear your voice, or see
you pull a black vinyl album Would you know her?
from its case—“Rust Never Sleeps.” Would you turn to her your full body,
full face?
Bats fly in quadrangles at dusk
—the only night I play your songs, Or would she be invisible?
the only night the bats move Would she seem to you a hag?
•••

If this land fell and cracked Not sparing the details, they sanded
into gorges and fissures and dust, with sand, pocked and twisted the stone.
a giant would shake off the rubble
and rise. Enter their galleries, art for gods,
fins and fiery furnace mazes.
Would you sit before him, learn his ways? Colors of live embers, salmon flesh,
Or terrified, crawl off monarch butterfly wings.
on hands and knees Immense and vibrating
until they were skinned raw? through each day’s varied light.
Would you hear only a violent storm
and lock yourself inside? Great ribbons of rock
suspended across the sky.
•••
Spires, walled cities of giant tribes—
Granite and soil, salt and clay— are they returning, or lost?
we can scratch the surface
of the land, claim it, Enormous humans in pillars and cliffs,
parcel it out in deeds, and the size of our spirits, we hope.
it will lie down, pliant bedrock.
No wonder we walk here in awe.
But to the land we are pests, No wonder we pray. No wonder
little and sticky, all people have held these places holy.
killing ourselves in our own filth.
Less than a single breath •••
in the land’s long life.
A lesson in humility:
So infinite and various
are this spirit and this place— Take off your shoes,
to feel with them, walk into the desert at the night.
their grit and flood and green, The spine of a cactus in your heel
might help us last. is not essential but may be part
of the price. You need sand
The land, our mother and father— and rock and roots
how will you learn the land? to anchor your feet.
Dig in your toes.
•••
Now, look up at the whole arc
A lesson in art: of the sky. That cascade,
those silent needles of light
The sculptors prepared their materials, prick your body from explosions
laid down sand and rubble so fiery, so immense
and ground-up shells that if they had not come through eons
for two hundred million years. and galaxies, they would burn you
In time, the blocks rose. to atoms, to less.
These masters used wind as hammer,
water as chisel. They would fill small fissures,
wait for ice to crack them apart.
A cicada shrills, A lesson in usefulness:

a lizard crosses your foot,
and your body begins to glitter Consider salt. The word, the savor, tang
with intense, fragile life— on your tongue. Now the mineral,
your own place and presence its concentration, how deposits
in the vast dark. became the ghost trail
of an ancient lake,
••• a desolate salt plain.
A lesson in perspective: Consider the old lake’s remnant,

the famous inland sea,
The mountains are great ships where Alfred Lambourne, first
floating above us, setting their course to live on the lake “for love,”
by the stars. saw breezes play across currents
at dusk, form shifting bands “of amber, azure,
But to know the mountains, rose.” “The whole surface,” he said,
there are other ways. “gleams like a silken robe.”
Watch the hummingbird, •••

whose nest is the size
of your two folded fingers, The last lesson, of home:
the pinkies. She is both quick
and still. She loves the high meadows, Evening. Sunset enacting the fire of the stars.
their swirls of flower pastels, Your shadow says you are fifty feet tall.
nectar to sip a whole summer Walk down a dirt road
in a single slope. through a valley of fields turned gold
by that horizontal light.
Float with a bit of aspen fluff,
spiral up a current The lap of the mother,
along the language of trees. the velvet folds of her dress,
Drift across white-paper bark, the green she helps you grow.
message struck in black, Her jewelry the silver spray
then over fir trees, their epic trunks of sprinklers flinging melted snow.
the same stories over and over.
The height of the father,
Sit on a boulder, midstream his craggy arms snagging water
in spring run-off, cool with spray. from the belly of the clouds,
Solid, dense, unaffected by all directing it down to nourish you,
that rushing water, spilling sound. provide for your life. To give you
No, subtly affected, a place, a haven, if you are wise.
its movement slight, imperceptible —Susan Elizabeth Howe
as it agrees to the erosion
that after millennia will wash it along.
•••

E S S A Y Museum in the winter of 1992–93, when they were

visiting Spain. She was completely stunned as she
The Quest for Essences as an Archaic recognized the left and right panels, “Paradise” and
Religious Quest: Terry Tempest “Hell.” They were the originals of the prints that
hung on the bulletin board above the beds that she
Williams’s Interrogation of Faith, Art, and her cousins as children occupied when they
and Earthly Life in Leap stayed in their grandmother’s home. (They were
By Neila C. Seshachari part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s home
education program under the direction of John
In an e-mail sent to me on May 13, 2001, Terry Canaday in 1957, she tells us.) Standing in front of
Tempest Williams says, the painting, she thinks:
I love knowing you will be introducing Leap Why was this middle panel hidden from me,
to a Mormon audience. Perfect. It’s a tough the body, the body of the triptych, my body?
book for many—others seem to feel and see Something very profound was unleashed and
the words and intention exactly. I wanted to set into motion. [. . .] Little did I know that
see what it would be like to “write the body.” this would send me on a seven-year journey
To create an organic text that the reader feels synthesizing art history, Spanish history, natu-
first and helps understand later, I wanted to ral history and Mormon theology through the
break form—play with form. If we are going landscape of El Bosco, as the Spanish call this
to question orthodoxy or any dominant cul- visionary painter. (Random House interview)
ture or institution, then I believe we must also
This painting simultaneously provides the impe-
break form on the page as well.
tus for Williams’s inspiration to embark on a psy-
And she ends, “I love our community; don’t you?” chic journey into the mysteries of life and death
This brief message includes a world of ideas that and spiritual rejuvenation as well as her interroga-
undergird the writing of her book: 1) the book’s tion of her faith in Mormonism.
genesis—how she came to writing the book; 2) what Hieronymus Bosch’s The Garden of Delights is
her intention was in undertaking the project; the springboard from which Williams takes her big
3) how her enormous and unusual venture needed and free-falling leap into unknown terrain. Inspired
her to break form to seek new ways of expressing by the implications of total risk in W. H. Auden’s
her ideas; 4) how her intent was to question ortho- poem, “Leap before You Look,” she says in an inter-
doxy in religion; 5) to question dominant cul- view, “Throughout the writing of this book, I thought
ture—not only her own but any culture that stifles about what it means to take risks, to dare to move
creativity by imposing too many restrictive codes; into unknown terrain physically, psychologically,
6) and to question institutions—a term that, after and spiritually.” She recognizes that it was “ a huge
reading the book, has to be interpreted variously as leap, a leap of faith, a leap of joy, a leap of the imag-
in institutionally received ideas on art, wilderness, ination from a known landscape into new terri-
social practices, and religious ones; 7) and her sense tory” (Random).
of appreciation, contentment, and refuge in her Williams’s intrepid journey ends as a leap of
own community and culture expressed so sincerely faith, not in the traditional sense of obeying implic-
in her rhetorical ending: “I love our community; itly without questioning the tenets of her Mormon
don’t you?” faith, but of delving into the essence of what it
Leap is Williams’s response to seeing Hierony- means to be a Mormon, to share the intuition, mys-
mus Bosch’s painting, a triptych, El jardine de las tery, and inspiration of Joseph Smith, its prophet
delicias (“The Garden of Delights”), which she and par excellence. The trajectory of this leap is not an
her husband, Brooke, saw in Madrid at the Prado easy one. It is fraught with doubts and agonies, as

well as visions of hope and clarifications. Mario S. outskirts of Yellowstone National Park in Idaho,
De Pillis, professor emeritus of history at the Uni- she decides to find out what she truly believes. She
versity of Massachusetts, Amherst, in his Eccles fasts from food for two days, drinking only water,
Lecture titled “Mormon Dreams, Mormon Visions,” studies the Book of Mormon, and when she feels
pointed out how spiritual manifestations, sought as “a humility rise out of [her] own hunger” (25),
a confirmation of faith, are a normal occurrence prays fervently that she might know the truthful-
among the Mormons. He explained the three cate- ness of the gospel in her heart. That night, she sees
gories of Mormon manifestations or visions: foun- a vision which leaves her trembling and expectant,
dational, premonitional, and confirmational. De Pillis but it gives her no answers. Her mother, who rushes
referred to Joseph Smith’s first vision in the spring from Salt Lake City to visit her during her hour of
of 1820 at the age of fifteen, as well as those of agitation and confusion, brings Terry a copy of her
1823, 1824, 1825, 1826, and 1827, as a founda- patriarchal blessing from which she reads her: “Live
tional manifestation. Smith is propelled to seek in tune with the Holy Spirit. Seek the truth always.
guidance from God in the Sacred Grove when he Be not afraid to learn the truth of anything, for no
reads a scripture: “Ask God and He will give it to truth will be revealed to you as such that will be in
you” (see James 1:5). Joseph Smith’s “premoni- conflict with God’s kingdom” (28).
tional dreams” during the 1820s contain an ele- Now, standing transfixed in front of The Garden
ment of expectancy, presentiments of impending of Delights, she feels faint and sits down on a crescent-
upheaval, and hints of salvation. De Pillis noted shaped wooden chair leaning against a wall. This
that the third kind of spiritual manifestation—con- chance journey that brought her as an ordinary,
firmational ones—dispel all doubts. curious tourist to the Prado Museum transforms
Viewed in light of these categories, Terry Tem- her into a spiritual tourist, a mythic hero who sets
pest Williams’s first vision at age seventeen seems out on her long journey frequently visiting The
foundational, while her vision at the Prado Museum Garden of Delights in search of the essence of life on
in Madrid, as she sees The Garden of Delights for the earth. But her outward journeys to the triptych,
first time, may be termed premonitional, inasmuch
time and time again for seven years1, are truly a
as it contains an element of De Pillis’s expectancy,
journey into her own self as well, a journey deep
impending upheaval, and presentiments of salva-
into her psyche, leading to “interrogation of her
tion. This is not to say that Terry Tempest Williams
faith” in Mormonism and searching questions about
is a spiritual leader of Joseph Smith’s proportions.
what constitutes her values regarding art, wilder-
Far from it. However, it indicates that Williams’s
ness, and wildlife.
quest, too, is sincere and spiritual, and it proves to
be not only an honest inquiry but one which leads She is possessed by the concept of “the archaic
her to spiritual resolutions. quest for essences” as a means through which she
Williams’s own quest for the essence of her Mor- might find answers to these questions. For instance,
mon faith begins very early in her life. She is standing in the Brooklyn Museum of Art in front
inspired by the promise in the Book of Mormon, of Damien Hirst’s unique “sculpture” of a real shark
enunciated by Moroni: “When ye shall receive these pickled in formaldehyde floating in a box, she says:
things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, As a naturalist who has worked in a museum
the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these of natural history for over fifteen years, how
things are true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere am I to think about a shark in the context of
heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he art, not science? [. . .] My mind becomes wild
will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power in the presence of creation, the artist’s cre-
of the Holy Ghost” (Moro. 10:4, qtd. in Leap 23). ation. [. . .] Call it art or call it biology, what
When Williams was seventeen and working as a is the true essence of shark? How is the focus
cabin maid in Elk Creek Ranch, Island Park, on the of our perceptions decided? [. . .] Once we

realize that the quest for essences is an archaic sensuous celebration of our relationship with other
religious quest, there is no reason why something creatures of the animal and plant world—to be in
should not be art for one person or culture and correspondence with God’s creation” (Random).
non-art for another. (63–64; emphasis hers)
Damien Hirst’s conceptual art, be it his shark
in a box or his installation called A Thousand Leap becomes a testament
Years, 1990 (where the eye of a severed cow’s
head looks upward as black flies crawl over it
to Williams’s fearless self-
and lay eggs in the flesh that metamorphose discovery. She is indeed
into maggots that mature into flies that gather
in the pool of blood to drink, leaving tiny red the mythic hero in the
footprints on the glass installation, while some truest sense of the term.
flies are destined to die as a life-stopping buzz
in the electric fly-killing machine), all his con-
ceptual pieces of art, his installations, make
The quest for essences often focuses on the
me think about the concept and designation of
noumenal world, a world seen only through intu-
wilderness. (65; emphasis mine)
ition, the unseen realm of essences beyond the vis-
Similarly, she sees the choreographed movements ible reality of the phenomenal world. Williams’s
of a grizzly walking through the gold meadows of quest in art, wilderness, religion, and her own faith
the Hayden Valley in Yellowstone, as well as the in Mormonism leads her to make connections
adaptations of plants, as “performance art” (65–67). between all these elements and the essential holi-
She says: “We designate wilderness as an installa- ness of life on earth. It is as if she is on the brink of
tion of essences, open for individual interpretation, a “premonitional” vision brimming with the hope
full of controversy and conversation” (66). And she of answers. The Garden of Delights was painted in
asks: “Do I think anyone will buy the concept of 1500, when the Western world was engaged in the
wilderness as conceptual art? It is easier to create a Reformation and the Counter-Reformation that
sensation over art than a sensation over the bald, moved us into a new way of seeing. And now, five
greed-faced sale and development of open lands, hundred years later, Williams is convinced that we
wildlands, in the United States of America” (68). are on the cusp of another reformation. She sees its
Williams laments too that traditionally Chris- work as putting exterior and interior landscapes
tianity has made a distinction, a spiritual separation back together, trying to repair and halt the frag-
between human beings and other creatures, be they mentation.
plants or animals, giving the dominion of the earth Repairing such fragmentation of the interior and
to humans. This philosophy within the Judeo- exterior landscape has to be a willed psychic act.
Christian mind has led to the abuse of natural Our interior landscape, in good measure, is com-
resources and wreaked havoc on earth. These ideas posed of the “unconscious”—not just the Freudian
are not new, inasmuch as many wilderness philoso- unconscious which is a repository of repressed
phers have voiced them (Devall and Sessions, Nash, desires, but the Jungian unconscious which is an
Oelschlaeger). However, Williams now points out entire world that is very much a real part of the life
how Bosch’s sense of scale places human beings of an individual, the cogitating world of the ego
alongside animals as equal partners. They are the (Jung 12). Jung often uses the term shadow for the
same size. Human beings are engaged in conversa- unconscious part of the personality because it often
tion with birds, ride on the backs of mallards, and appears in dreams in a personified form. M.-L. von
gather around blackberries floating in a lake. “The Franz says the shadow becomes our friend or
middle panel of ‘Earthly Delights’ draws us into a enemy depending largely on ourselves. “The

shadow is not necessarily always an opponent. In But Williams realizes that seeing the world
fact, it is exactly like any human being with whom through a bipolar lens comes naturally to the West-
one has to get along, sometimes by giving in, some- ern world. One mode fixes truth as never changing,
times by resisting, sometimes by giving love— while the other way sees truth as organic, growing,
whatever the situation requires” (173). Williams shifting, and changing. How to inhabit this dualis-
seems to be not only cognizant of but also tic world that we have inherited without falling
obliquely referring to the shadow aspects of her prey to either side is a question that engages
personality. In Part IV, “Restoration,” she actually Williams’s attention.
refers explicitly to her shadow (see below).
Through conscious efforts to understand and
repair her fragmented psyche, Williams is now able Engaged in her intense psychic
to see connection between her religious beliefs and
evolution. Based on her own Mormon faith that quest as an adult, Williams, like
promises eternal progression, she describes how the Joseph Campbell, comes to
study of evolution became her staple. “To evolve, to
evolve from other forms of life—I saw the process intuit that every religion is true.
of natural selection as an act of biotic faith, an
organic definition, an extension, of what I under-
stood the concept of eternal progression to be in Thus she ventures on an enormous quest that
Mormon theology, that of advanced perfectionism.”2 encompasses all the things that are dear and near to
Standing in front of the triptych, she recognizes her. In The Power of Myth, Joseph Campbell
that Christianity pressures its followers into believ- describes the mythic hero’s journey not as a coura-
ing that this earth is but a transition from our pris- geous act, but as “a life lived in self-discovery” (xiv).
tine past in paradise to our eternal salvation in Seen in this light, the entire book of Leap becomes
heaven. It prevents us from seeing the painting a testament to Williams’s fearless self-discovery. She
in the right spirit. Read from left to right, the is indeed the mythic hero in the truest sense of the
painting warns us that the wages of sin are the eter- term. Her fervent search and her own faith lead her
nal fires of hell. Williams chooses to read the trip- to conclude that the essence or core of a religious
tych differently: left, right, and center; “Heaven” faith is different from its practices and rites. As Jung
(which is her name for “The Creation of Eve”), points out, these rites and practices are cultural
“Hell,” and then “The Garden of Delights.” She symbols consciously developed to express “eternal
begins to think of Heaven and Hell as speculations, truths of religion”3 (93). These symbols of eternal
while the Garden of Delights becomes the only ver- truth are the symbols that trouble her the most.
ity we have in this life. “Earth has never been the In the act of choosing to read Bosch’s triptych
Christian’s soulful inhabitation” she concludes. “left, right, center,” Williams appropriates to her-
“Hell is to be avoided. Heaven is what we seek” self the free agency guaranteed by her own faith.
(32). And the world then becomes black and white, That her keen mind searches for answers in sym-
a dance between good and evil; we are caught bolic, intrepid ways is seen in an early childhood
inside a paradigm of dualities (Random). By choos- episode in the book. She, her uncle, and her cousin
ing to read the triptych left, right, and center, “the are picking cherries. “What principle of the Gospel
center panel becomes a landscape of exploration, of Jesus Christ means the most to you?” asks her
a place where the reconciliation of opposites is pos- uncle, filling his bucket. “Obedience,” her cousin
sible.” It is not a situation of either/or but of and. replies, plucking a cherry off its stem. “Free agency,”
Call it the Creative Third, she says, 1+1=3, “the Terry answers, eating one (8). This free agency or
alchemical landscape where experience is trans- choice is a privilege which Mormonism has bestowed
formed into its own organic truth” (Random). on her.

Engaged in her intense psychic quest as an adult, rituals (Jung’s cultural symbols)—the marriage cer-
Williams, like Joseph Campbell, comes to intuit that tificate, the wedding bands—and later reaffirms her
every religion is true (Campbell 56). In Madrid, bonds with Brooke in a private pact in the presence
she tells us, “I . . . make prayers to my gods, male of awe-inspiring nature. Standing in a sandstone
and female, human and animal, recalling privately canyon in the redrock desert of Utah before a panel
the vows I once made and burned” (124). Perhaps of awesome winged and ancient pictographs, Terry
her earliest insight into this profound understand- and Brooke deliver their
ing came because of a yellowed quotation that her new vows in whispers by the authority of our
grandfather kept where he would see it daily: own remembered hearts. Standing before these
“There is no one true church, no one chosen Elders of Time, we entrust ourselves to each
people” (100). Recognizing that both she and her
other. Our vows are simple, spontaneous: Yes,
grandfather could be thought of as heretics,
we are here to love. Yes, we are here to experi-
Williams recollects that the root word for heresy
ence the body, in both shadow and light, in
(hairesis) is the Greek word for choice, adding:
forgiveness and joy, we return to each other,
I was taught that during the Great War in rejoined. Together we will love this beautiful,
Heaven, two plans were offered to God from broken world of which we are a part. (261)
his sons Lucifer and Jesus as to how human
Then they rejoice and wonder over how they found
beings were to conduct themselves on Earth.
their way to each other decades ago, “two refugees
Lucifer wanted to ensure obedience; they
wandering in the wilderness.” And, holding each
would be told how to act and what to do.
other, they perform a slow, celebratory dance in
Jesus wanted to ensure choice; let men and
women decide for themselves what is right this holy place of the ancient ones.
and what is wrong. (102) This kind of mature understanding rarely comes
without its attendant agonies and soul-searching.
Looking for essences—for quintessence if you When Williams hears about the excommunication
will—she recognizes that the core of any religion is of six Utah men and women scholars and intellec-
separate from the practices that accrue to it. It gives tuals for exercising beliefs contrary to the doctrine,
her and Brooke choice regarding what practices to she muses, “An institution can never excommuni-
follow. And so Terry and Brooke go to the shores cate a spirit from its body” (88). Shaken by doubts,
of Great Salt Lake. Sitting on the shore, they lay as she looks at “Hell,” she asks:
their marriage certificate on the salt flats of the What is the key? [. . .] Excuse me, I forgot my
receding lake. “He strikes a wooden match on stone keys, have you seen my keys? Keys to the
and ignites one corner. I light the other. [. . .] We Gospel. [. . .] The Temple is closed. [. . .] Where
have no witnesses before God. [. . .] Emotion swells is the key, the skeleton key made to fit many
inside me. This piece of paper mattered. I look to locks? Here is the key. I am caught in the
Brooke for a similar response. He is elated. It fright- doorway of my religious past. [. . .] What am
ens me” (117). On the lake, they see a reassuring I afraid of? A shattered glass broken in rage.
omen—a Phoenicopterus rubber—the phoenix, the The dismantling of family. [. . .] The disman-
firebird rising from the ashes. Walking to the edge tling of the self. (91–92)
of the lake, she takes off her platinum wedding
bands and hurls them out as far as she can. Brooke Out of such inward questing come her insights.
has brought an antique dinner plate, a souvenir from While watching the sesquicentennial celebration of
their wedding breakfast, and skims it across the the Mormon pioneer trek in 1997 at Brigham
water like a flat stone. It shatters on the third arc. Young University, when everyone is singing the
Through this difficult and heroic ritual, she jet- finale, “Baptize, baptize, baptize,” she says, “I weep
tisons what she thinks of as unnecessary cultural because I do not believe there is only one true

church. I weep because within my own homeland my darkest self on to someone else and com-
I suddenly feel foreign, so very, very foreign. I pensate for what I choose not to see inside my
weep—my own family cries too, but for different own heart. We live in the company of pro-
reasons.” Brooke, a descendant of Brigham Young jected shadows. We are free to blame, to take
and the only son in his family who has chosen not no action, to create nothing from our own
to serve a mission, is “frozen” (180–81). The clos- highest selves. (242)
ing words of the prophet—“We have a divine
mandate to carry the gospel to every nation, kin- Standing alone in the place her consciousness
dred, tongue, and people. . . . We must grasp the has made holy, she consciously confronts her
torch and run the race” (181)—leave her cold, dis- shadow and negotiates with it:
tant, and unmoved. My shadow is authority, obedience to author-
The next day she reads from one of her grand- ity. General authority. I am wary of authority.
mother’s journals: In ignoring my shadow has my own authority
There is more faith in honest doubt than in all been silenced?
the unexamined creeds of past and present. In In this dualistic world, I have seen obedience
this sense, each of us must articulate their own on one hand, free agency on the other. How
religion—that is, their own concept of what is do I bring these two hands opposed together
of supreme worth in living, their own mode of in a gesture of prayer?
expressing that concept in their own commit- [. . .] The heart of the religious experience,
ment in daily life to the values he or she is to bond, repair, draw together, to make
believes to be basic. (181–82) whole, to find that which is anterior to the
The last section of Leap, “Restoration,” marks split condition. (243)
Williams’s repairing of her own fragmented exterior These insights constitute Williams’s final and
and psychic landscapes. After her major spiritual confirmational vision.
crisis, she expects Restoration. Standing in front of Terry Tempest Williams has truly achieved what
the empty wall from which The Garden of Delights Jung calls “the realization of the shadow” (Jung
has been removed for restoration, she tells herself: 163)—the shadow which represents the hidden
Look at the shadow. and repressed aspects of the personality, certainly,
Face the shadow. but also the one which simultaneously nurtures the
good and creative impulses. She has reconciled and
My shadow, my inseparable attendant, is the repaired her psychic fragmentation. Her ego and
dark shape of my body, behind my body, shadow, predictably in a “battle for deliverance”
beside my body, everywhere I go, my shadow (von Franz 118), have emerged reconciled, ful-
follows me. Blocking light, it is largely hid- filled, and whole.
den, out of view, yet troublesome because it The quintessential stages of Williams’s long jour-
dwells in the basement of my unconscious ney into herself are best illustrated in the following
mind. I don’t want it to come up the stairs. few key passages:
I lock the door. Of course Hieronymus Bosch
lets it out, my shadow here, now, just as I am What happens when our institutions no longer
getting comfortable, projecting my own serve us, no longer reflect the truth of our own
thoughts on El Bosco. My shadow will stand experience? We sit on pews and feel a soul-
behind me or in front of me, there you are, stirring disconnect as we are preached ser-
here I am inside the Prado, my shadow, my mons spoken from the dead. What we know
shadow as my friend, my shadow as my is not what we hear. We mistake our confu-
father, my shadow as my Church. I will hurl sion for guilt. (118)

Never trust the artist, the writer, the philoso- the freedom of revelation promised her by her
pher. They will betray the truth that raised faith—a freedom that has been held in check
them. Through their curiosity and the fire of through the dictum: Through free agency, choose
their imagination, they will evoke change. to obey.
They are religion-breakers, myth-makers, and In what may amount to a confirmational vision,
alchemists. Their loyalties are to the lapis stones Williams embraces the center panel of El Bosco’s
they carry in their hands at birth. [. . .] painting, “Earthly Delights,” as “a perfect world in
Joseph—a mystic. Joseph—a diviner. Joseph— harmony with discovery, not vulgar, not profane,
a restorer, a Man of the Signs, a student of the but a responsible inquiry into the fruits of our own
occult, a practitioner of magic. Mormonism is experience” (146). Hieronymus Bosch has put his
magic. He opens his hand. A stone of lapis finger on her wound. “What is the wound? Our
rests in his hand. (144) wound, separation from the Sacred, [. . .] our own
As Latter-day Saints, we have closed his hand restored spirits once lost, now found, Paradise
and let it fall in the name of respectability. We found, right here on this beautiful blue planet
are honest, earnest, hard-working people. called Earth” (265).
[. . .] Work. Don’t dream. Take the beehive to Terry Tempest Williams is thus drawn by the
heart and adopt it as a symbol of industry. As revelatory quality of the Garden: its disclosure of a
a people, my people, we have dropped the rich and spiritual inner life. When she sees humans
hand of Joseph and grasped the hand of in perfect communion with nature and its crea-
Brigham who led us to the Promised Land, tures, she recognizes that personal engagement in
this land of little water, to organize, colonize, life is its own form of prayer.
proselytize, and grow. The pragmatism of Through her harrowing tests that lead her simul-
Brigham Young is our religion now. Commu- taneously to inward journeys into her psyche and
nal. Corporate. Mormon, Inc. (144–45) outward journeys to Madrid, Williams emerges a
mythic hero. “Time on Earth wandering, wondering,
Yet, for all this, Terry Tempest Williams is a firm contemplating. Time to live. Time to reflect on the
believer, rooted in Mormonism. When she sees living. This is the nature of experience. This is the
El Bosco’s first part of the triptych, “Heaven,” for nature of El Bosco’s middle way” (188). She has
instance, her eyes settle on the grove of trees that found answers for herself, but she has no ultimate
separate Adam, Christ, and Eve from the pool answers for others.
with the mound of gems and pink fountain. What is the difference between a religious life
Through the trees, she sees the young Joseph and a spiritual one, Williams asks (211). Spiritual-
Smith, kneeling in the darkness of the woods. The ity is solitary. There are no rules. There are no
date is September 21, 1823, the place Palmyra, maps. We live with the discomfort and ambiguity
New York. He is beseeching God to deliver him of our own authority (212). She knows too that the
from his doubts, to tell him which of the churches human spirit cannot be tamed into accepting only
is true. What the young man hears is that none of one set of ideas—specifically her ideas of the holy.
the churches is true, that he must reclaim the true “Through sharing my own spiritual search through
and living faith. In the sanctity of this sacred grove, the pictorial landscape of Bosch, I hope the reader
he is given a vision of restoration (21). will be inspired to ponder his or her own sense of
Williams’s lyrical language, experimental narra- the sacred and be inspired to take greater risks with
tive, treatment of art and religion, and autobio- their heart, opening to their own sense of place and
graphical element often deflect our attention from spirit,” she says. “We are hungry for truth, for a life
the spiritually self-empowering thrust of her ideas. of greater intention. Perhaps that’s why we travel to
Without losing faith or stepping out of the bounds find that lost piece of ourselves that we believe will
of her religion, she quietly appropriates to herself make us whole.” And she cautions, “It is easy to

romanticize other cultures as having the ‘answers,’ many transformations and even a long process of more or
a way of distancing ourselves from our own less conscious development, and have thus become col-
accountability. But sooner or later, we must return lective images accepted by civilized societies. These
home and find our own integrity within the land- cultural symbols nevertheless retain much of their origi-
scape of our own traditions” (Random). nal numinosity or “spell.” They work in much the same
In her long free-falling leap, Williams grasps the way as prejudices. Such repressed tendencies form an
essence of what it means to be a Mormon. She has ever-present and potentially destructive “shadow” to our
fulfilled her patriarchal blessing: She has lived in conscious mind. Even tendencies that might in some cir-
tune with the Holy Spirit. She has unflinchingly cumstances exert a beneficial influence are transformed
into demons when they are repressed (93).
sought truth. And no truth has been revealed to her
that is truly in conflict with God’s kingdom. In
her final “confirmational vision,” Terry Tempest Works Cited
Williams sees Joseph Smith’s life and teachings as Campbell, Joseph, Bill Moyers, and Betty Sue Flowers.
the essence of Mormonism she embraces. The Power of Myth. New York: Doubleday, 1988.
Campbell, Karen. “Paradise Lost and Found in Three
Neila C. Seshachari presented this paper at the con- Old Panels.” Rev. of Leap by Terry Tempest Williams.
joint session of the Association for Mormon Letters at Christian Science Monitor, June 22, 2000, 18.
the Rocky Mountain Modern Language Association, “Christianity.” Encyclopaedia Britannica. Downloaded
Vancouver, October 13, 2001, and again at the Asso- Aug. 18, 2001, from <http://www.crystalinks.com/
ciation for Mormon Letters annual meeting, March 2, christianity2.html.>
2002, at Westminster College, Salt Lake City. It was the Collins, Sandra. Rev. of Leap by Terry Tempest Williams.
last professional paper she presented before her sudden Library Journal 125 (May 15, 2000): 100.
De Pillis, Mario S. “Mormon Dreams, Mormon
death at her home in Ogden on March 10, 2002.
Visions.” Eccles Lecture, delivered Apr. 10, 2001,
Weber State University, Ogden, Utah.
Notes Devall, B., and Gene Sessions. Deep Ecology: Living As If
1. Most mythologies invest certain numerals—often Nature Mattered. Layton, Utah: Peregrine Smith
3, 7, 12, and 40, for example—with special significance. Books, 1985.
They appear in the Christian trinity of the Father, Son, Jung, Carl G. “Approaching the Unconscious.” Man and
and Holy Ghost; the Hindu trinity of Brahma the Cre- His Symbols. Eds. Carl G. Jung and M.-L. von Franz.
ator, Vishnu the Preserver, and Shiva the Destroyer; the New York: Doubleday, 1964.
Three Graces or the Three Fates in Greek mythology; Random House. “A Conversation with Terry Tempest
seven-league boots in fairy tales; the seven deadly sins Williams, Author of Leap.” Downloaded Aug. 18,
of Catholicism; the seven rishis in Hindu Puranas; Jesus’ 2001, from <http://www.randomhouse.com/knopf.
40 days in the wilderness; the Buddha’s 40 days under the pantheon/qua/tempestwilliams. html.>
bodhi tree, after which he received enlightenment, etc. Nash, Roderick. Wilderness and the American Mind. New
2. Orthodox Christians regard the Mormon doctrine Haven, Conn.: Yale UP, 1982.
of a God who can progress and of the “eternal progres- Oelschlaeger, M. The Idea of Wilderness: Prehistory to the
sion” of humankind as heretical (“Christianity”). Age of Ecology. New Haven, Conn.: Yale UP, 1991.
3. Jung differentiates “natural” from “cultural” sym- Simms, Laura. “When Wings Open.” Parabola 26
bols: “The former are derived from the unconscious con- (spring 2001): 84–90.
tents of the psyche, and they therefore represent an Von Franz, M.-L. “The Process of Individuation.” In
enormous number of variations of the essential arche- Man and His Symbols. Eds. Carl G. Jung and M.-L.
typal images.” They can be traced back to their archaic von Franz. New York: Doubleday, 1964.
roots. Cultural symbols, on the other hand, are those Williams, Terry Tempest. E-mail to Neila C. Seshachari,
that have been used to express “eternal truths” and that May 13, 2001.
are still used in many religions. They have gone through —. Leap. New York: Pantheon Books, 2000.

P O E M III
Without a backward glance our shoulders leaned
Isaiah’s Elations Against the dusty winds. Huddled in close
I We fought for the blossoming life of seedlings
gleaned
There is nothing here except the song of flies From stingy plots. With meager successes we chose
Hovering over still pools by dangling barbed wires Our course of suffering as fate with quiet
The sun cracking seams along wheated spires Acceptance of playing the part as the chosen.
Their taupe coat combed by a wind that clarifies Such was the price of rejecting Californian
A brush of red beneath. Nothing here Spoils: a mad circling of wagons against the threat
Except that vast distance of particulates Of what was native or Gentile. The only balm
Veiling Spring City in a milky blue that sets For the festering wounds of persecution was victory
The mountains apart and freely floating there Against nature and fulfillment of prophecy,
With the evergreen stubble and Raphaelite folds Isaiah’s metered promise that served to calm
Of their muscled face. Nothing but dry air The fear of burying another child.
Milling through signs of an ancestral hold From out of the fir of human and natural rage
On this place: skeletal irrigation pipes rolled Uprooted from rainy coasts, tendrils of green
To a halt among rusted machines, barns without care Began their colonizing. People fleeing
That lie broken. Nothing left to compare Found unlikely homes among juniper and sage
To milk and honey, for which our birthright was sold. A civilization was born that knew the wild
But feared it like their God, trembling but mild.
II
IV
Our birthright was sold for the right of space
Westward was not the sum of our desire While a gentle fear of the wild inspired honor
Apparently, or not, this was the right place And protective care, fear is now habitually learned
By decree of the unrelenting sun. No drier And because of our unsettling no longer earned
Eden was ever cherished. On the cracked face With honest sweat. Not like the days when thinner
Of the Great Basin floor was written an ode Hands routinely rubbed the missing toes
Of mockery. It so slowly yielded to blossoms The scars of winter’s persecuting violence
To make believe a mere devotion to dross owns Like a rosary; rallied families to pick up the hoes
The zealous soul. Irrigation ditches flowed Harvest corn, apples and timber to build against
To cool the desert fever and shield the mind The coming cold. A fear balanced by nature’s
From remembering that Moses never did taste Cyclical reassurance that Uintah snow
The honey. Wasatch, Manti–La Sal lined Packed against these banks cannot stop the flow
The valleys to the east, offering feeders to find Of water’s haste. The very heart of earth insures
Riparian delight in exile. Our hopes faced Sustenance with its blood, through arteries
An unnamed elsewhere by which we were strangely Coursing, bedded by free stones whose smooth
placed felted hide
Neither taken further on in empire’s course gives the Provo its taste, these fish their flies
Nor backward glancing to some unremitting source. This Woodland, its liquid language of muffled cries.
This sparkling skin is undone from the underside
The greater moratorium means runoff mad and wide
To feed our orchards. Gratitude seized and tamed us
For from our fear, a vegetal fury reclaimed us.

V E S S A Y
A vegetal fury reclaims us in the springtime
An oblivious heather carpets the valley floor Keepers of the Stories
With its lavender revenge. Her partner in crime By Dan Wotherspoon
The groping grass that sinks the general store
The shed, the pastel motel, and softens the barbed A key ingredient of most ecological visions is the
wire notion that all existents have intrinsic value—they
To a muted beauty of sadness. Such is the fate have worth “in themselves,” independent of their
Of small desert towns cherished too late usefulness (extrinsic or instrumental value) to
By some traveler. A life of hardware— human purposes.1 The ethical implications of this
A slow acquiescence—after so many lives. assertion are easy to recognize and should be trig-
Awkwardly balanced spools, “Horses for Sale” gered automatically: if we truly believe this, we’ll
Hanging crooked from a rusted nail naturally be inclined to consider in all our decision-
A backyard pump once shared with the relatives making the impact of our actions on the nonhu-
On their way to Fruitland, cloaked in a web of gray. man world. The assertion itself suggests a proper
Yet deserts make such slow omnivores way of behaving toward all things that are “not us.”
Their appetite for signs of our decay Although the new behavior should flow natu-
Leave room for doubt that we finally failed to stay rally, very few people actually do alter their choices
In place. And if we choose to feel remorse in ways that honor the nonhuman world. This sug-
For all the gloaming imprints of empire’s course gests to me that we must not really believe the
We too will be gone before we have greeted the day. assertion itself. The idea that everything has value
“for and in itself ” might be just too foreign to our
VI everyday experience and thoughts. We in the West,
Before we ever granted the day we saw especially, have been conditioned to think of our-
Only what our hands could show us, the life of the selves as “apart from,” not “part of,” nature. We’ve
mind measured our “progress” in terms of our ability to
Made flesh, a hall of mirrors became the law control the nonhuman world, to tame it to serve
Of a nation trapped, unable to find our needs. Furthermore, the idea that each and
An imagination. Prophetic power to transform every thing has needs or purposes of its own sounds
And remove us from the land was the mantra. quite a bit like the animism usually associated with
What began as a promise of meaning and adventure “primitive” religion. Surely, we’ve thought ourselves
To our exile has exiled us from place and form. beyond such superstitious notions!
For survival of American Beauty never depended Still, as deeply as we Latter-day Saints have
On deus ex machina, but foreseeing ourselves drunk along with our neighbors at modernity’s
In the act of deciphering the quickening light well, I believe in general we Mormons feel more
As it draws the brilliance of these colors into sight comfortable with the assertion that every existent
With pencil and brush we catch what twilight saves has intrinsic value than do members of most groups.
And scratch as it bleeds before the day has ended It’s a theme that runs through our minds; we have
Rootedness depends at what angle our mind reposes a hunch it is true. We get this feeling through var-
For there has always been nothing here but the ious ideas floating around in our tradition’s theol-
song of roses. ogy—e.g., that God’s goal for all things is that each
finds “joy” in the measure of its creation, that every
—George Handley existent is somehow “intelligent,” that the Earth
itself has a “spirit,” and through some of Orson
Pratt’s hylozoic speculations. Yet, even as we might

be less inclined than some Westerners to dismiss everything is intelligent), puts forth a description of
the idea that all things have inherent value, there is a creative process that is both spiritual and physical,
little evidence that our Mormon hunch has suc- and implies that acts of creation and even godliness
cessfully triggered the ecological ethic in us either. itself are a cooperative endeavor. I won’t develop
I believe Mormon storytellers can help change them here, but I believe these themes also have
this. We as Latter-day Saints have theological great potential for shamanic extensions and inten-
resources and stories with great potential for help- sifications that could help lead us toward a deeper
ing ourselves and others become more ecologically conviction about the intrinsic value of all existents.
sensitive, more committed to honoring all of cre- As I mentioned above, I believe the most helpful
ation in such a way that we might help build a theme running through the Abrahamic account is
bright, sustainable future. But we first need to its portrayal of creation as a two-sided dynamic.
develop our stories more thoroughly. We need The story depicts a team of creator Gods who con-
Mormon shamans to help make our stories sing, to coct a plan for each stage of creation and who then
tell them in such a way we might really come watch to see if (and, perhaps, even how) the ele-
to believe what we now only sense. ments they hope to organize will cooperate to make
I’ve mentioned “joy,” “intelligence,” the concept their vision concrete. Note the following verse end-
of an Earth-spirit, and hylozoic speculations as ings of passages depicting the close of several cre-
ideas in our theological heritage that incline Latter- ation stages: “And it was so, even as they ordered”
day Saints toward the idea that everything in the (4:7, 11). “And the Gods saw that they were
nonhuman world might actually have value in and obeyed” (4:12). “And the Gods watched those
for itself. Still, as helpful as these concepts are, none things which they had ordered until they obeyed
of them, by themselves, are “stories.” Such ideas (4:18). “And the Gods saw that they would be
must be tied to a plotline. Do we already have a obeyed, and that their plan was good” (4:21). “And
story that might serve as a framework for commu- the Gods saw they would obey” (4:25).
nicating more of this vision? I believe so: the Abra- The consistency in the text that every stage
hamic creation story found in the Pearl of Great required waiting and watching to see if and how
Price. And what might a shamanic extension of this the elements would respond is especially striking
account look like? I believe we can find support given the fact that until the final two stages, noth-
and clues for imaginative retellings in the writings ing being organized is typically considered by mod-
of poet Gary Snyder, cosmologist Brian Swimme ern standards to be a “living” entity, nothing that
and theologian Thomas Berry, and novelist Orson the account portrays as answering the Gods’ lures
Scott Card. is normally thought of as capable of any kind of
volitional response. And my sense is that this is
Of Mormonism’s four creation texts, I believe the real hurdle to belief in the intrinsic value of
the cosmogony found in the book of Abraham all existents.
has the richest resources for a creative develop- So how might we overcome this obstacle? How
ment.2 I will focus the rest of this essay on support might our shamans approach this model of a two-
and a provocative model for developing the Abra- sided (a godly “call” and an elemental “response”)
hamic theme that suggests every existent has its creation process? I suggest we approach these ques-
own purposes to be honored—the hint that the tions in three steps. The first two steps introduce
creation process itself involves a two-sided dynamic, provocative ideas from Gary Snyder and coauthors
a sort of “call and response” between deity and the Brian Swimme and Thomas Berry which, although
elements being organized. But this focus doesn’t not narrative examples in themselves, suggest ways
exhaust the account’s resources. The Book of Abra- that might help us understand the most difficult
ham also contains the notion of the eternal, uncre- half of a two-sided creation dynamic: how some-
ated nature of all intelligence (and an assertion that thing generally considered lifeless or at least not

self-aware can or would “respond.” The third step squid, and the open niches of the Galapagos
introduces a striking passage from an Orson Scott Islands sucked a diversity of bird forms and
Card novel which points better than anything else functions out of one line of finch.3
I’ve found toward ideas Mormon storytellers might This passage is full of the sort of evocative language
incorporate as they re-envision and imaginatively I believe is required if we hope eventually to better
retell an Abraham-based vision of creation. conceive the elusive character of a two-sided cre-
ation sensibility. Snyder provides an alternative to
Even if we as Latter-day Saints might have a thinking of change and evolution simply in terms
hunch that everything in the universe is somehow of random interactions between separate, unrelated
“intelligent” and capable of “joy” at some level, this entities. He introduces the possibility of a “long-
inclination does not make the idea any easier to ing” on the part of all existents for greater and more
conceive. It is very difficult to get our minds satisfying forms of relationality: smaller patterns
around a model of the cosmos, let alone creation, “calling” for larger, more complex patterns—in
that involves some level of spontaneity or self-deter- Snyder’s words, “sucking” the next something(s)
mination even by the universe’s least-complex enti- into existence.4
ties. So, it is exciting to discover we are not alone in Snyder continues his topsy-turvy look at cre-
imagining a view of creation that honors the idea of ation by then asking himself what it was that might
creativity in all existents. have called humans forth. He writes: “So the ques-
Pulitzer Prize–winning poet Gary Snyder offers
tion I have been asking myself is: what says
just such a resource in a playful re-imagination of
‘humans’? What sucks our lineage into form? It is
the standard way of viewing the evolutionary
surely the ‘mountains and rivers without end’—the
process. Snyder’s approach to evolution is to shift
whole of this earth on which we find ourselves
the focus from random processes and toward how
more or less completely at home.”5
less-complex entities might contain their own inner
When we return soon to something closer to the
drive to engage in deeper relation. It is a model of
Abrahamic model that also involves the action of
diversification that suggests evolution might be
Gods—or, in the case of the Card novel, at least
fueled “from the bottom up.” He helps us imagine
divine-like activities—perhaps Snyder will have
that very subtle level on which a simpler form
might be said to “call” or “reach out” for something helped us widen one other aspect of our story a bit.
more complex: Instead of rushing to imagine that “once upon a
time” the Gods simply decided to create human
It would appear that the common conception beings in an effort to replicate themselves as closely
of evolution is that of competing species run- as possible, perhaps we might consider that some
ning a sort of race through time on planet portion of that decision may have been prompted
earth, all on the same running field, some by the “yearning” of the elements of which we
dropping out, some flagging, some victori- are made.
ously in front. If the background and fore-
ground are reversed, and we look at it from the Brian Swimme and Thomas Berry have also
side of the “conditions” and their creative possi- imagined creation and evolution “from the bottom
bilities, we can see these multitudes of interac- up,” and, interestingly, their vision leads them to a
tions through hundreds of other eyes. We could position similar to Snyder’s on the final question,
say a food brings a form into existence. Huck- “Why humans?” Cosmologists both—Swimme
leberries and salmon call for bears, the clouds with scientific training and Berry a Catholic monk
of plankton of the North Pacific call for and cultural historian—they have come to marvel
salmon, and salmon call for seals and thus at the foundational “stuff ” of the universe and see
orca. The Sperm Whale is sucked into exis- it as characterized by some sort of self-organizing
tence by the pulsing, fluctuating pastures of power that seemingly “longs” for fuller expression.

In their masterful book, The Universe Story, they sense we find in the Abrahamic account. And their
attempt to provide a comprehensive account of cre- depiction of the universe’s omega point (at least so
ation and evolution that begins with the big bang far)—a race that can appreciate the splendor of cre-
but that also helps us realize the stunning creativity ation—is not particularly satisfying to me. Still,
at the heart of every element of the universe. They I find their visions very helpful in their depictions
frame their project, and depict the spirituality in of a universe that, even at its most microscopic
the story they tell, in the following: levels, teems with potential; a universe whose con-
The most significant change in the twentieth stituents long for a kind of elemental “joy”—the
century, it seems, is our passage from a sense anticipation and pleasure found in joining in
of cosmos to a sense of cosmogenesis . . . to a deeper, more complex relations with other entities.
dominant time-developmental mode of con-
sciousness, where time is experienced as an With these two doses of “bottom-up” thinking
evolutionary sequence of irreversible transfor- and their depictions of a lively universe, we are bet-
mations. Within this time-developmental con- ter prepared to encounter the work of Orson Scott
sciousness we begin to understand the story of Card as he works closer to the Abrahamic model of
the universe in its comprehensive dimensions a two-sided creation dynamic. As most people in
and in the full richness of its meaning. This is this readership are aware, Card is a Hugo and Neb-
especially true as regards the planet Earth, a ula Award–winning writer and a Latter-day Saint
mysterious planet surely, as we observe how who, most often without explicitly naming them,
much more brilliant it is, when compared elaborates on LDS themes and storylines in many
with the other planets of our solar system, in of his writings.7 In the passage that follows—taken
the diversity of its manifestations and in the from his novel Xenocide—Card reinserts a God-fig-
complexity of its development. Earth seems to ure back into our discussion of creation and pro-
be a reality that is developing with the simple vides a remarkable example of how we might better
aim of celebrating the joy of existence. . . . The imagine how “the Gods” in the Abraham account
important thing to appreciate is that the story might have felt and acted as they performed their
as told here is not the story of a mechanistic, organizing tasks in an “intelligent” universe.
essentially meaningless universe but the story of The following is an excerpt of a conversation
a universe that has from the beginning had its between Ender Wiggin, the human protagonist of
mysterious self-organizing power that, if experi- Card’s Ender series, and the “hive queen,” the
enced in any serious manner, must evoke an matriarch of an insect-like species that Ender has
even greater sense of awe than that evoked in befriended and worked tirelessly to help after he
earlier times.6 unknowingly nearly obliterated her entire species as
a young man. In this conversation, the hive queen
Just as we saw in Snyder’s vision, Swimme and teaches Ender how the next queen is brought into
Berry suggest that evolution, even up to and existence. After a body for the new queen has been
including humans, might be driven by something created, the hive queen tells him, she, in concert
akin to a “yearning” by less complex forms of life with the minds and intellects of past queens, con-
for something larger, an instinctual drive to tinually “reaches” and “calls.” Together they are
become part of something “more.” In their tale, searching for the “us-thing. The binder. The meaning-
this greatest something so far is the human race, a maker. . . . We call it to come and take the queen-
species capable of self-reflection and intelligent body, so she can be wise, our sister.”
enough to consciously celebrate the “joy of exis- Ender asks:
tence” in all of its diverse forms. “You call it. What is it?”
Neither Snyder’s nor Swimme and Berry’s cre-
ation/evolution models are two-sided in the same “The thing we call.”

“Yes, what is it?” sensibility about the sort of “call” and “response”
“What are you asking? It’s the called-thing. creation method suggested in the Abrahamic cos-
We call it. . . . It hears us calling and comes.” mogony. A God-figure (or better, “God-figures,” if
we remember the hive queen works in concert with
“But how do you call?” past queens) conceives a pattern, something she
“[. . .] We imagine the thing which it must hopes to organize, and then communicates her
become. The pattern of the hive. The queen desires until she receives an affirmative response.
and the workers and the binding together. Then She “searches,” “reaches,” “calls,” and . . . waits.
one comes who understands the pattern and Card also helps us deepen our appreciation for this
can hold it. We give the queen-body to it.” two-way creation dynamic as well as for the inher-
“So you’re calling some other creature to ent creativity in all the universe’s existents by ingen-
come and take possession of the queen.” iously using the insect-like hive queen in the role of
the teacher and god-figure in this situation. I
“To become the queen and the hive and all. believe having a nonhuman act as the teacher helps
To hold the pattern we imagined.” take us closer to the instinctual level at which I
“[. . .] But this is incredible. You’re calling think it is easier to imagine how each and every-
forth some being from another place, and—” thing in the universe, no matter how simple, might
“The calling forth is nothing. All things do be said to be “hungry” or “thirsty” for something
it. All new makings. You do it. Every human more complex than its present form. We humans
baby has this thing. [. . .] Grass and sunlight. live out of our heads so much that it is easy to lose
All making calls them, and they come to the our sensitivity to what everything in the world
pattern. If there are already some who under- around us is quietly telling us about itself (and
stand the pattern, then they come and possess about our deepest motivations as well). I like Card’s
it. Small patterns are very easy. Our pattern is move for a second reason as well. By having an
very hard. Only a very wise one can possess it.” insect-like God-figure, I believe Card also, very
subtly, magnifies another sensibility I value in the
“[. . .] So when you make a hive queen, Mormon tradition: the idea that desiring and help-
you already have the biological body, and this ing encourage the enlargement of other externally
new thing [. . .] you call out of the non-place existing elements is simply the definition of god-
where [they] are [. . .] has to be one that’s able like behavior—it isn’t primarily condescension, it
to comprehend the complex pattern that you isn’t to create beings solely to honor the Creator,
have in your minds of what a hive-queen is, it is simply “godly instinct” to want to help others
and when one comes that can do it, it takes on to know greater relation, greater joy.9
that identity and possesses the body and
becomes the self of that body.” The idea of the shaman is really quite romantic:
After more discussion, the conversation The healer. The ritualist who through vision,
turns to the nature of the “non-place” from trance, or other altered states of consciousness is
which the “called things” come. The queen able to touch the primordium, to enter the Chaos
explains as best she can what she understands and discern the signs, to discover and return with
this state of existence to be: the true medicine. Less romantic, perhaps, but most
“No place-ness in that place. No where- important of all is the role shamans play as keepers
being. All hungry for whereness. All thirsty of their society’s stories. It is really our stories that
for pattern. All lonely for selfness.”8 frame our lives, that give us our courage to be, our
strength to act with wisdom and resolve. Our sto-
These passages from Card’s powerful imagi- ries tell us what things mean, and we all need a
nation provide a wonderful glimpse of the LDS world that “makes sense.”

Our world, and thus our lives, is in crisis. And of one individual most often involves the death of
we as Latter-day Saints have yet to begin taking another as an “intimacy,” not an “enmity.” For an acces-
a lead in helping move our world toward Zion, a sible introduction to Snyder’s thought in this area, I rec-
peaceful, sustainable way of living that truly honors ommend Bill Devall and George Sessions, Deep Ecology:
God and all that God honors. We’ve been blessed Living As If Nature Mattered (Salt Lake City: Peregrine
by our theological inheritance with many clues that Smith Books, 1985), 12–14.
God (and all the Gods) recognizes and honors as 5. Snyder, Practice, 109–10.
intrinsically valuable every entity in the universe. 6. Brian Swimme and Thomas Berry, The Universe
Story: From the Primordial Flaring Forth to the Ecozoic
Each has purposes in and for itself, each “longs” for
Era—a Celebration of the Unfolding of the Cosmos (New
something greater. Yet we need to believe it more.
York: HarperSanFranciso, 1992), 2–3, 238 (emphasis
We need to conceive it, and then share it with our added). Swimme has written a stunning monograph that
community. We need shamans. May the imagin- further develops this theme of the mysterious power that
ings of the visionaries introduced here help us all infuses the universe: The Hidden Heart of the Cosmos:
better play this pivotal role. Humanity and the New Story (Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis
Books, 1996).
Dan Wotherspoon has a Ph.D. in religion and is cur- 7. The most striking examples of Card’s creative use of
rently editor of Sunstone magazine. He is married to LDS themes and narrative structures can be found in his
Lorri (Hubbard), and has two children, Alex and Tales of Alvin Maker series, whose plotline contains par-
Hope. This essay is drawn from themes developed in allels to many events in the life of the Prophet Joseph
greater detail in his doctoral dissertation, Awakening Smith, and his Homecoming series, which has many ele-
Joseph Smith: Mormon Resources for a Postmodern ments that match Book of Mormon storylines.
Worldview, Claremont Graduate School, 1996. 8. Orson Scott Card, Xenocide (New York: Tom
Doherty Associates, 1991), 466–70. Xenocide is the third
Notes novel in Card’s Ender series.
9. A clear expression of this sensibility is found in
1. For instance, the first plank in the “deep ecology” Joseph Smith’s “King Follett Discourse.” There, Smith
platform as formulated by Arne Naess is: “The flourish- portrays God’s motivation for bringing our cosmic epoch
ing of human and non-human life on Earth has intrinsic into being: “God himself, finding he was in the midst of
value. The value of non-human life forms is independent spirits and glory, because he was more intelligent, saw
of the usefulness these may have for narrow human pur- proper to institute laws whereby the rest could have a
poses.” Arne Naess, Ecology, Community and Lifestyle: privilege to advance like himself.” Joseph Smith Jr.,
Outline of Ecosophy (London: Cambridge UP, 1989), 29. Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, comp. Joseph Field-
2. The four creation accounts recognized by Mormons ing Smith (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1938), 354.
are found in Genesis, the Book of Moses, the Book of B. H. Roberts also speaks well to the genuineness of the
Abraham, and in the temple ceremony. My suggestions spirit of cooperation between Gods and all other intelli-
in this essay about the rich resources found in the Abra- gences: “He without them cannot be perfect, nor they
hamic account can in nearly every instance also be found without him. There is community of interest between
in the temple cosmogony, but the sacred nature of the them [. . .] and hence community of effort for mutual
temple liturgy precludes my applying to it these same good, for progress, for attainment of the highest possi-
insights. ble.” B. H. Roberts, A Comprehensive History of The
3. Gary Snyder, The Practice of the Wild (New York: Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Salt Lake City:
North Point Press, 1990), 109 (emphasis added). Deseret News Press, 1930), 2:399.
4. Snyder’s thinking here might strike some as cruel: to
think a form of life would long for its own predator! This
is an area in which Snyder’s work has really helped me
personally. More than anyone, he has helped me feel
more comfortable with the “give and take,” reciprocal
nature of existence, to learn to view the fact that the life

S T O R Y But he had not volunteered to drive the mail

truck.
Vigil And so far, since Eileen had declined all help
anyway, that one gap in his willingness went
By Darin Cozzens untested. She always thanked him, said they were
managing.
Twice in a month Eileen woke in the night to no Until this morning, when she said, “There is
snoring on Roy’s side of the bed. Both times his one thing.”
eyes were rolled back under their lids, fluttering, “Whatever I can do,” Darl said, imagining black
and his breaths—when she verified them—came in ice on unfamiliar highway curves, bolting deer,
little bursts from his nostrils. Every few seconds he weak night vision, heavy-headed sleepiness.
gurgled, and she panicked to think of his tongue “He doesn’t like not being able to drive,” Eileen
blocking the throat like a rubber stopper. Both said. “Says he feels worthless just riding. And it still
times he came to in the emergency room before scares me. The doctor says there’s no warning on
the paramedics had even moved him from gurney something like this. What if he has one of those
to bed. spells out in the badlands between Worland and
“What’s this?” he kept asking. In sixty-nine years Thermopolis, forty or fifty miles from a hospital?”
he had never been a patient in a hospital. “What’s “Does she need somebody to drive for her?”
going on?” whispered Avis, who knew well enough that Darl
Blood and urine tests, EKG and MRI, two or didn’t like night driving.
three high-dollar specialists, and nobody found any- Darl held up his hand, concentrated hard on the
thing sinister. telephone receiver. He wanted to tell Avis to go
Probably some kind of seizure, the doctors said. back to sleep, that he knew what he was doing, had
With his diabetes, they couldn’t rule out something everything under control.
like that—although this didn’t seem diabetes- After forty-odd years of marriage to him, she
related. The next thing to try was a session at the wasn’t likely to believe that. But she was likely to
Billings sleep clinic. It could be apnea. It could be relish what she saw as a better-late-than-never role
almost anything. How soon could she make the reversal—a chance for Darl, the younger brother,
trip with him? finally to assume a little say-so in the relationship
She and Roy drove a mail truck at night, would and for Roy to try his hand at deferring and acqui-
have to make arrangements. escing and putting up with and keeping quiet to
The sooner, the better, they said. Until then, preserve harmony. Despite the peace she had made
she had to keep a close eye on him—especially in with Darl’s limitations, the old ambition still flared
his sleep. occasionally.
••• “Seizures or not,” Avis had said just yesterday,
When she called at 5:30 one morning, Darl “he shouldn’t be driving truck at his age—espe-
thought it had happened again. He and Avis lived cially at night. It’s good money but not that good.”
only a mile away, lay in bed wondering every time “I’ve got him an appointment Monday in
they heard a siren.
Billings,” Eileen was saying over the telephone.
“No, we’re home,” Eileen said. “We got back a
“We’ve got two nights off, so that’s when I sched-
little early, and he went right to bed. He’s sleeping
uled it. They’re going to wire him up and watch
fine.” She paused. “That’s why I wanted to call.”
him sleep. Between now and then, though—”
Even without Avis’s urging, Darl would have
“Tell her you can drive,” Avis whispered. “As
asked if he could do anything. Since the first trip to
many nights as they need.”
the emergency room, he had offered half a dozen
Only on guard duty in the Army, only for a two-
times to feed their few cows and sheep, split fire-
week rotation at the sugar factory one winter thirty
wood, go for groceries.

years ago had he ever had to stay awake through the “Will I be okay till then?” Roy asked. This time
night. And he still feared falling asleep when alert- he looked at Darl, said, “You might end up tending
ness was an obligation. a corpse. I could die of low blood sugar before
“Listen, Eileen,” Darl heard himself say, strangely nightfall.”
aware of his own breath reflected off the plastic of “Nobody’s dying tonight,” Eileen said. “You’re
the telephone receiver, “if you need somebody to right on your schedule. You ate half a box of Ritz
drive—” just two hours ago. You’re in no danger.” She
“No,” she said. “I can drive it. I’m fine with the looked directly at Darl, and for an instant her voice
driving. I’m used to it. What I need is for Roy to changed. “He’s had his shot. You don’t need to
stay home and for somebody to stay with him. He’s worry about that.”
not going to like it,” she said, “but I think I can “Yep, she poked me,” Roy said. “My life is in her
talk him into it if you’re willing.” hands.”
••• She dismissed the comment with a wave. “I’ve
“This is silly,” Roy said when Darl showed up on got a fruit cocktail for your dessert, and brownies.”
his doorstep at 4:30 in the afternoon with a shav- “Sugar-free, I bet.”
ing kit under his arm. “I told her this is silly.” “What do you think? And don’t forget your
“We’ve got a sleeping bag somewhere,” Darl pills.” She hesitated, as if checking off a mental list.
said. “I could’ve brought it.” “I’ll start a load of wash, but you don’t have to
“We raised six kids,” said Eileen, who wore bother with it.”
heavy gray sweats and running shoes Darl had Her disappearance into the utility room was fol-
never seen on her. “Bedding is one thing we’ve got lowed by the fast click of the washer knob, the pull,
plenty of.” the water spilling. When she stepped back into the
The three of them stood in the kitchen where kitchen she was putting on her coat. “I’ve got your
Eileen was covering a casserole dish with aluminum beds made up in my sewing room,” she said. In
foil. She turned from the counter, slid it into the their sweep from brother to brother, her eyes lin-
oven, punched the timer button. “Is stew okay?” gered just an instant on Darl. “Don’t forget there’s
“Sounds good to me,” Darl said. a phone in there. And the light has a dimmer switch.”
“And there’s salad and rolls. Just microwave them Roy reached out and smoothed one shoulder,
when you’re ready.” straightened the already-straight collar. “You drive
Roy stood staring at the shaving kit. “Is that all careful,” he said sternly. “Those bridges outside
you brought?” Greybull always ice, and being the weekend, they’ll
“What else do I need?” have that truck loaded tonight—all the junk mail
“Clothes, pajamas . . . something.” going out.”
“Oh, pajamas!” Eileen said. “You’ve never worn “I’ll be careful.” From a stool beside the counter
pajamas.” she gathered a scarf and stocking cap, purse and
“Maybe Darl does. I thought I’d ask.” gloves, and when she turned back toward them, her
“I bought you a pair right after we got married, eyes had misted. “And I won’t miss your backseat
and I don’t think you’ve worn them twice. You said driving.”
you didn’t need pajamas—like they were an insult. “You wouldn’t admit it if you did.”
They’re probably still in your drawer.” She looked straight at Roy, said, “He’s crabby
“I’ve never needed a baby-sitter, either.” and he likes to overdo it on those brownies.”
“He’s been like this all day,” she said, turning to “There’s few enough pleasures in my condition.”
Darl. “I knew he’d fuss.” “You don’t have a condition.”
“I’m not fussing,” Roy said. “But I am hungry. •••
When will that stuff be ready?” “I sure miss my molars,” Roy said. He blew on
“About an hour.” his second spoonful of stew, slurped, rolled it

around in his mouth, chewed with his front teeth. Roy shook his head, said, “Memory’s a funny
“That dentist in Cody wanted to pull them all— thing.”
makes a killing off dentures. I told him no thanks, •••
I’m going to use what I got till they’re gone.” The dining room where they sat eating was part
Almost as a reflex, Darl located each of his own of the original house. Their dad bought the place in
molars with his tongue. spring of 1927, and that fall, after his sheep came
“Eileen’s dad still had his own teeth when they off pasture in the Beartooths, he built this room
buried him—ninety-six years old. Pretty mossy and a kitchen and two upstairs bedrooms. Their
looking, but they functioned. And that’s more than sister Glenda claimed she remembered standing
a lot of us can say about our parts.” at the window eating a flapjack when Roy was born
It was true. Old friends with crumbling joints the next spring, said the shearers could hear his cry-
and high blood pressure, neighbors with various ing from out in the woolshed. Strong first cry, they
cancers, in-laws undergoing bypass surgery, their said, meant a healthy baby. She could have been
older brother Elwin and his encroaching senility, only three, but Darl had never thought to question
one cousin’s defective thyroid, another’s prostate— her memory.
Darl couldn’t think of anybody of their generation Nor had he ever questioned people’s memories
who was likely to make it to ninety-six. And aside of his own birth—nearly a month early and breech.
from some deafness in one ear and occasional gall By then the house had another bedroom and a kind
bladder problems, he was more likely than most. of parlor built onto the kitchen. Between the cook
“I tell you,” Roy said, “we’re falling apart.” He stove and rock fireplace, the new parlor was the
split two rolls and buttered the halves, then looked warmest room in the house, so that was where his
at Darl. “Does Avis mind you doing this?” dad set up the birthing bed. The two oldest broth-
“Are you kidding?” Darl said. “She insisted.” ers waited with a team a mile up the lane by the
“I know Eileen sure doesn’t like being alone in highway turnoff, broke trail for the doctor’s car
the house.” until it got stuck. Then they hitched up and sled-
“She wanted to send food.”
ded it on the running boards until the last impass-
“Make a party of Roy’s decrepitude?”
able drift, brought him the rest of the way mounted
“No. Just the good old days working on her.
on one of the Belgians. Glenda, always the most
‘You two will be batching it just like you used to.’
pious of his siblings, remembered the horses’
That’s what she said.”
“Did you tell her batching isn’t all it’s cracked up appearance in the swirl of blowing snow as a prayer
to be? All we talked about when we didn’t have a answered and the high-riding, ice-gilded doctor as
wife was getting one.” an angel. Because, as she told the story, her six-
“I know. But that’s not what she’s thinking year-old mind was worried sick about what this
about. She’s thinking about us farming Dad’s place labor was doing to her mother, and her six-year-
together, fifty-fifty. Before I bought my own and old muscles were on the verge of collapse from
right away started needing your help, always bor- hour upon hour of hauling wood and coal to the
rowing something—” back porch.
Roy set his fork down. “Let’s get this straight,” Except for Roy, they all remembered—couldn’t
he said, wagging a finger. “Nobody owes anything seem to forget—the last, extra agony caused by his
here. You always took care of your end.” surprisingly big shoulders, the panic at his wrinkled
For a moment they stared at each other over the blueness, his first pitiful cries. Darl knew the story
curling steam of the food. of jaundice and colic, of the fruit-crate bed in front
“I hadn’t courted her yet,” Darl said, “and she of the stove, better than he knew stories of his own
didn’t even know you. She didn’t know what it was daughter’s first days.
like—us farming together. But she’s made that time “We didn’t know if your Uncle Darl was going to
into her own memory. It’s a fondness to her.” make it or not,” Glenda often told children and

grandchildren, nieces and nephews and their chil- and winced. “Eileen can say what she wants, but
dren. “But thank the Lord he did.” that fake sweetening is nowhere near as good as the
With him liable to spit up and choke at any real McCoy.”
moment, they had to watch him day and night— Avis had always doubted the black widow part of
no rest for any of them. And he was a sickly thing— the story, just as she doubted that a six-year-old
prone to thrush or croup or pinkeye or fever. This girl, however prayerful, fully grasped the biology of
vein of memory always led, in the telling, to her birth. Once, during the relating of yet another res-
task that first long winter of tending the fruit crate cue, she went so far as to question Glenda: how
in front of the fireplace. It was her job to watch for could even the keenest ears pick up sounds of suf-
sparks popping beyond the screen and to move him focation with her asleep in an upstairs bedroom
quick as lightning at the first hint of a smoky and eight-year-old Darl turned around in a sleep-
downdraft. ing bag out on the lawn—under a tarp tent? While
Avis generally got along with Glenda, she did not
care for her rendering of Darl’s early history.
“Wouldn’t it be something,” “Wasn’t that one a prompting?” Roy said.
“She claims she heard me with her own ears,”
Roy said on his way to the Darl said. Then he smiled. “Didn’t need God’s
sink, “if it was the fake sweet- nudging every time she saved my life.”
“Either she had awfully good ears, or that was
ening triggering my spells?” one noisy suffocation.”
“You should know. You were in the tent with
me.”
Her most cherished—and repeated—recollec- Brownie crumbs had gathered at one corner
tions featured spiritual promptings that had saved of Roy’s mouth. “I remember you being turned
Darl’s life. In each of these stories, she played the around and sweating—that sleeping bag had real
role of the selfless six-year-old inexplicably awak- goose down—but you weren’t in danger. You were
ened from her forgivable dozing to do something breathing. So she’s got her story a little mixed up.”
heroic. Once, during an earth tremor, she snatched He chewed a last bite of apple gingerly, said, “Now
the fruit crate out of the path of the falling mantel me—I’ve seen you when you weren’t breathing.”
clock that would have smashed it into splinters. Darl knew instantly what he was talking about.
Another time she flicked a black widow from the “It would’ve been my fault,” Roy said, “any way
baby blanket into the flames of the fireplace. you look at it—any way Mom and Dad would have
“It must have come up from the cellar some looked at it. Inner tubes down that stretch of the
way,” she always said, “attracted to the warmth. It river! All those rocks and snags. What was I think-
wasn’t more than an inch from your Uncle Darl’s ing? If one of my own boys had pulled such a
little chin, some of the most toxic venom on stunt, I would’ve blistered his butt good. If you had
earth—and me scared to death of spiders.” drowned . . .”
••• “How did you know to turn around and look?”
“Was it really a black widow?” Darl asked. Darl asked. “You were floating twenty yards ahead
They were eating Eileen’s fruit cocktail and of me.”
sugar-free brownies. “A little prompting of my own,” Roy said. “That
“I don’t know how she would’ve known,” Roy river had currents, and you were scrawny for twelve
said. He chewed apple chunks and grapes one at a or thirteen or whatever you were. And you couldn’t
time with his front teeth, gummed the banana swim—which was my fault because I was supposed
slices. “I couldn’t tell one—not for sure—until I to teach you.”
was thirteen.” He took another bite of his brownie “You tried.”

“That wouldn’t have counted for much if you’d He granted that Roy’s charity could be presump-
ended up dead. One second of panic, a little tuous and meddling and impetuous, and he
thrashing and the head goes under—I thought I granted that dependence on such charity betrayed
better get to you before you swallowed the whole his own inabilities. But over and over he tried to
Shoshone.” explain that, like Roy himself, it could be depended
Roy began a slow nod, and the eyebrows and lips on. And that was worth a lot.
drew toward his nose, the way they always did “Worth you never getting ahead?” she once asked,
when he reflected on something. desperate to believe that Roy’s successes came at
“I tell you,” he said after a moment, “a thought Darl’s expense. “Why don’t you get thirty or forty
like that sobers you to the bone.” more of your own cattle,” she asked when beef
The fruit was gone, and they stared at the mostly prices were high, “instead of pasturing Roy’s for
empty brownie pan, then at each other. next to nothing?”
“Sugar-free or not,” Darl said, “we made short “He pays the going rate,” Darl said. “Besides,
work of those.” I’ve got more cows than I can handle now.”
“You be sure and tell Eileen you ate your half.” “Roy seems able to handle them—at 75 cents a
Roy drained his glass, leaned back with his arms pound.”
stretched above him, and let out a loud belch-hic- “Roy can handle a lot of things I can’t.”
cup. When the chair rocked back on all four legs, “So I’ve noticed.”
supper was over. While one hand held his plate He knew she was sorry, knew she said such
close beneath the edge of the table, the other brushed things not to demean or even indulge frustration,
crumbs onto it. Then he crisscrossed the knife, but to spur in him a fuller ambition. And her ensu-
fork, and spoon beside a few bits of gristle, added ing silence and welling eyes seemed to question
the glass and the wadded paper towel. Then the both the possibility of such ambition and her justi-
chair scraped back, and he stood. fication in expecting it.
Darl had seen his brother end a thousand meals Yet every time the brothers traded work, shared
in just this way. equipment, exchanged money, whenever Darl for-
“Wouldn’t it be something,” Roy said on his way gave Roy’s subtle criticisms or overseeing, Avis was
to the sink, “if it was the fake sweetening triggering more convinced of inequity. And the harder he
my spells?” tried to explain the intricacies of such dealings, to
••• defend Roy’s essential goodness, the less satisfied
Mainly because Glenda had never got hold of it, she was.
the near-drowning was not part of the family lore “Always sticking up for him,” she said. “You’re
on Darl’s close calls. In fact, no one knew of it going to go to your grave indebted to the man.”
except Darl and Roy—and Avis. And this particu- She spoke that way until ten years ago, when the
lar secret was safe with her. bottom dropped out of their livelihood, when
“I’m glad he saved your life,” she said on the the bank spared his inconsequential operation and
morning Roy showed up to help his newlywed more or less told Roy his farming days were over.
brother get seed in the ground on time, “but he “Before this is through,” Roy said, “it’ll get us all.”
doesn’t need to save you anymore.” In the end, he was left with the house and barns,
The same thing happened that first harvest, and eighty acres of their dad’s land to rent to whomever
many thereafter—Darl’s predicaments eased because was still in business, and a misnamed retirement
of Roy’s watchful generosity. that required him and Eileen to get what the bank
Too watchful, Avis thought. “Tell him we appre- called paying jobs. She worked in the cafeteria of
ciate the gesture,” she always said, “but we don’t the community college, and Roy got on the feed-
need the help. You can’t depend on the man all lot’s night crew, mixing silage and grain ration for
your life, Darl.” $5.50 an hour.

But ironically, when a mail route came open a “I don’t need No Doz. You just go to bed. I’ll
few years later, it was offered to Darl—$105 per be fine.”
nightly run, better money than a man his age could “Darl, you know how you get at night.”
ever hope to make as a school custodian, hardware “I’ll be fine.”
clerk, or gatekeeper at the auction ring. When When he walked back into the living room—
almost the same day a neighbor came to him will- Eileen had never called it a parlor—Roy was doz-
ing to rent his place, Darl couldn’t help but think ing in his recliner, cradling a box of Ritz crackers.
seriously about the alignment of opportunity. For an instant, Darl listened closely and cher-
Since, as Avis reminded him, his monthly social ished, even against the overloud television, the
security check at that point would have been sound of his brother’s snoring. If it was clear now,
chicken feed, he had better do something while he surely he could hear it in the quiet of the night.
was still able. And he would rather drive a mail Surely he would miss it if it stopped.
truck than wear a big key ring and sweep the gym What if Roy went into shock? Mouth-to-mouth,
floor during half-time at basketball games, didn’t the Heimlich, CPR—posters and procedures
see himself prodding cattle while playing the blurred in his mind. When their daughter was still
straight man for the auctioneer and swapping jokes home, Avis had insisted on first-aid training. Two
through the high fence with old cowboys. evenings of elevating legs, palm thrusts, wool blan-
Despite the best of reasons, it was anguishing to kets, finger probing to clear any foreign matter (for
pass up such a rare boon. example, a mouthful of Ritz), tilting the head,
“But why?” Avis pleaded when he finally told pinching nostrils and blowing. He remembered the
her. “Tell me why, Darl.” lady at the 4-H building demonstrating on the
“I don’t expect you’ll ever believe me,” he said, dummy, spreading a fresh square of plastic wrap
“but it wasn’t the night driving I was thinking of.” over the molded lips, looking at the class and ask-
In the exquisiteness of her disappointment, Avis ing, “Who’s next?”
could not hear him. “You’d have gotten used to it,” He turned the TV down, touched Roy’s shoul-
she said. “I would have ridden along, kept you awake.” der. “You ready for bed?”
••• Roy awoke with a start, rubbed his face all over
At 8:30 Avis called—in the middle of a pretty with one hand. “Is the show over?”
good television movie. “Not yet, but you were conked out.”
“Is everything okay?” she asked. “I thought I bet- “Just dozing a little. I wouldn’t call that conked
ter check.” out. Sit down. Let’s finish the show.” Roy held out
Even though he knew better, Darl at first tried the box of Ritz, said, “Have some crackers.”
short answers to her questions. Darl took a handful and sank into the other
“But what kind of stew?” she wanted to know. recliner, grateful for another hour before bedtime.
“Potatoes, carrots, meat—what other kind is “Why did you turn it down? I can’t hear it.”
there?” “It was blaring. You’d think we’re stone deaf.”
“Oh, you’re no help.” “We are,” Roy said. He stared hard at the televi-
For the fifth time he said they were fine, prom- sion screen, as if his eyes could do what his ears
ised to call if anything went wrong. couldn’t. “What did Avis want?”
“Darl,” she said, “do you think—if something “She wondered what we had for supper.”
happens—you’ll hear him and wake up? Do you •••
think you’ll be able to?” Halfway into the ten o’clock news it was Roy
“I’m going to try.” who shook Darl awake.
“I’ll call every hour if you want.” “Some guardian you are,” he said. “Let’s hit the
“Thanks,” he said, “but—” hay. The bathroom’s all yours. I already brushed my
“Ask Roy if he’s got any No Doz.” five teeth.”

At the bathroom sink, Darl splashed cold water Darl looked one last time at the closed bedroom
on his face, stretched his eyes wide open, tried to door, crossed quickly into the sewing room. On the
steel himself against drowsiness. When he flushed wall above the sewing machine hung perhaps a
the toilet, the house’s plumbing whined, and a jar dozen old photographs—his parents’ unsmiling
of potpourri rattled on the tank lid. At the door, propriety on their wedding day, several renderings
hand poised on the knob, he hesitated and then, at of the whole family at eight- or ten-year intervals,
the peak of the toilet tank’s whistling refill, turned each brother in military uniform, Glenda’s trusting,
back to the medicine cabinet’s mirrored door. With- watchful face at high-school graduation.
out a cover sound, Roy’s selectively deaf ears would “I don’t know why Eileen put us in here,”
have picked up the squeak of cabinet hinges like radar, Roy said.
which would have prompted more questioning. Both cots had been turned down, and he was sit-
Need something, Darl? Got a problem? ting on one of them in his underwear. As Darl sat
The glass shelves of the medicine cabinet held a on his own bed, he tried to remember the last time
shaving mug and razor, Eileen’s hair dye and lotion, he had seen his brother undressed. When they were
a mostly empty bag of cotton balls, alcohol, syringes, young, Roy was always stronger and faster, arms
Crest toothpaste, Listerine, Rolaids, Kaopectate. and legs thick with muscle, barrel chest heaving
And no No Doz. powerfully under any strain of work or play. And so
So there, Avis Louise. much stamina. Nobody outlasted Roy.
Stepping out of the bathroom, Darl glanced at Now, in the room’s light, his legs looked skinny,
the closed door of Roy and Eileen’s bedroom. blue-veined and pallid, the toenails thick and yel-
“Ain’t it something?” Roy had said the day before low as horn. The sagging flesh of his chest was cov-
his wedding, after Darl helped him carry in Eileen’s ered with patchy, grizzled hair.
cedar chest and a new box spring and mattress. “We could’ve both fit in that bed of ours,” Roy
“A license and a bed, and I’m a married man. No said. “It’s queen-size and a heck of a lot more
more sleeping alone.” comfortable than one of these. I told her we grew
They had both smiled. Then, as they stood up in the same bed, smuggled bread and jam,
over the clean, unsheeted mattress, the quiet grew crackers, read comics with a flashlight. Do you
awkward. remember that?”
“If I can find somebody,” Roy said, “anybody can.” Darl nodded.
He spoke as if to console, though Darl felt no “Cracker crumbs! Sounds almost kinky, don’t it?”
need for consolation. He was happy for Roy and Roy leaned back once, twice, and then, with the
his mattress. momentum, his feet cleared the floor, swung over
He remembered their driving off after the wed- the mattress edge, slid between the sheets. He
ding in a new Plymouth, their first night home slapped a hollow in his pillow, wormed his hips for-
after the honeymoon in Jackson Hole. A mere four ward, then lay down and drew the covers to his
months into their marriage, they announced the chin. After a long breath, he exhaled slowly.
first of Eileen’s many healthy pregnancies, gig- “In my condition,” he said, “there hasn’t been
glingly acknowledged the potency of the alpine much of anything happening in bed for quite a
breezes off the slopes of the Grand Tetons. while. Like a goat my whole life—bothering Eileen
He and Avis, on the other hand, tried every the minute we crawled in the sack. And now . . .”
fertility quackery under the sun, every theory of Already his eyes were closing. A minute passed
timing, diet, lunar correlation, and body tempera- before he mumbled, “Get the light, would you?”
ture—and still did not achieve conception until Attentive to the steady puffing through nostrils
eight years into their marriage. And despite their and lips, Darl lifted his own feet one at a time,
desire to give their daughter a sibling or two, her grabbed the shin of the bent leg and held it while
birth was a miracle they could never duplicate. he untied the shoe and pried it off. In the exact

instant the second shoe hit the carpeted floor, Roy’s P O E M

hands let go of the covers and relaxed.
Six hours until Eileen would finish her run. When in the Grip
Six hours. I cannot describe
He loosened his belt but took off neither pants what happened to me that day
nor shirt. Sitting perpendicular on the cot, he when in the grip
stuffed the pillow between his back and the wall, of the Great Mystery
stretched toes and fingers, flexed his neck. With —that thing
anything in the world to worry about, Avis would that surrounds all things
sleep poorly, would suffer from a headache all day and fills all things—
tomorrow and would ask him tomorrow night to —that thing
rub her forehead with Vicks. And he would gladly that was before and after—
oblige. Heaven only knew how many of his sore what happened to me
spots she had rubbed, how many thistles and ticks when in the grip
and splinters she had dug out of him. the Great Mystery swayed
From his cot, Darl reached the light’s dimmer and I leaned slightly to one side
switch. One last time he looked toward the photos —as if to move in unison—
on the far wall, fixed in his mind the location of the and something very strange. . .
telephone on the table beside the sewing machine, at that moment
the path from cot to doorway, from doorway to I felt a clear and distinct
driveway, the distance from house to hospital. —nothingness—
Then he turned the round switch—dimmer, dim- the nothingness seeped through me
mer—until he could just see Roy’s profile, until and washed away
Glenda’s watchful countenance lingered only in his thoughts and awareness
mind, until at last he trusted himself to keep this the nothingness had no flavor
night’s vigil. no sight, no sound
but there was a wisp of humor
Darin Cozzens teaches at Surry Community College and more love than I have felt before
in Dobson, North Carolina. Last year he was a final- —and at that moment—
ist in the Arizona Film Commission’s fifth-annual I seemed to understand
screenwriting competition, and he has been a finalist the Mystery as it swayed
for both the Iowa Short Fiction Awards and Sara- —and at that moment—
bande’s Mary McCarthy Prize in Short Fiction. His I seemed to understand
most recent published story appeared this past spring I belonged to the Mystery
in River Oak Review. and the Mystery was part of me
—and at that moment—
I seemed to understand
that I really understood nothing
that mortals could never
understand nor speak
—and at that moment—
I seemed to understand
understanding is not very important
being will suffice
it was very strange
—Paris Anderson

S T O R Y As a child, Sylvia couldn’t bear the sun; she’d had

the longest-brimmed bonnets specially stitched by
Desideratum her mother and long-sleeved, long-skirted dresses
buttoned snugly to her throat and wrists.
By Julie West Staheli The women bent over her, murmuring.
“So small. Like a child.”
He wondered if they knew he’d never seen her “Not a child. Twenty-three. A grown woman.”
naked. How much they knew. That he’d never “So small.”
touched her as he would have if she’d been well. “It was her sickness kept her small.”
Even though she was his and it had been his right. “No. Taller than me, anyway.” Katherine, her
He thought they probably knew that and other mother, snuffled softly. “She’d have filled out. If
things about him and her, and not for the first time she’d had children.”
he wondered how women find things out that men “Guess you’re right, Katie. Midgets, your family.
would rather die than reveal. Not five feet, are you?”
He envied them, the three women who bent “No.”
over her now as if she were theirs. Katherine Larsen, He’d thought he could save her with his will.
Sylvia’s short, stout mother, held the bowl of laven- With his love. What a helpless, impotent fool he
der water from which they worked. Its familiar fra- felt now. He choked on his disappointment, mak-
grance spiraled around the room, light, high notes ing an ugly little sound between a cough and a
to the deep and dark death aroma which hovered moan that embarrassed him and that they heard.
beneath its flight, defining their deplorable business. They’d told him to wait outside. The women
Hannah Robinson, a tall crone, was the expert prac- looked, remembered now that he was still there, in
titioner of these preparations. She was so ancient the corner, and they lowered their voices. They ruf-
he’d never seen her young. And Kristin Skousgaard, fled and fluttered and hissed together like dark
who, brushing stray locks of frizzy red hair back birds as he hunkered numbly on the little horsehair
into the pile of disarray on her head, disconsolately sofa with the near-empty teacup of whiskey and his
did these final necessities for her dead friend. As he burden of grief and disbelief.
sat helplessly in the corner, watching but not quite Kristin whispered harshly, “He shouldn’t be
seeing, he could have killed them for rummaging in here.”
around in what was his though he’d never had it. In “None of us should. It shouldn’t be like this.”
the glancing lamplight, through their inclined fig- “You know what I mean. I’ll get him more
ures, he caught glimpses of her sweet, blue naked- whiskey.”
ness. The table had been moved from the kitchen “Looks to me like he’s had enough. He won’t be
into the cool parlor so the women could lay her out. able to walk to the grave. I wouldn’t have given him
He’d refused to leave her, although he knew he was any, Sister. Against the Word and all. I’m surprised
expected to. you had any.”
She was beyond fair—unearthly pale, even in “It’s allowed for medicinal, though some people,
life. Her hair had the sheen and color of bright if you know what I mean, like to pretend it isn’t.”
straw, and her eyes were an unlikely yellow amber, “Grief isn’t really sickness.”
too light to be brown. But they had shone deep set “Hush, Hannah. You just make bad things
from under nearly transparent eyebrows, and he had worse.” Ordinarily Katherine wouldn’t have crossed
lived in the light of her yellow eyes, as he had loved Hannah—no one did—but this was Katherine’s
nearly everything about her. He’d even loved her sorrow, her daughter, and her parlor, and even
frailty, but not the sickness. He was ashamed that Hannah respected that.
the blood had frightened him. He wondered if they Katherine had warned them, he thought now;
knew, if she had known. He’d tried to hide his fear. everyone had. That Sylvia might not be strong

enough to marry, though she was surely old enough quilted and talked. Throughout his childhood, he’d
at twenty-three. An old maid in that polygamous watched everywhere for her and treasured the fre-
Mormon community in 1861, and older than Egan, quent sightings through windows, doorways, and
who was nineteen and not yet of an age to have across the chapel when she was well enough to
earned a first wife. But they’d all wanted it. They’d come to meeting. At church dances and picnics.
wanted her to grow up and marry and live. Like now, he thought, as he ate his heart in the
They’d all wanted to pretend she’d be well some corner, glaring from under his brows at the harpy
day. A conspiracy of hope, propping each other up huddle around the table. Side by side they stood,
in it together. Katherine’s protestations had been he thought, as always, a barrier to keep him out, to
weak, catching at the straw of marriage to portend take away what was his. He felt furious, murderous,
normal life for her fragile daughter. As if the pose and was ashamed, though whether the shame was
could create the reality. And because of her under- for the anger or because he couldn’t scream and strike
standing that someone besides herself must eventu- out as he wanted, he couldn’t be sure and didn’t
ally have the care of Sylvia. For him, it had never care. He emptied the teacup in a burning gulp.
been a question. “I want to do something like other people do,
He’d kept a private lookout for Sylvia ever since Mother,” she’d insisted when they’d asked permis-
he’d first seen her or remembered. He thought about sion to marry. He remembered how firm her voice
the first time he’d seen her, though he must have was then, though it always came with a rush of
been just a baby, he thought now, and might sweet breath that took his away. “I’m grown up
have imagined this: he’d climbed onto a chair and now, and I’m as well as I’ll ever be, and you can’t
was looking out through a propped-open window always protect me from everything.”
as Sylvia’s mother climbed out of the wagon, “I’ll do that now, Mother,” Egan had promised
turned, and held her arms out to the little girl, her Katherine, “I’ll take care of her,” and he had. He’d
attitude like worship as she lifted the shining done things, not done things. He’d brought herbs
daughter out. Sylvia’s arms were outstretched to her from Sister Heuervaas, her famous remedies. When
mother, her cloak flapping behind with a sound they told him about the medicine man’s caravan,
like great wings in the desert wind that lifted her he’d ridden three days each way and returned bris-
straw hair in a cloud, and Sylvia flew, a pale angel, tling with brown glass bottles of bitter patent tonic
through the hot, dusty air as her mother helped her in all his pockets. He’d proudly lined them up on
land. The hewn log windowsill felt rough under the bedside table in the cabin, where they still sat
his baby hands as he wonderingly watched Kather- expectantly, only a little gone from the first bottle.
ine pull the fallen bonnet over the bright hair and They’d postponed the wedding twice, because of
lead her up the path to the cabin door. And once the bleeding. They told him only that her health
inside, even under the faded gray bonnet, Sylvia’s was fragile, but he’d overheard the women’s talk.
lavender glow lit up the dark hearth of the sod- Probably they’d meant him to hear, he thought
roofed dugout. Yes, he must have been a baby, he now. So he’d know.
thought, because he and his mother had lived On their wedding day, Egan had borrowed his
in the dirt-floored dugout only until his father and Uncle Oscar’s surrey and team for the trip to the
the other men had finished the house for Egan temple in Saint George. A light spring rain per-
and his mother. fumed the soft desert wind with sage. Egan and
Egan’s mother was the second wife, and Egan Oscar had dropped the curtains and tied them
was the only child she would ever have. His father down to protect her from the weather. They leveled
visited only occasionally, when he remembered. the back seat of the carriage and piled it high with
Sylvia’s clothes had smelled of the lavender soft cushions and robes so Sylvia could rest on the
sachet Katherine made from her garden, and she’d way. She’d ridden to her wedding like Cleopatra on
played baby songs with Egan while their mothers her barge, perched grandly behind Mary and Martha,

Oscar’s famous matched pair of steady, willing gray The parlor door opened on the women’s grim
mares. Sylvia seeming strong and well, for her. The business, and Egan’s mother, Minnie, stepped into
ceremony would be long, and there would be the the lavender and death vapors. Her apron and the
wedding party after, in the meeting hall, with danc- front of her gray dress were dark, water-soaked, and
ing, two violins and a piano, and fruit punch and her face was bright with sweat from the hot
cakes, and outside, under the box-elder trees, the kitchen. Tendrils of her gray-streaked hair curled
young men would share a bottle of homemade away from the tight bun on the top of her head.
whiskey, which was against their religion, and some She patted Egan’s shoulder as she passed and joined
of them might fight if they could think of some- her friends at the table, whispering as they huddled.
thing to fight about. It seemed there was usually Egan watched her hands carve her conversation in
plenty of umbrage to go around after enough the air. His mother always had to gesture when she
whiskey. talked. She had large front teeth and an open-
Egan and Sylvia had hesitantly begun the wed- mouthed adenoidal demeanor with a show of too
ding waltz alone, to the harsh one-two-three bow- much gums from a short upper lip, which gave her
ing of the fiddles and the plunking piano, the last a look as if she were always laughing or smiling,
light of the spring sun streaming obliquely through often inappropriately, as now. She couldn’t help it.
the meeting-hall windows, softening the homely She was preparing Sylvia’s burial clothes, and judg-
scene. The kerosene lamps were being lighted as ing by her gestures and lively talk she was worried
they began the dance alone and, embarrassed and that they had only three hours to finish their prepa-
awkward, he felt sweat running down his ribs and rations. He watched as she pantomimed her soak-
the heavy starch in his shirt melting and sticking to ing and scrubbing of Sylvia’s wedding things. He
him, slimy. He wished he could be outside in the loved his mother very much, but he understood
cool evening canyon breeze under the box-elder that no one else considered her beautiful.
trees with the other young men and their bottle of “Lemon juice,” he heard Katherine say. Kather-
whiskey, waiting to come inside when their courage ine was experienced in removing bloodstains from
was up. He wondered why anyone would want a dainty things, he thought despairingly. He saw his
wedding, and he wanted his to be over, as he had mother nod gratefully as she walked briskly out
wanted for weeks, so they could be man and wife again. Before they closed ranks again around the
and be alone. When the first dance was over, when table, Egan had a full view of Sylvia.
Kristin and Max and other couples joined in the Her face was turned toward him, and he imag-
dance and they were no longer conspicuous, Egan ined that she was only pretending to be dead, that
began almost to enjoy himself, the worst over, he her amber eyes watched him through bunches of
thought. pale lashes, waiting for him to do something. Then
Until Sylvia’s mother, Katherine, had pushed his view was interrupted, and the back of Hannah’s
quickly through the other dancing wedding guests waist where her apron tied was what he saw; but
to them, her eyes wide with alarm but smiling as if beyond Hannah’s tall, bent back, in his imagina-
to dispel the bad news which she whispered into tion, Sylvia’s lids trembled and opened and looked
Sylvia’s ear. She led her from the dance floor, fol- at his helplessness accusingly. You said you’d take
lowed by a faint, bright trail, just drops really, and care of me, and now look.
the occasional sticky, sharp, red outline of her slip- Katherine wanted to bury Sylvia in her wedding
pers. Sylvia lay on a chaise to watch the rest of the dress, in all her wedding things, and he had agreed,
dancing and celebration, which hadn’t lasted long though he wondered what strange things his grief
thereafter; with the bride convalescent, departures might make him do when he saw her in it again.
were soon taken. To no one’s surprise, really. They The dress had been hand-made by Katherine, and
couldn’t remember when they’d seen her well. Sylvia had loved it. There would be no daughters
••• or granddaughters now to wear it again. They had

meant to wash and pack it away eventually, but to you. I still say he shouldn’t be in here. It’s not
they were young and thought they had time, and right. And I’ll tell you another thing that’s not right.
they hadn’t yet done even that. That preacher. Not even a member, and he has no
The women were huddling again, struggling to business here.”
do something that required an effort. They rose “Hannah,” Kristin soothed, “you’re too critical
from their convocation in unison, and Katherine of people. Egan wants him, what harm can it do?
detached from them and approached him. She was He wants a real good speaker for Sylvia. They say
holding something toward him in her hand. he’s a good man, and he’s investigating, you know.
“What is it?” His voice cracked. And they say his preaching is beautiful, just beauti-
“Aunt Violet’s ring.” ful. Nothing against Brother Horace, but he doesn’t
“Violet’s ring? No. Why did you take it? It’s hers. have a gift for speaking. Not at all.”
It’s Sylvia’s ring now. I gave it to her, and she loves “Can’t argue with that,” Hannah grumped.
it. She’d never give it up. What are you doing?” “That’s one boring speaker, Brother Horace, even if
“Egan, dear, you should keep it. It’s your family’s he is the bishop.”
heirloom. She has no use for it now. Keep it to Egan tossed back the teacup of whiskey and
remember her.” wiped all the accumulated tears from his eyes along
“I want her to have it. She loves that ring. I’ll with the whiskey ones. He was beginning to feel
never forget her, never. No matter what. It’s her very distant. Or very tired. He thought he might be
ring.” He didn’t mean to threaten, but as he rose to sick. He needed to sleep, he thought. He wished he
his feet, she shrank back. He sometimes forgot that could crawl up onto the table and be washed and
to these women he wasn’t a little boy any more, loved like Sylvia and then be put into the grave
though in their presence he often still felt like one. with her. He imagined their astonishment and dis-
At nineteen, he’d only recently grown very tall, over approval if he were to climb onto the table and
six feet, but he wasn’t used to that yet, sometimes wrap himself around her as he wanted to. He
forgot it had happened at all, and then it seemed to laughed a little bark as he fell sideways on the sofa,
him that nothing had changed and they were still and they all receded. If only he could really have
the grownups and he wasn’t. The alarm in her face made love to her just once. Was her spirit already in
worried and saddened him, and he realized he was heaven, he wondered—was he forgotten already
shouting, but he couldn’t stop. “Give it back to her. in the glory of her return to God and the angels?
She loves that ring. She doesn’t want me to take it He didn’t think so. He imagined that she lingered,
back. She doesn’t want you to take it away.” wandering around the room, taking an interest,
He looked at the two women’s attentive faces watching the women work. Confused and alone,
turned toward him, toward his bad behavior, check- he thought, she’d be wondering what to do, where
ing for danger, their brows knit in disapproval. to go, wandering around the room watching them.
“That’s all right, Egan. All right. We’ll put it Floating around the room, watching. Come to me.
back on her. We just thought—” She trailed off and •••
turned away. As usual, he was ashamed now. But As Egan lay unconscious across the sofa, the
he’d meant it, and he intended to see the emerald- women continued their work, his snores rising
and-pearl ring back on her finger where it belonged behind their backs, adding a rank whiskey smell to
before they put her in the grave. Put her in the the room’s ripe summer afternoon atmosphere.
grave. It was the first time he’d really thought of Egan’s mother, Minnie, came in with the under
how they’d have to do that, and he couldn’t think things; all the delicate garments had dried quickly
of it again right now. Kristin was refilling his teacup in the dry desert breeze. As she went back to over-
when he turned away from Hannah’s glare. She set see the pressing of the dress, she paused by her
the bottle on the table by the sofa and returned to unconscious son a moment and then continued
the table. Hannah whispered loudly, outraged, out the door. She returned a moment later with
“I don’t think you should let him talk that way the dress.

Their sad work was quickly done now, and the S T O R Y

women left the room to ready themselves for
the burial. They filed past Egan and gazed down at The Thing about Benny
him sadly, as if he were also deceased. Which, in
ways they knew and he was only beginning to sus- By M. Shayne Bell
pect, he was. His mother stroked his cheek and
bent to kiss him before she followed the others out. ABBA, Fältskog Listing 47: “Dancing Queen,” day 3.
Egan started in his sleep, coughed, stopped snoring En route from the airport.
as the door clicked shut. Benny said, apropos of nothing, “The bridge
In the sudden quiet, Sylvia’s spirit floated is the most important part of a song, don’t you
through the lavender aroma, searching. In the cor- think?”
ner, she found him. Hopeful and disbelieving, “Oh, yeah,” I said, me trying to drive in all that
Egan watched her approach. She put her hands on traffic and us late, as usual. “That’s all I think about
his face and kissed him gently. He embraced her, when I’m hearing music—those important bridges.”
running his hands along her naked back. When she “No, really.” Benny looked at me, earphones
pressed herself coolly against him, her perfumed firmly covering his ears, eyes dark and kind of sur-
mouth on his, he was hot with desire; it was the prised. It was a weird look. Benny never has much
way he’d always wanted it to be. to say, but when he does the company higher-ups
He entered her effortlessly in a burst of lavender told me I was supposed to take notice, try to figure
scent, and he felt her sparking in every part of his out how he does what he does.
body. He writhed and arched and bucked in an The light turned green. I drove us onto North
Elysium of deliverance. Temple, downtown Salt Lake not so far off now.
When his backside landed hard on the floor by “Bridges in songs have something to do with
the sofa, his dream of Sylvia vanished, but he still extinct plants?” I asked.
spent himself, jerking and twitching as he dis- “It’s all in the music,” he said, looking back at
charged into the jersey undergarments and the the street and sitting very, very still.
rough wool of his funeral trousers. His mouth was “Messages about plants are in the music?” I asked.
dry, his head ached, and he thought he was going But he was gone, back in that trance he’d been in
to vomit. Oh no, not in Katherine’s parlor, he since L.A. Besides, we were minutes from our first
thought, gagging it back. stop. He always gets so nervous just before we start
Across the room, Sylvia, in her wedding dress, work. “What if we find something?” he’d asked me
lay in quiet final beauty, ignoring him now. Her once, and I’d said, “Isn’t that the point?”
profile had turned up, to the ceiling or to heaven. He started rubbing his sweaty hands up and
Aunt Violet’s emerald-and-pearl ring glinted softly
down his pant legs. I could hear the tinny melody
on one of the slender gray hands still crossed on her
out of his earphones. It was “Dancing Queen”
midriff, over her white bible.
week. Benny’d set his player on endless repeat, and
he listened to “Dancing Queen” over and over
The daughter of late writer and literary critic Ray B.
West Jr. and writer Lucille McMullin West, Julie West again on the plane, in the car, in the offices we went
Staheli began writing full time 14 years ago, at the to, during meals, in bed with the earphones on his
age of 48. She has written a novel and a half, three head. That’s all he’d listen to for one week. Then
screenplays, and two stage plays, one of which has been he’d change to a different ABBA song on Sunday.
produced. She is unrepresented and unpublished in When he’d gone through every ABBA song ever
fiction, although some of her pieces have been finalists recorded, he’d start over.
in respectable competitions. She is a “purebred, pedi- “Check in,” Benny said.
greed descendent of original Mormon pioneers in all “What?”
genealogical directions.” “The Marriott.”

I slammed brakes, did a U-turn, did like he’d from HR led us around office after cubicle after
asked. That was my job, even if we were late. Benny break room. Benny walked along behind the lady
had to use the toilet, and he would not use toilets and me. It was Dieffenbachia maculata after Ficus
in the offices we visited. benjamina after Cycus revoluta. Even I could tell
I carried the bags up to our rooms—no bellhop nobody was getting rich here. But up on the sixth
needed, thank you. What’s a personal assistant for floor, I turned around and Benny wasn’t behind us.
if not to lug your luggage around? I called Utah He was back staring at a Nemanthus gregarius on a
Power and Light to tell them we were still coming. bookshelf in a cubicle just inside the door.
Then I waited for Benny in the lobby. My mind I walked up to him. “It’s just goldfish vine,”
kept playing “Dancing Queen” over and over. “It’s I said.
all in the music,” Benny’d said, but I failed to The girl in the cubicle looked like she wanted to
understand how anybody, Benny included, could pick up her keyboard and kill me with it.
find directions in fifty-year-old ABBA songs to the “Benny,” I said, “we got a bunch more territory
whereabouts of plants extinct in the wild. to cover. Let’s move it.”
Benny tapped me on the shoulder. “It’s close He put his hands in his pockets and followed
enough that we can walk,” he said. “Take these.” along behind me, but after about five minutes he
He handed me his briefcase and a stack of World was gone again. We found him back at the Neman-
Botanics pamphlets and motioned to the door. I thus gregarius. I took a second look at the plant. It
always had to lead the way. Benny wouldn’t walk looked like nothing more than Nemanthus gregar-
with me. He walked behind me, four or five steps ius to me. Polly, the girl in the cubicle, was doing a
back, ABBA blasting in his ears. It was no use try- little dance in her chair in time to the muffled
ing to get him to do different. I gave the car keys to “Dancing Queen” out of Benny’s earphones. Mama
the hotel car people so they could park the rental, mia, she felt like money, money, money.
and off we went. I made arrangements with HR for us to come
Utah Power and Light was a First Visit. We’d do back the next day and start our detailed study. The
a get-acquainted sweep of the cubicles and offices, company CEO came down to shake our hands
then come back the next day for a detailed study. when we left. Last we saw of Polly that day was her
Oh sure, after Benny’d found the Rhapis excelsa watering the Nemanthus gregarius.
in a technical writer’s cubicle in the Transamerica
Pyramid, everybody with a plant in a pot had ABBA, Fältskog Listing 47: “Dancing Queen,” day 3.
hoped to be the one with the cancer cure. But most Dinner.
African violets are just African violets. They aren’t The thing about Benny is, he never moves around
going to cure anything. Still, the hopeful had in time to the music. I mean, he can sit there lis-
driven college botany professors around the world tening to “Dancing Queen” over and over again
nuts with their pots of begonias and canary ivy and and stare straight ahead, hands folded in his lap. He
sword ferns. never moves his shoulders. He never taps his toes.
But they were out there. Plants extinct in the He never sways his hips. Watching him, you’d
wild had been kept alive in the oddest places, think “Dancing Queen” was some Bach cantata.
including cubicles in office buildings. Benny’d I ordered dinner for us in the hotel coffee shop.
found more than his share. Even I take extract of Benny always makes me order for him, and God
Rhapis excelsa treatment one week each year like forbid it’s not a medium-rare hamburger and fries.
everybody else. Who wants a heart attack? Who We sat there eating in silence, the only sound
doesn’t feel better with his arteries unclogged? between us the muffled dancing queen having the
People used to go jogging just to feel that good. time of her life. I thought maybe I’d try a little con-
The people at UP&L were thrilled to see us— versation. “Hamburger OK?” I asked.
hey, Benny was their chance at millions. A lady Benny nodded.

“Want a refill on the Coke?” of people somehow failed to tell customs about the
He picked up his glass and sucked up the last of cuttings or the little packets of seeds in their pock-
the Coke, but shook his head no. ets after vacations abroad. If a company’s employ-
I took a bite of my burger, chewed it, looked at ees had traveled around a lot, or if they had family
Benny. “You got any goals?” I asked him. ties in other countries, they sometimes ended up
Benny looked at me then. He didn’t say a word. with the kind of plants we were looking for. UP&L
He stopped chewing and just stared. has stayed put for a good long time, plus its
“I mean, what do you want to do with your life? employees include former Mormon missionaries
You want a wife? Kids? A trip to the moon? We fly who’ve poked around obscure corners of the planet.
around together, city after city, studying all these World Botanics hoped to find something in Utah.
plants, and I don’t think I even know you.”
He swallowed and wiped his mouth with his
napkin. “I have goals,” he said. Who hasn’t heard of crazier
“Well, like what?”
“I haven’t told anybody. I’ll need some time to things than the music of
think about it before I answer you. I’m not sure I dead pop stars leading some
want to tell anybody. No offense.”
Jeez, Benny, take a chance on me why don’t you, guy to new plant species?
I thought. We went back to eating our burgers.
I knew the higher-ups would want me to follow the
lead Benny had dropped when we were driving in The UP&L CEO and the HR staff and Polly
from the airport, so I tried. “Tell me about bridges,” were all waiting for us. You’d think Benny’d want to
I said. “Why are they important in songs?” go straight up to the sixth floor to settle the
Benny wouldn’t say another word. We finished Nemanthus gregarius question, but he didn’t. Benny
eating, and I carried Benny’s things up to his room always starts on the first floor and works his way to
for him. At the door he turned around and looked the top, so we started on floor one.
at me. “Bridges take you to a new place,” he said. The lobby was a new install, and I was glad
“But they also show you the way back to where you Benny didn’t waste even half an hour there. Not
once were.” much hope of curing cancer with flame nettle or
He closed the door. cantea palms. The cafeteria on the second floor had
I didn’t turn on any music in my room. It was some interesting Cleistocactus strausii. Like all cac-
nice to have it a little quiet for a change. I wrote my tus, it’s endangered but not extinct in the wild yet.
reports and e-mailed them off, then went out for a There are still reports of Cleistocactus strausii grow-
drink. I nursed it along, wondering where we stood ing here and there in the tops of the Andes. As far
on the bridges. as anybody can tell, it can’t cure a thing.
We didn’t make it to the sixth floor till after four
ABBA, Fältskog Listing 47: “Dancing Queen,” day 4. o’clock, and you could tell that Polly was a nervous
UP&L offices. wreck.
World Botanics sends Benny only to companies But Benny walked right past her Nemanthus gre-
that meet its few criteria. First, they have to have garius.
occupied the same building for fifty years or more. “Hey, Benny,” I said in a low voice. “What about
You’d be surprised how few companies in America the goldfish vine?”
have done that. But if a company has moved Benny turned around and stared at it. Polly
around a lot, chances are its plants have not gone moved back into her cubicle so she wouldn’t block
with it. Second, it’s nice if the company has had the view, but after a minute Benny put his hands in
international ties, but even that isn’t necessary. Lots his pockets and walked off. Well, poor Polly, I thought.

But just before five, I turned around and Benny We spent the day looking at more sorry speci-
wasn’t behind me. I found him at the Nemanthus mens of Cordyline terminalis, Columnea gloriosa,
gregarius. Jeez Benny, I thought, we need to know the and Codiaeum variagatum than I care to remember.
name of the game here. Declare extract of Nemanthus By the end of the day, Benny started handing out
gregarius the fountain of youth or tell Polly she has a the occasional watering tip, so I knew even he was
nice plant but nothing special. I steered him out of giving up.
the building and back to the Marriott. “Nemanthus gregarius?” I asked in the elevator on
the way down.
ABBA, Fältskog Listing 47: “Dancing Queen,” day 4. Suddenly he punched the six. He walked straight
Dinner. to Polly’s cubicle and stuck out his hand. “I owe
I ordered Benny’s burger and a steak for me. you an apology,” he said.
We sat there eating, the only sound between us a Polly just sat there. She was facing her own little
muffled “Dancing Queen.” After last night, I was Waterloo, and she did it bravely.
not attempting conversation. “I thought your Nemanthus gregarius might be a
I’d taken time before dinner to look up Neman- subspecies not before described, but it isn’t. It’s the
thus gregarius on the Net. It is not endangered. It common variety. A nice specimen, though.”
grows like weeds in cubicles. It can’t cure a thing. We left quickly. At least he didn’t give her any
I didn’t know what Benny was doing. watering tips.
He sucked up the last of his one glass of Coke
and put the glass down a little hard on the table. ABBA, Fältskog Listing 47: “Dancing Queen,” day 5.
I looked up at him. Wandering the streets.
“I want to find a new plant and name it for The thing about Benny is, if it doesn’t work out
Agnetha,” he said. and we’ve studied every plant on thirty floors of an
“What?” office tower without finding even a Calathea lanci-
“My goal in life,” he said. “If you tell anyone, I’ll folia, he can’t stand it. He wanders up and down
see that you’re fired.” the streets, poking into every little shop. He never
“You’re looking for a new plant species in office buys anything—he isn’t shopping. I think he’s hop-
buildings?” ing to spot some rare plant in the odd tobacconist
“I’d actually like to find one for each of the four or magazine shop and to do it fast. I have a hard
members of ABBA, but Agnetha’s first.” time keeping up with him then, and heaven forbid
And I’d thought finding one completely new I should decide to buy something on sale for a
species too much to ask. Mother’s Day gift.
“When ABBA sang, the world was so lush,” We rushed through two used bookstores, an ori-
Benny said. “You can hear it in their music. It res- ental rug store, four art galleries, three fast food
onates with what’s left of the natural world. It helps joints. “Benny,” I said. “Let’s get something to eat.”
me save it.” “It’s here,” he said.
It was my turn to be quiet. All I could think was, “What’s where?”
it works for Benny. He’s had plenty of success, after “There’s something here, and we just haven’t
all, and who hasn’t heard of crazier things than the found it.”
music of dead pop stars leading some guy to new The dancing queen was resonating, I supposed.
plant species? Shops were closing all around us.
When I wrote up my daily reports that night, I “You check the Indian jewelry store while I
left out Benny’s goals. Some things the higher-ups check Mr. Q’s Big and Tall,” he told me. “We meet
don’t need to know. outside in five.”
I did like I was told. I smiled at the Navajo
ABBA, Fältskog Listing 47: “Dancing Queen,” day 5. woman in traditional dress, but she did not smile
UP&L offices. back. She wanted to lock up. I made a quick sweep

of the store and noted the various species of endan- Streptocarpus agnethum, or “dancing queen,”
gered cacti and left. Benny was not on the sidewalk. around Agnetha’s gravestone. Turns out the flower
I went into Mr. Q’s after him. He was standing per- wasn’t a cure for anything, but it was a new species
fectly still in front of a rack of shirts on sale, hands and Benny got to name it.
in his pockets. “Agnetha would have loved these flowers,” I told
“These are too big for you,” I said. Benny.
“Window display, southeast corner.” He just kept planting. We had a nice sound sys-
Well, I walked over there. It was a lovely little tem on the ground beside us, playing her music—
display of Rhipsalis salicornioides, Phalaenopsis lued- well, just one of her songs. It talks about believing
demanniana, and Streptocarpus saxorum. Nothing in angels. I don’t know if I believe in angels, but I
unusual. can see the good in Benny’s work. Nobody’s bring-
Then I looked closer at the Streptocarpus saxo- ing back the world we’ve lost, but little pieces of it
rum. The flowers weren’t the typical powder-blue have survived here and there. Benny was saving
or lilac. They were a light yellow. some of those pieces.
The proprietor walked up to me. “I’m sorry,” he “These flowers are so pretty,” I told him.
said. “But we’re closing. Could you bring your final Of course he didn’t say anything.
purchases to the register?” He didn’t need to.
“I’m just admiring your cape primrose,” I said.
“Where do they come from?” This story was first published in Vanishing Acts (ed.
“My mother grows them,” he said. “She gave me Ellen Datlow, New York: Tor, 2000). M. Shayne Bell
these plants when I opened the store.” has published short fiction and poetry in numerous
“Did she travel in Africa or Madagascar?” national magazines and anthologies, including The
“Her brother was in the foreign service. She used Year’s Best Science Fiction, The Year’s Best SF #6,
to follow him around to his postings. I don’t and most recently The Green Man: Tales from the
remember where she went—I’d have to ask her.” Mythic Forest. His short story “Mrs. Lincoln’s China”
“Do you mind if I touch one of the plants?” (Asimov’s, July 1994) was a 1995 Hugo Award final-
I asked. ist. Bell’s story collection, How We Play the Game in
He said sure. The leaves were the typical hairy, Salt Lake and Other Stories, was released by Time-
gray-green ovals; the flowers floated above the Warner in December 2001. Bell holds a master’s
leaves on wire-thin stems. It was definitely Strepto- degree in English literature from Brigham Young
carpus, but I’d never seen anything like it described. University. He enjoys hiking, backpacking, and
“I think you should call your mother,” I said, climbing. He lives in Salt Lake City, and his web site
and I explained who Benny and I were. address is www.mshaynebell.com.
The store closed, but Mr. Proprietor and his staff
waited with us for the mother to arrive. The whole
time Benny just stood by the sale rack, eyes closed, P O E M
hands in his pockets. “You’ve done it again,” I
whispered to him. What Abraham Has to Say
He didn’t answer me. Just as I turned to walk
back over to the cape primrose, he opened his eyes.
“Streptocarpus agnethum,” he whispered. You think you are carrying the load, and yes
And he smiled. There is wood strapped to your back and sweat
trickles—
ABBA, Fältskog Listing 32: “I Have a Dream,” day Salty as tears, salty as the wife of Lot who turned
2. Agnetha’s grave. back
The thing about Benny is, he’s generous. He From the path—I see that you stagger beneath
took me to Sweden with him, and we planted your hard burden.

But the load is mine, my son. First understand this: S T O R Y

I had yearned. (And you, my true son, also know
holy thirst.) Candle
“Batter my heart,” I had said, and I meant it with
my whole soul— By David M. Clark
But the holy soul I would be has evaporated in a
cloudy pillar Clifton Street, L-shaped and slowly rotting, sits
On the plain, and the soles of my sandals are holy snugly between Fourteenth and Euclid Streets in
enough the northwest sector of Washington, D.C. The
From the long plodding journey of stone on this dilapidated row houses around the corner and up
sage-dusty road University Place, crusty skeletons of uniformity
and structure, sit precariously, like the skin left
Up the mountain. The desert is hot, and the cir- behind by June bugs in late summer. Even now, on
cling hawk, the buzzing New Year’s Eve 1993, nearly two months after his
Of locusts and rattle of slithering forked-tongued duly elected second coming, each crippled metal
truth-twisters door in the neighborhood still proudly displayed
Join my old battered heart to announce that I like a family crest a simple green bumper sticker
may have and its large white capitals: MARION BARRY.
Been mistaken. But strait is the path and I find It had been nine hours since Candle heard about
I’m still treading. Iggy, and he still hadn’t moved from the stoop of
his grandmother’s house. A kid from school named
Yes, as I said, there was thirst. But now I shrink Dominick Thomas who lived up on Harvard Street
And would that I might not drink. had frantically sprinted out of the Metropolitan
Police Department Boys and Girls Club on the
Your burden is heavy, the wood and your fear and corner of Fourteenth and Clifton. Noticing Candle
the wait and lounging on the stoop down the street, he sped
Not knowing but (oh, I must say it) the thing over. Piercing the December chill, Dominick’s hot
that I carry darts of exhale relayed what happened. Ignatius
You must know the whole of it, the whole holy Dupree, in one of his usual poolside fits of mis-
weight of it chief, had snapped a wet towel at a group of older
kids. Screaming with laughter and relishing a good
(Now speak, for here is the altar. chase, Iggy, clad only in a pair of worn-out cut-
Oh my lips, offs, scrambled toward the swimming pool and
Oh my heart, do not falter—) dove head first into the shallow end. His neck
snapped like a brittle twig. He died with his per-
Now we are caught by our horns in the thicket; manently crooked grin intact and blood trickling
out his left ear.
The thickness of darkness that’s coming will blind you “Candle” is what everyone had been calling
And mine are the hands that must— Jerome Robinson for over three years now. Jerome’s
That will bind you little brother Gus grew up calling him “Rome”
My son. because he could never pronounce his name right.
Then the neighborhood kids started calling him
My heart— “Roman” after Iggy got chased one day by a Ger-
My hands— man shepherd with the same name.
My son— But it was that skinny, smirky, cinnamon-
colored Iggy Dupree who first called him Candle.
—Darlene Young
On the Fourth of July between the fourth and fifth with both hands. Losing her balance, she rocked,
grades, Iggy let off forty-eight firecrackers, eleven bobbed, and then swayed for what seemed like an
smoke bombs, and one Roman candle that he got eternity. It was futile. Her arms flailing, she made a
from his uncle in Philadelphia. Jerome hadn’t even final pathetic grasp for the back of the chair she had
been there. just exited and clunked to the utilitarian brown tile
None of the kids on Clifton had ever seen a with the dullest of thuds.
Roman candle before. The spectacle impressed the After clearing the cello case, Candle landed on
neighborhood kids so much that Jerome instantly his right foot and, in one delicately athletic motion,
became “Jeroman Candle,” then after a few weeks pivoted 180 degrees. Slowly backpedaling as if to
“The Candle,” and since then just plain “Candle.” say, “You can’t catch me,” he saw that Mrs. Douglas
Now a fourteen-year-old sixth grader, Jerome was about to capsize. He spun back around and
was still called Candle, and he preferred it that way. sprinted for the door. He didn’t need to hear the
All the kids in Mrs. Douglas’s music appreciation thud to know that he would not be back for a while.
class knew his real name—she was one of the only Candle caught the explosion of short-lived laughter
teachers who refused to use nicknames. She called just as the chocolate-brown metal door to the
him Jerome. The other kids were too scared to music room slammed shut behind him. He didn’t
call him anything but Candle. But his tough image break stride until he was back on Clifton Street.
was mostly another one of Iggy’s pranks. Mrs. Douglas’s good hip was black and blue
Mrs. Douglas was the reason Candle was still in within the hour, but even more humiliating than
sixth grade. Last year, during his first attempt at the the limp was the collection of pinhead-sized scabs
sixth grade, Candle had led the ancient hip-replace- that formed that night all over the left side of her
ment recipient on a high-speed chase around the face. The granules of sand and rock salt tracked in
music room after refusing to surrender his wad of from the shoveled sidewalks had mercilessly imbed-
strawberry Bubblicious. ded in her cheek when her face made contact with
“Please deposit your chewing gum in the trash the floor. No one could see her bruised hip, but two
weeks later it was impossible not to notice the
receptacle, Jerome,” she had demanded. “Young
pointillistic spattering of scabs outlining her left
people, we will get through all of the verses of
cheekbone.
‘America the Beautiful’ today! I don’t care what
The scabby badge of humiliation is what led
it takes.”
Mrs. Douglas to press for, and the principal to
“Oh maaaan, but the flavor-crystal jone is still capitulate in, expelling Candle.
activated, know what I’m sayin’?” Candle whined. Iggy said it was all God’s work.
Instead of marching to the front of the room as “I told you, Candle. Boy, the Good Lord moves
Mrs. Douglas expected, Candle grinned and blew a in mysterious ways, like a thief in the night, like a
perfect pink bubble. The other kids giggled. crazed alley cat. No snow means no walks need
Buoyed by their support, in a burst of spontaneous shoveling. No shoveling means no salt, and no salt
defiance Candle jumped to his feet and began to means no sand. And no sand means no scabs and
jog around the perimeter of the music room, the no scabs means—”
oversized bubble still protruding from his lips. At “Yo, Ig, shut your mouth, man, you never be
first the large, pink bubble swayed in the newly cre- shuttin’ up. That jone be runnin’ and runnin’ and
ated turbulence, but it soon popped and splattered runnin’. What a stupid little cinnamon stick like
against Candle’s nose and left cheek like a cobweb. you know about God anyhow? Your grandmamma
The kids howled. Mrs. Douglas was flabbergasted. might know somethin’, but you ain’t know nothin’.”
She rose to her feet and began pursuit. “Candle, man, you already forgot? I’m a deacon,
Candle was making his fourth lap around the yo. That Aaronic Priesthood jone was given to me
music room and hurdling a cello case just as by the layin’ on of hands,” Iggy sang evangelically.
Mrs. Douglas desperately lunged at his left arm “I have the line of authority.”

“You crazy, Ig.” marathon only to be told at the twenty-fifth-mile

“Them scabs be God’s work. I tes-ti-fy to that, yo.” marker that there were really ten more miles to go.
“You crazy, Ig. You sound like a preacher.” It had all been planned. She had paced herself. She
“Yeah, boy, I be preachin’ to you. You got to rise cursed the school, cursed the caged door, cursed the
up off your grandmother’s stoop and be healed. principal, cursed Columbus, and cursed Candle.
Take up your bed and walk!” he sang. She could wait no longer. She told Candle to go
With that Candle simply muttered, “Whatever, home, and she hurried down Columbia Road into
Reverend Jackson.” Adams-Morgan.
“Some day yo’ jone gonna rise up and walk, Six weeks later, on Thanksgiving, Candle’s
Candle boy.” grandmother found out he wasn’t in kindergarten.
“Man, you really are crazy, Ig.” With that they She enrolled him in Mrs. Johnson’s kindergarten
both burst into laughter. class the following Monday. By the time kinder-
Maybe it was God’s work after all, Candle thought. garten ended in the middle of June, Candle was
If it hadn’t been for the freak snowstorm the week still so far behind that there was no choice but to
before and the residue of sand and salt it left make him start kindergarten all over the next year.
behind, Mrs. Douglas wouldn’t have had the scabs That next September, Candle started living with
and Candle probably would not have spent the rest his grandmother on Clifton Street.
of the year on Clifton Street. But he did. Now it was December of his second sixth-grade
It wasn’t the first delay in Candle’s so-far infa- campaign. It was New Year’s Eve, and Christmas
mous educational career. He missed entering kinder- break had temporarily put Candle back on Clifton
garten as a six-year-old because his mother started Street and back on the stoop of his grandmother’s
one of her extended crack binges over Labor Day old row house. The house was bunched between
weekend. After six weeks in oblivion, she realized nine other houses, three of them vacant but con-
one Saturday that Jerome wasn’t in school and trolled by Terrance, now twenty-three and still dis-
determined that the following Monday she would tributing on Clifton and Euclid. Most of Terrance’s
personally enroll him. But Monday morning when activity occurred in the house next door. Down the
she woke up, impressed with her forty-eight street was a small, brown-brick housing project,
straight hours of ascetic self-control and sobriety, and up the street on the corner of Fourteenth Street
she hurriedly dressed and dragged Jerome out the sat the Boys and Girls Club.
door and down to the school, only to find out that Like his grandmother’s stoop, the stoop of each
it was Columbus Day. row house on Clifton Street was the focal point of
All weekend she had been looking forward to the occupants’ social interaction. In the summer-
that next little rock. She had paced herself. It had time it was too hot to stay inside, and in the win-
all been planned. On Monday morning she would tertime it was just as cold inside. From his
make a quick trip to the CVS Pharmacy on grandmother’s stoop he had a perfect view of it all.
Columbia Road in Adams-Morgan, shoplift some- During his six months of exile after the Bubblicious
thing small but expensive and, most importantly, incident, Candle spent most of the day and a good
salable—some tampons, a pregnancy kit, a box of part of the night on the stoop in quiet observation.
Trojans, whatever. Then, with the five- or six-dollar Candle liked the stoop mostly because he could
profit and some quick sex with Terrance, the seven- see and hear the cars on Fourteenth Street zip by.
teen-year-old distributor on Clifton Street, to make He especially liked to watch the reckless kaleido-
up for any trade deficit, she would get her little scope of taxis barrel down the hill toward Florida
chemical Macadamia nut. Avenue. He had heard that all the cabs in New York
But after getting to Monroe Elementary and City were yellow. Not in D.C. There were black
finding all the doors locked and no kids in sight, it cabs, yellow cabs, orange cabs, green cabs, blue
was too much to bear. Waiting another interminable cabs, even purple cabs. Most of the cabs looked
day was out of the question. It was like running a even more reckless than they really were thanks to

the personal spray-paint jobs that each cab driver Now, Candle still sat motionless on his grand-
inflicted on his mechanical beast of burden. The mother’s stoop, as darkness fell. The traffic on
crooked stenciling of the cab company’s name on Fourteenth Street was heavy. New Year’s Eve was
each door only enhanced the effect. one of the biggest nights of the year for the cabs.
Candle noticed that the Diamond cabs had the Candle could see, hear, and smell the current of
most boring drivers; they rarely honked or darted cabs and the ubiquitous D.C. Metro buses move
from lane to lane. They were the snobs of the cab- down the long, gradual slope of Fourteenth Street.
driving caste and probably had the highest life The Diamond, Hill Top, Universal, Red Sea,
expectancy of any big-city cab drivers in the world. Empire, and Capitol cab companies were out in
Candle liked the bright purple cabs of the Univer- full force trolling for fares. There were even a few
sal Cab Association the best. Their drivers barely Red Tops, Barwoods, and D.C. Flyers in from the
knew how to drive and barely knew how to swear, suburbs making their way to the parties on Capitol
fulfilling the city’s only two apparent requirements Hill and downtown.
to be a cab driver. Candle once heard a Universal The neighborhood had been surprisingly quiet
Cab driver, a Congolese political refugee, slam on during the day, but as it got darker the random
his brakes after nearly running over one of Ter- noises of the ghetto grew more constant and louder
rance’s customers. He screeched something unin- than usual. Screams of fighting lovers from the
telligible and then in his most determined and project, raucous laughter from homeless drunks
contemplative English pointed at the coked-up around the corner on University Place, chattering
near miss and bellowed, “Daaaaahmit peeeepole!” customers talking faster than they could think
The only stoops that were never used were the inside Terrance’s house next door, occasional sirens,
ones that fronted Terrance’s houses. Far from and the steady flow of honks, short-lived tire
vacant, Terrance’s three houses were a living archae- screeches, and gunned engines from the cabs on
ology of crack culture. Inside, they were strewn Fourteenth Street played a confused symphony of
with stained, half-rotten mattresses, trash, used urban misery.
rubbers, empty forty-ounce bottles of malt liquor, And then there was Iggy. Of all the ways to die
and tiny pieces of cellophane shards that had once in this neighborhood, it was ridiculous—worse
been tightly twisted on small pebbles of crack. than a cruel practical joke. Candle thought about
The cabs weren’t the only traffic in the neigh- Terrance and the countless times he had strolled
borhood. From the stoop, Candle watched a con- past the stoop and offered Candle a freebie. Even
stant trickle of zombies entering and exiting this morning, as he sauntered past Candle wearing
Terrance’s houses and a smattering of kids making a black Orlando Magic stocking cap, extra-baggy
their way into the Boys and Girls Club at the oppo- black jeans that hung precariously on his skinny
site end of the street. It was strange, he thought, hips, and untied caramel-colored construction
that he had never been inside a public place that boots, Terrance had patted the side pocket of his
was so close to his house. oversized black faux-leather jacket, tipped his head
But he still hadn’t. Not even today, even though to the right, grinned, and made his familiar procla-
he knew Iggy had died inside only a few hours ear- mation, “Yo, Candle boy, this jone be the cure!”
lier. A few minutes after Dominick Thomas A greeting, a pronouncement, and a sales pitch in
sprinted off toward Harvard Street bursting to tell one familiar and fractured sentence. It was the only
anyone he could find his eyewitness news, Candle thing besides the sunrise and the sunset that Candle
saw an empty, oversized, black body bag resting knew he could see from the stoop every day.
on a tall stretcher whisked into the club. Thirty Candle’s thoughts about Iggy drifted to his M.I.A.
minutes later, Candle watched as the stretcher and mother, to Iggy’s crackhead of a Mom, to Iggy’s
body bag slithered back to the coroner’s van, like grandmamma—the one who had taken a liking to
a black snake that had just greedily consumed a those farm boys on bikes from Utah—to Candle’s
small rodent. grandmother, to Mrs. Douglas, to Terrance, and

back to Iggy. He felt like he would throw up, espe- E D I T O R I A L

cially today. For all he knew, Terrance did have the
cure. There was really no one left to disappoint. Twenty-Five Years of Writing
Over thirteen hours had passed since Terrance
had strolled by earlier that morning. Candle finally
with One Ear
stood up. His legs had fallen asleep long ago. After By Harlow Soderborg Clark, Poetry Editor
pausing for a moment to feel the blood rush down
his legs and into his toes, he gingerly made his way I recently passed a quarter-century anniversary.
down to the sidewalk and pointed himself toward In 1971 I took a routine hearing test at Farrer Jr.
Terrance’s house next door, pulled by an intangible High, and we got a phone call a while later about a
ain’t-got-nothing-to-lose magnetism that seemed to fifteen-percent hearing loss in my left ear. Went to
pulsate from Terrance’s hovel. an ear doctor about once a year for a few years.
Just as he reached the bottom step of the stoop Couldn’t find anything.
of Terrance’s house, he heard a quick series of In the meantime I would have this odd occa-
pops—the familiar ring of gunshots. Instinctively sional sensation, as if things were expanding and
he crouched down next to a burned-out light post contracting around me—like being in the middle
and squinted down the street, looking for a shooter of an accordion, pleasurable and maybe a bit dan-
or victim. But it was just a group of kids on the cor- gerous. I remember one fast Sunday I had been lying
ner of Fourteenth Street lighting off a string of fire- on the living-room floor and got up. Next I knew I
crackers. As Candle started to rise from his crouch, was lying in the stone entryway, my head under the
the cabs on Fourteenth Street started blaring their stairwell’s lower railing. My parents thought I had
horns. It was midnight, a new year. fainted from fasting, but I’ve always thought this
Candle paused and watched. Collectively bent accordion thing was involved.
over in a tight circle, the group of kids began to Read Huckleberry Finn while the doctor was
whoop and holler. They quickly scattered for cover stitching my head up—we were reading it in Miss
and then bravely and slowly inched closer and Nelson’s A.P. English class, and I had pages to read.
closer to the corner until they formed a wide circle About a year later I had just started at BYU and was
just as a Roman candle began spewing out its col- moving books from the old section of the library
orful fireballs. Jerome tilted his head back and
into the new section.
silently watched. Finally he had seen one.
The accordion thing was getting more frequent,
As the Roman candle purged itself of its last
and even bothersome, as I was putting together
smoky hiccup, Jerome cracked a slight smile, wiped
ranges for the books. They were a little taller than
his numb index finger under his chapped nose,
glanced at the crumbling façade of Terrance’s I was, and I had to reach up and hold a screw in
gloomy house, and, leaving the cold, dark night place, then drill it in with an electric screwdriver.
behind, walked down Clifton Street toward the last But every time I looked up—in-out, in-out, whump
glowing fireball. whump whump. Got so bad I could only assemble
the ranges by touch, holding my head down.
David Clark attended law school in Washington, “How long have you been dizzy?” the nurse at
D.C., and later practiced law in New York City. He the McDonald (yes, there is an eieio.com) Health
served three tours of duty as a volunteer seminary Center asked me. Dizzy? That was the name for the
teacher in inner-city Washington, Manhattan, and accordion thing? Dizzy is rolling down Laurie
San Diego. He currently practices law and resides Lloyd or Jean Newey’s lawn (same hill, opposite
in San Diego with his wife and four children. His sides of the street), then standing up and every-
first short story, “Rock, Squeak, Wheeze,” won the thing spins around.
Moonstone award in Sunstone’s 2001 Brookie & So the accordion thing had a common name,
D. K. Brown Fiction Contest. dizziness, but an uncommon source. Dr. Lynn

Gaufin (go-fayne), a neurosurgeon just moved to by ideas about art subverting culture. I have tried to
Provo from L.A., said I had a benign but growing re-image the relationship between art and culture,
suboccipital neuroma on my eighth cranial nerve, so it pleased me when Patricia Gunter Karamesines
a group of nerves that conduct hearing, balance, sent me comments about her poems (her essay fol-
and I forget what else (memory?). He told me this lows this editorial).
occurs in about one in 64,000 of the population,
but ten years later a doctor in Seattle said, “I don’t
know where he got that figure. Autopsies, maybe. Inspiration and poetic tools
This is rare enough that it probably put your hos-
pital on the surgical map.” coexist—the more tools
In the time before and since, I’ve written mil-
lions of words trying to find common names for
a poet has, the better
uncommon perceptions and experiences, particu- prepared he or she is to
larly aesthetic experiences. I remember standing at
the kitchen sink one evening when I was in high shape inspiration into poem.
school, and I started crying and ran down into the
garden. My father followed me, asked what was
wrong. I was troubled at the despair I saw in so I had asked for some comments on her craft,
much art and literature, the existentialists particu- partly to reshape a perception of poetry that was
larly. He told me that a great deal of literature, probably already ancient when Socrates says in
particularly modern and contemporary, is a por- Plato’s Ion, “For the poet is an airy thing, a winged
trait of hell. A few months later I skipped some and holy thing; and he cannot make poetry until he
classes at Provo High and walked up the hill to becomes inspired and goes out of his senses and no
BYU to hear him talk about literature as a journey mind is left in him” (W. H. D. Rouse’s translation).
through hell, purgatory, and heaven (see Marden J. Socrates explains that this makes the poet unreli-
Clark, “Science, Religion, and the Humanities: able as a member of society because he cannot pro-
The Profounder Challenge,” in Liberating Form, duce on demand, has no art to practice, can produce
Aspen Books, 1992). only when moved on by the muse, and can pro-
That essay introduced me to Lionel Trilling’s duce only what the muse dictates. It’s possible Plato
account of teaching the first modern literature was being ironic. I remember David Yarn telling us
course at Columbia, “On the Teaching of Modern History of Philosophy Part I students that some
Literature” (in Beyond Culture), with its image of writers feel the poet who earned vilification for
modern literature as a howitzer and its concerns banning poets from The Republic was warning us
about loosing the power of such a literature upon about the kind of society we would have if all
students. For ten or fifteen years now my writing things are subordinated to one thing, even if that
has been exploring the consequences of that image, one thing is justice.
and one consequence is that we may interpret as So if The Republic might be a warning against
attack something which is only a cry of pain— itself, perhaps the image of the poet as divinely
maybe even birthing pains. (“None of the words inspired is more important in the Ion than Socrates’
your wife says in the delivery room would stand up warnings that the poet is unfit to produce anything
in court,” the doctor told us.) independently. Still, Socrates’ warnings capture a
As one who patterns words to please, delight deep cultural ambivalence. If poetry is inspired,
others, reads words designed to please or irritate, exult maybe we ordinary uninspired people can’t read it,
or grieve, as a member of many communities— aren’t good enough to understand it.
including literary communities—it saddens me to I was interested, then, in Karamesines’s com-
think of writers separated from their communities ments about her change from poetry mystic to logi-

cian, and though I have a contrasting view about use, and I didn’t see any reason to use a lot. Big,
“art for art’s sake” (substitute the word testimony for thick bandage back of my head made it difficult to
art and see what it does to the phrase, and perhaps sleep. I dreamed I was an unembodied spirit who
to the way you think), I share her concerns about got to live forever, but I could only sleep in other
writing for an audience, and I’m glad she’s willing peoples’ dreams—and they kept waking up. I also
to say something about the tools she uses to help us dreamed I was traveling naked around Europe with
understand the world and pictures she offers us. Bucky Swindle (who lived next door for years till
“Do you want to ruin your Christmas by antici- they moved up to the top of the hill and Kimballs
pation or by being in the hospital?” Dr. Gaufin said moved in—later Bucky started a couple of art gal-
at Thanksgiving of 1976. Anticipation, of course, leries and married Liz Lemon), dancing and cavort-
but we couldn’t stretch the anticipation much, and ing among outdoor statues. Bucky kept telling me
he scheduled the operating room for December 29. to put my clothes on.
He couldn’t save my left-eared hearing but did Ten days was a short stay for brain surgery, but I
want to save the nerve that controls facial muscles was so anxious to get out I wouldn’t let my father
and not have to graft one in from my tongue. He leave to take my sister to school the morning he
said it was like cutting one layer of Saran Wrap into came to spring me—I didn’t want to be there an
two. Took him an extra four and a half hours, and extra half hour. So I was home a few days later to
watch Gary Gilmore’s lawyer on TV describing the
he still couldn’t get the whole tumor because the
little red stains on Gilmore’s shirt and how they
end was too close to the brain stem. (Years later,
spread. (I found out later, reading Mikal Gilmore’s
when Leslie Norris introduced me to Danny Abse’s
Shot in the Heart, that it wasn’t his lawyer, it was the
poetry, I came across a horrifying poem, “In the fellow who negotiated literary rights to the story
Theatre,” about his father’s experience sticking a with Morman Nailer.)
metal probe in someone’s brain, mucking about to I was working on Grandpa’s dry farm when my
find a tumor.) birthday came around in June, and I opened the mail
Of course, no one thought to tell my parents one day to find a present from my brother Dennis:
what was taking half again the time Dr. Gaufin had
scheduled, and my mother was frantic. (“From Pacific Song for His Left Ear
to Atlantic, gee the pace of things is frantic.”)
I think it was December 31 that my mother For Harlow Soderborg Clark,
came into the intensive care unit—might have surgically deaf
been the night before, terrific headache, and some-
where in there the IV came out of my hand and it By sheer nerve you’ve gone Van Gogh one better:
took the nurse nine tries to get it back in—to wish cut your ear off from your brain, but
me happy New Year’s and read me a J. D. Salinger left it blooming in your hair.
story. I was surprised she would read Salinger, given You’d auditioned city living nineteen years—
how shocked she was at the language in Jack till thickened by the screech, slam, purr and snarl
Nicholson’s film One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest or of traffic
Kurt Vonnegut’s play Happy Birthday Wanda June. one nerve sent early warning,
(It was playing across the street from the Salt Palace spun the city past your eyes,
when we went up to June conference one year. milking your fear of falling and scalding the fall
I had read it and not noticed the language, and I with fear.
The diagnosis came round with Thanksgiving.
apologized profusely and repeatedly but wouldn’t
leave the play.)
Now there’s twice the life to hear with one ear shot.
I was in the horse spittle nine or ten days. There
Your surgeon only cut the old line out
was some kind of heavy-duty painkiller, Darvon I
in his New Year’s resolution of your lost tangle
think, but my father advised me to be sparing in its
with balance;

his Christmas mining of the flesh against your Or consider, “twice the life to hear with one ear
skull shot.” I read shot as useless until my father pointed
gave you full control of what you choose to out how it also plays on the phrase “out of earshot.”
hear . . . And then there’s the title. For years I understood
As well as what you hear because it’s there. the word song to mean elegy, till it occurred to me
one day that as well as being an elegy for my use-
You can listen for the fog that muffles headlights, less left ear, the poem is a song meant to be heard
hear the current surge on filament and singe, by the ear that was left untouched, the right ear.
throwing the world’s shadow on the fabric of your That attention to the nuances and sounds of words
mind; and the way they play with each other can seem
you can hear Beethoven as he heard himself— miraculous—not only in the sense of being won-
with the advantage of one ear for what musicians drous, but of being unapproachable, something that
hear. comes from the gods, not something an ordinary
In the basement cool of your room at night person could do. But it is something an ordinary per-
you’ll rehearse the creak and shuffle of the stages son could do, and do without being airy and winged,
of your life do with mind senses and inspiration fully engaged.
till you hear the tears that start at the recall My father told us once in a creative writing class
and the flushing of the blood at the remembering
how Dennis produces his miraculous effects. He
of the feats, humiliations, joys, defeats, applause . . .
starts with an image or phrase or set of words or an
when familiar with the motions and emotions of idea, then decides what words are most important
a life and goes to a dictionary. He reads the history of the
you have ears for the inaudible word, and all the meanings, finds the synonyms,
whispering you to act. antonyms, homonyms, homophones, and tries to
work into the poem as much of all this as he can for
—Dennis Marden Clark all the major words.
I have found much inspiration there, though
(From Tinder Dry Poems. Dennis Marden Clark. more successfully in prose than poetry. Note that
Orem, Utah: United Order Books, 1988, 25.) inspiration and poetic tools coexist—the more tools
a poet has, the better prepared he or she is to shape
I’m astonished at the skill Dennis shows in poem inspiration into poem. My poetry tools include
after poem. Consider these two lines: time and my one-eared perceptions that pull sounds
gave you full control of what you choose to of words in and out, in and out, whump whump
hear . . . whump—sometimes for years. My Primary teacher
As well as what you hear because it’s there. said something I always wanted to write about, and
Note the internal rhyme in full control, the asso- I finally wrote a short poem and sent it out with the
nance in you choose, and the contrast between hear 1992 Christmas letter:
and there. And it’s a double contrast, given in line
and also as a rhyme. Even though the poem is Baby Jesus
unrhymed, the two lines function as a rhymed cou- My Primary teacher told me you were never naughty
plet. But the rhyme is distorted as balance and Never fussed, or flushed the toilet when Joseph
sound might be distorted in a person with only one told you, “No”
ear to handle both. As if the brain sent a message to Never cranked around the house & through the
the ear, “Find two words that sound alike,” and the night, cutting teeth
ear heard, “Find one sound with two different Never soiled your parents as they were changing
words and put it together with a word that will
your diaper
draw on both.”
(Which never needed changing anyway)
Never sent your food falling to the floor like never usurped sleep to burp and peep,
manna never failed to sleep for fresh diaper, burped belly,
Never robbed your parents of so much sleep soothing sounds
They would wish you an angelic babe of ages past never woke when parent laid you down.
Who took all grief and gave none. Never.
I suppose her new baby has new babies now,
But I didn’t like the poem; maybe it needed a and knows how even grand
diaper change and so was cranking around my head babies use diaphragms for tireless sound,
and through my fingers. I tried to alleviate the sar- empty mouths of sour milk on flowered silk (or
casm with a note, “All those with babes in arms any handy thing),
wish for that perfect child, but settle for their own knows you shat on Joseph
precious, not-so-perfect one.” But I still didn’t like as Matthew once brimmed his diaper in the
it. Maybe it was that one ear that hears all truth but grocery—
hears it slant, hears poem as pome (Pomes Pen- poop dripping from the shopping cart before I
nyeach, James Joyce called his book), was hearing it reached the car
slant even when there were two ears to hear, but where he squirted more once diaperless,
not want to believe, my Primary teacher’s comment
about Jesus being a perfect baby. six years since I’d been caught unawares by any
For years and years, decades really, I thought my undiapering,
Primary teacher was serious, really believed perfect six years since his brothers’ mother took them,
Baby Jesus never fussed or cried. I treated her leaving me to wonder,
remark as a sign of our cultural ambivalence towards for all the grief you gave Mary,
children, who we both revere and abort, want to how her legs had strength to hold her ears
be -like but not -ish, and keep millions in poverty high enough to hear your labored words,
with our continual cuts to social programs. “Behold thy Son.”
And I treated her remark that way in the poem,
but somewhere in the last twenty-five years it occurred So with all this thought about revising, re-seeing,
to me that my Primary teacher was probably just poems into pomes, I was pleased to run into Patty
exhausted with a new baby. I decided to revise the Gunter, now Karamesines, at the Mormon writers
poem with that in mind, and started getting all conference, so many years after the philosophy classes
manner of good phrases for it—I found the pome we had taken from Jim Faulconer. I told her my
I hadn’t known how to look for in 1992. (Donna desire to include occasional essays by poets talking
thought our son would be embarrassed, but Matthew about their craft, to show that pomes come from
loved the part about pooping all over me.) human beings working tools and words, as cabinets
come from humans working tools and wood. I was
Baby Jesus pleased to find her essay in my e-mail one morning,
and if it gives a sense of how a poet runs words
My Primary teacher told me you were a never- down a page or inspires others to mark white space
naughty baby, perfect. with patter and pattern, may her efforts be blessed,
I thought she meant you and the efforts of all who seek to share good words.
never fussed, or flushed the toilet when Joseph
told you “No”
never cranked around the house & through the
night, teeth cutting gums
never sent your food falling to the floor like
manna.
Perhaps she meant you
E S S A Y are. But there are always such discrepancies. Thus,

if you assert that something is ironic, that assertion
Poet in Search of a Longer Narrative is itself ironic, and that irony, too, must by nature
Form be ironic, ad infinitum. As a very young poet, I
thought I could mostly get around this by taking
By Patricia Gunter Karamesines the most superior stance possible in my writing.
You can see it in the oldest of the two poems pre-
For a little over two decades, writing has been sented here—“The Foolish Pilgrims.” In theory,
my primary medium for exploring experience. I irony may fail altogether to be very meaningful, but
started out in poetry, though another poet’s judg- in practice it frequently asserts perceived boundaries.
ment upon my verse haunted me for years. During At that point in my writing career, I wrote with
a Rocky Mountain writers convention at BYU, vis- little regard for what might happen to anyone else
iting poet Keith Wilson told me gravely, “You are who came across my poetry. I was playing in front
searching for a longer narrative form.” If he had of the mirror; everything was me or cast-off me. If
waved his hands over a crystal ball as he made his I didn’t want to make sense or take responsibility
pronouncement, I couldn’t have been more doubt- for what I said, or if I wanted to bury personal
ful. Was he suggesting I was a prose writer in a meanings so deeply in tropes and strange diction
poet’s body? Nonsense! I knew I was a poet. That that they were irretrievable, there were traditions in
was me right there, right in my verse. A decade poetry to allow for that.
passed, then another. I forgot all about the portent. Gradually I came to take my audience more seri-
After the surprise birth of my first attempt at a ously. To my thinking, I developed a sense of com-
novel (I didn’t even know I was pregnant), his munity and for my audience’s sake crafted my work
words echoed in my mind. How did he know? But more carefully for both music and meaning, with
as I look back over my work, even in the poetry I the play tending more toward boundary crossing
can see it—the search for a longer narrative form— rather than boundary asserting. I began to investigate
perhaps even for the longer narrative form. the language of promise in its boundary-crossing
When I was discovering my toes, etc., in poetry, nature and not regard irony with such reverence.
I played around the edges of meanings, both of Consider the phrase, “Blessed are the pure in heart,
words and experience, finding what I thought were for they shall see God.” The same man says this
boundaries, sometimes letting a poem ride sound that says, “If ye have seen me, ye have seen the
alone. Thanks to Clinton Larson, I got a good ele- father [God].” He, then, is God in important senses.
mentary education in the theory and use of forms— He says this while standing before a group of “fol-
wonderful toys! Back then, I was inclined to indulge lowers,” who still seem to be in a fog about who he
in the mystical nature of it all—what I think of is, so there’s an apparent discrepancy: God says
now as the “mirroring” nature of writing. Writing’s “blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see
mirroring aspect resides in one’s fascination with God” to a group of followers who do not see that
one’s reflection on every shiny surface in the world. he is God, or at least some of them don’t. There-
Almost everyone has witnessed a child’s first run- fore, they are not pure in heart, and he is telling
ins with boundaries and the hard edges on things. them so to their faces. But because they are not
Inevitably, in my world irony came to reign supreme. pure in heart and don’t see that he is God, they
Someone—Schlegel?—asserted that irony is itself don’t know what he is saying about them. How
ironic. If you say that something is ironic or take loudly we could cry “Irony!” here.
an ironic stance toward a subject, you set off an But it is probably not so, or at any rate, describing
endless sequence. This is because (allow me to over- the passage as ironic may do no better than plunge
simplify) irony points up the discrepancies between one into the hall of mirrors irony invokes. Or, as in
how you believe things to be and how they actually most projection, calling the statement ironic tilts the

glass at the wrong angle. Perhaps I’ve been clever in logical forms brought me to another point of con-
pointing out the possible irony, but I have not been veyance, because ultimately all logic really does
intelligent, really. Probably the statement is some- is bring you to the edges of what in your beliefs is
thing more than irony, something more than clever- defensible. Some Mormons find this frightening,
ness. I believe it engages in the language of promise, but I don’t know why we should, what with doc-
especially in promise in its original sense, “to send trines about repentance, eternal progression, and
forth.” The silver-backed glass of irony gives way to becoming gods. Why shouldn’t we have greater
the clear pane of promise that opens in a pathway faith in what we don’t know than in what we know?
to “get across.” To what? Well, in the case of that Inevitably, all writing both mirrors and windows,
quote from the Sermon on the Mount, you get but I think bringing out a work’s windowing requires
through your own reflection, gradually, to the face more vocation (calling) and craft than the name-
of God, but I think that “promise” applies to all lan- calling and craftiness often implicit in mirroring.
guage that carries in it the sense that there is some- Poetry’s brevity, intensity, and freedom for play
thing else or something other—even something demand responsibility, skill, and a historic sense of
more—out there, and that you can get across to it. one’s craft, though I have seen this, too, disputed.
This boundary crossing occurs in many degrees, When I attended the University of Arizona four-
from the total meltdown of one’s world view to teen years ago, I chose to enter the literature pro-
little surprises that may occur in the course of a gram rather than the creative writing program. In
day. The poem “It Doesn’t Take a Rocket Scientist” an interview about where I might get guidance for
portrays one of the simpler moments of getting my poetry, the advisor to the creative writing pro-
across or being launched across by surprise. A spark gram told me that if I was a literature student, I
of innocent and unexpected poetry—from my couldn’t possibly be serious about writing poetry.
young son, still in the early phases of acquiring the The idea seemed to be that poets could not allow
word—ignited the fuel that always saturates my so- themselves to be encumbered by the drudgery of
called poetic sensibilities, or, in the case of that study and critical analysis. They had to be free to
poem, my poetic insensibilities. The effect on me explore their creative potential, and apparently that
was one of shock, then conveyance. couldn’t be done through the exploration of com-
I underwent another transformation in my writing petent texts.
when I began teaching informal logic in the BYU While I was surprised that admitting I was in the
philosophy department. Logic was a new form, even literature program caused the creative writing advi-
more rigorous than the sonnet! It seemed needful, sor to dismiss me, I didn’t really mind. It sounded
yet while I learned to apply the standards of induc- as though those poets, and their program, were into
tive and deductive logic, if-thens, if-and-only-ifs, and heavy-duty mirroring. I entered the university’s big
and-ors to my thinking and writing, I ran into con- poetry competition anyway. The woman collecting
flict. It seemed that many of my creative guides and entries for the competition expressed surprise and
peers thought logic and creativity mutually exclu- delight that I had followed all the instructions on
sive. My then–thesis chair Clinton Larson stormed the entry form, saying that many entrants didn’t
over to the philosophy professor I teacher-assisted and were thus disqualified. Perhaps because many
for, saying, “What have you done to her? You’ve superior poets had been disqualified, I placed sec-
ruined her!” Others wondered aloud if working ond in this prestigious competition with a single
with logic didn’t offend the muse, causing it to flee. poem, “Dead Horse Point” (not included here).
I didn’t know what all the fuss was about. It seemed But I cannot give all the credit for flawlessly filling
to me that a metaphor was just a super-concentrated out the contest’s entry forms to my literature stud-
deductive argument with implicit assumptions. Also, ies. I received the bulk of my excellent training in
teaching informal logic sharpened my sense of audi- filling out forms at the BYU administration offices.
ence. But even more importantly, learning to apply For me, whether it’s exploring tropes or forms,
shedding forms, revising, or deciding I’ve done all I
can on a poem before trying to put it out there for So the moon swells in your canyons.
an audience, it all boils down to this: I know I’m So it moves rocks in milky cataracts.
wrong—the point is to become less wrong. This is Each morning, the god of your faces comes
not as negative a statement as it may seem. In my And rolls you under his puissant flame.
poetry, I’ve played with it all along, expanded and He is an unapproachable priest-fire
revised it, whether I knew it or not. It was the wind That nothing consciously obeys.
that billowed out my creative sails in the beginning,
and after I lay becalmed for years in the Tropic of Poor pilgrims: they are woody and sweet,
Motherhood, it was the wild west wind that rose Sunflowers turned by a gesture of light.
suddenly to bestir me. The fact that I’ve lately They browse like deer on your burning bushes
begun to break into prose is perhaps significant to Common as stars and just as thoughtless,
Keith Wilson’s point but does not deny poetry. It’s Comatose beauty, ungentle Astarte, wholly indif-
all part of the Great Search, and perhaps it’s this ferent love.
search that Wilson picked up on—not, I think,
peculiar to my writing—a search not only for a — Patricia Gunter Karamesines
longer narrative form, but a search that is itself
a longer narrative form. It Doesn’t Take a Rocket Scientist
(for Saul)
P O E T R Y
My son, seven, says, in passing,
The Foolish Pilgrims “To travel at the speed of light
You must become light.”
Desert, what are these fleshes, From the apparent blue, this bolt
Pilgrims with mane-strong hair, Blasts me from terrain
Cured in the sun and wind-seasoned? Of rolling, languid thought,
With hawk hearts and the walk of flight, I am provoked to wing by precipice,
They search the she-stone to witness you. And, after thrills of floundering
Beat together wings of suspense
You do not care if they see you or not. And impetus, igniting flight.
Awake or asleep, it is for them the same dream. Above and below,
Moving, changing pilgrims, half wild with you, Dizzying waters, dinning wind;
But not as a coyote’s wincing shade Everywhere, native bright boundlessness.
Gliding through urchin yucca slick with moon.
He is only seven, and it is my duty.
Sand satyrs living in thin sprays
Breathless, I ask:
Of star-sized flowers, supple loneliness,
“Where did you hear such a thing?”
They follow perfumes neither woven nor worn
for them. He tosses “I just know”
Not wholly inhuman, nor sight-thoughtful as Over a shoulder,
pronghorn, Stoops and is gone,
They savor your doves with their eyes Uncaring the grace he has done me.
And search your puddled streambeds with desire. For him, it is simple
Not druids, though they worship you, Collection from some garish bush, but for me—
Turning out flesh to the wind-pulled air gold, They say accidents of real consequence
Seeking access through a thousand ochre and Happen among comforts of home.
alabaster chambers — Patricia Gunter Karamesines
To your face, Desert, that could kill a man.

R E V I E W S However, to the average reader, such images might

still seem a little creepy because the descriptions
Passion and Paradox and language are quite sexual. No doubt, Williams
believes in preserving land for wilderness, in step-
A review of Terry Tempest Williams’s Red: Passion ping back from fast-paced lives to “value open
and Patience in the Desert (Pantheon, 2001) spaces over the value of economic sprawl,” and
Reviewed by Brooke Williams learning “something from this redrock country as
we stand on its edge.” All of these are reasonable—
With the publication of Red, Terry Tempest even universal—concerns (though one wonders
Williams has succeeded again in creating a well- how someone with severe allergies might evaluate
crafted, poetic book filled with beautiful language her work). Williams is confident that she has per-
and sophisticated writing. Though pieced together sonally done something about each of these issues.
with excerpts from previous books, Red still main- But when it comes to stopping development in
tains an artistic unity similar to her previous works these wilderness areas (not all of us should move
marked by an interesting balance between poetic out of the city) or claiming that there is too much
language and stark facts/lists. Most chapters resem- “foot traffic” on trails in national parks (not all of
ble prose poems, leaving much up to the reader to us should go hiking), one might begin to wonder
put pieces together, a patchwork style reminiscent what exactly she would have us do.
of N. Scott Momaday’s The Way to Rainy Moun- Furthermore, after mentioning the “simple
tain. In the chapter “Red” of the book’s second sec- truth” that “there are too many of us,” Williams
tion with the same title, after listing colors of birds, elaborates on her decision to “sacrifice” mother-
Williams writes: hood to keep from adding “another bulge in the
Where I live, the open space of desire is red. population.” Such a sacrifice seems noble, some-
The desert before me is red is rose is pink is thing done for the greater good, and yet as a new
scarlet is magenta is salmon. The colors are mother myself I blanch at the cold morality of it.
swimming in light as it changes constantly, Again, we find a somewhat selective doctrine at
with cloud cover with rain with wind with work. Not everyone should decide not to have chil-
light, delectable light, delicious light . . . This dren, of course, and it is clear that Williams’s deci-
landscape can be read. A flight of birds. A sion is intended to make a statement rather than a
flight of words. direct impact on the overall population. Williams
As is clear in these exquisite images, Williams’s pas- asks, “Do children need to be our own to be loved
sion for the cause of preserving and conserving the as our own?” One might suggest to Williams that a
wild earth is clear and contagious. One cannot help more appropriate “sacrifice” might involve not only
but feel the emotional power of her prose, all of it forfeiting one’s right to add to the existent popula-
intended to rouse her readers to a kind of environ- tion, but also taking it on oneself to love as her own
mentally righteous passion—though that passion a child already here and raise him or her to love
seems rather ambiguously directed at times. wilderness and take care of the earth. In other
In fact, as powerful and articulate as Williams’s words, adopt—not settle for the cursory commit-
prose is, her occasional self-contradictions leave ment of loving someone else’s child (like a niece)
one wondering just how to channel this energy, without the joys and pains of parenting. Anything
what exactly to do with this intense (finally orgas- less seems like only half a sacrifice.
mic) concern for the environment. There are some But as human beings we all have our own per-
rather erotic passages (from Desert Quartet) in Red sonal inconsistencies, so we can hardly blame
where a woman consummates her love with the Williams for the specific paradoxes of her philoso-
elements. Williams refers back to the old defini- phies. Williams can easily get away with it in her
tions of erotic—not porn but real love and passion. writing, particularly because of her style, poetic and

patchwork, political, but more personal than any- reason alone, this book warrants notice from LDS
thing else. It’s like a gathering of thoughts and jour- writers, to see the gradual moral, intellectual, and
nal entries, put together in a skillful, organized way sexual development of her young character against
to say more than just “Hey everyone, get your pri- the backdrop of a small town in Utah in the 1930s.
orities straight and help save the wilderness.” It’s The künstlerroman has certain characteristics,
more intimate and brimful of feelings. Another rea- many of which we see in LaVon Carroll’s novel.
son I think she gets away with paradox is because The protagonist, Ellen Kent, is a young girl at the
of a certain letter to a friend she inserted describing outset of the novel. Like many subjects of this type
why she writes. This is, I believe, a disclaimer for of novel, she loses a parent early, in this case her
any discrepancies in her writing. In and of itself, it father. His loss affects Ellen directly as well as indi-
is full of Derridian contradictions: “I write because rectly, in its effect on her mother, Irene Kent, who
I believe in words. I write because I do not believe as a product of her culture and time in her beliefs,
in words,” and “I trust nothing, especially myself.” is “used to leaving things to [her husband] and to
She is completely open and honest with herself as a the authorities of the church” (14).
writer, as a human. This could be another argument Ellen shows an early preference for reading,
for the book’s more successful moments. Her open- much to her mother’s dismay, who fears that she
ness and honesty are rare because they are so personal. will ruin her eyes and thus never find a man to take
care of her. Ellen also shows an early ability with
Brooke Williams, not the one married to Terry Tem- language and writes several poems that she is inor-
pest Williams but to John Williams, who is neither the dinately proud of.
famous composer nor the classical guitarist, lives in In time she finds a mentor, as the protagonist of
Irvine, California. She received her bachelor’s in Eng- the bildungsroman must do. The mentor is Everett
lish literary studies from Utah State University and is Gordon, a friend of her father’s, a man who was
a full-time mother to her one-year-old son. “prone all his life to futile and empty gestures” (57).
A thwarted musician but a successful alcoholic, he
Portrait of the Artist as a Young Girl: introduces Ellen to a variety of literature and shows
Coming of Age in Utah’s Earlier Days her an old-world courtesy that is foreign but wel-
come to her.
A review of LaVon B. Carroll’s Love, Sin, & Survival: Her other mentor is her grandmother—her
Three Women in 1930s Utah (Agreka Books, 1999) father’s mother, Addie Kent—a good woman who
Reviewed by Valerie Holladay believes the best of people. Ellen moves in with her
grandmother when Irene’s dalliance with a married
Author and former English professor LaVon man causes her to lose her job, precipitating a move
Carroll has set and followed an interesting pattern to Salt Lake City to find work in one of the large
in the writing of this book, one that would be a department stores.
useful pattern for all writers to emulate at some In addition to Ellen’s social and intellectual devel-
point in their lives. In fact, many writers have—for opment, Ellen also becomes more sexually aware,
example, James Joyce in Portrait of an Artist as a through disturbing encounters with her amoral
Young Man, Somerset Maugham in Of Human friend, Simone Hamilton, and her rough cousin,
Bondage, Sylvia Plath in The Bell Jar, to name only Hal Walker, who attempts to molest her. Later, Ellen
a very few. The fictionalized autobiographical novel will find friendship with a young crippled rancher,
even has a name, bildungsroman, a novel showing Ferrin Hallsworth, but will reject his offer of mar-
moral, psychological, and intellectual development. riage in order to choose a broader life for herself.
A very specific kind of bildungsroman is called the Love, Sin, & Survival: Three Women in 1930s
künstlerroman, roman meaning novel, bildungs mean- Utah is worth being aware of, primarily because
ing development, künstler meaning artist. For this the novel of development offers such a promising

canvas to LDS writers. (Two books in particular, she is going with Travis, a once-in-a-lifetime oppor-
Ender’s Game and The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint, tunity. Celinda decides that she will stop at noth-
both show how successful this type of novel can be ing to convince her parents that she should be
with LDS readers.) The author’s portrayal of early allowed to go. Her friend Mandy tells her that she
Utah and its people are also worth considering, as should just give up. Mandy isn’t desperate to go
is her language and character development. Readers (her parents have the same 16 rule) because she
who are familiar with the author’s work know that doesn’t have a date anyway. She wants to go with an
she is not afraid to take risks with her writing, already-taken guy named Shawn O’Neill.
which is refreshing. It is unfortunate that the cover Celinda tries everything to get her parents to let
is not particularly attractive and the book either her go, but it’s useless. Then on Friday, a week from
lacked competent editing and proofreading or final the prom, a weird boy in one of her classes keeps
corrections were somehow neglected. But the writ- staring at her. He finally says something to her and
ing itself has some lovely moments, and the char- gives her a book. Celinda thinks the kid is weird
acterization is some of the best I’ve seen in and doesn’t look in it until the next day:
Mormon writing.
It wasn’t until the next day, Saturday, when
Valerie Holladay received her bachelor and master she dumped out her pack on her bed looking
degrees in English from Brigham Young University for her hairbrush that she rediscovered it.
and works as an editor at Ancestry.com. She lives in “The Power of Positive Wishing,” she read,
Pleasant Grove with the most spoiled cats on the face turning the book over and over. “Well, there’s
of the planet. nothing else to do.”
She threw herself on the bed and opened
I Liked the Book, But Not the Parents the cover of the funny-looking book. After the
A review of B. J. Rowley’s 16 in No Time (Golden title page and index, she came to an introduc-
Wings, 2001) tion page and read:
Review by Natalie Martindale “You have the power within you to have
any wish granted. It’s all a matter of knowing
Overall I really liked the book. Especially since how—and when.
I’m almost sixteen myself. I feel like I can relate
more to the characters. I liked how the prom was a “Like baking a cake. If you carefully follow
major crisis in the story. Only a silly dance in high the recipe, using just the right amounts of
school would seem so important to two teenagers. each ingredient, the appropriate pan, the
Most adults probably think that it’s a lot of trouble proper oven setting, and the right amount of
for nothing. baking time, then the results can be tantaliz-
The story begins with Celinda getting asked to ing and tasty. Leave out the baking powder or
the prom by the most popular guy in school, Travis soda, for example, and it’s as flat as a pancake.
Foxx. It sounds like things are going just great for Bake it too long, it’s burnt toast.
her, right? Well, there is this one tiny detail: “So it is with wishing.”
Celinda’s parents won’t let her date until she’s 16.
The real problem is that Celinda doesn’t turn 16 It turns out the best time for Celinda to make a
until Saturday, the day after the dance. Her parents wish is the next day, Sunday, at 4:00. Celinda reads
refuse to let her go. through the rest of the book and calls Mandy. She
Now let me just say that I am very thankful that gets Mandy to come over on Sunday. They sit in
I don’t have parents like Celinda’s. I mean, one Celinda’s room and at 4:00 start wishing. This is
lousy day isn’t going to make that much of a differ- the beginning of Celinda and Mandy’s extraordi-
ence. Apparently this is how Celinda feels too. Plus nary adventure.

They have found themselves frozen in time and him finds out what a jerk he is and dumps him.
aging four whole days in just four minutes. This One other thing that bothered me was how easily
way they will be old enough to go to the dance. The Celinda believed in the whole wishing thing. She
only problem is, how are they going to get anyone just reads the book once and is totally convinced
to believe them? They are moving at about a thou- that her wishes really could come true. Most teens
sand miles per hour when it seems to them that are skeptical. I know I am. So why was it so easy for
they are just walking. This begins the girls’ dilemma Celinda to believe what the book told her?
with trying to prove that they are really turning Besides those three points, I think the book was
“16 in No Time” and experiencing their super high very enjoyable and interesting. It tells a story with
speed. They also have to deal with disasters that a subject that not many people think about too
they cause as well as prevent, like when the girls often. It is explanatory enough on how the whole
visit Celinda’s home to get something to eat: time thing works so you don’t wonder so much
A bomb inside the fridge, was the first thought about how they did it. It tells about situations that
that came to Celinda’s mind. The kitchen was wouldn’t usually be a big deal to adults or little kids
a disaster in the middle of happening. but very important to teens. I think that’s one of
the reasons why I like this book so much, because
The air was full of frozen-in-place refriger- it’s directed toward teens, like me. I’m sure adults
ator contents. Broken and whole eggs, a milk will like this story too because it lets them get an
carton trailing spilled milk, ketchup and mus- idea of what teens consider problems, and maybe
tard bottles, sour cream and cottage cheese even go back and visit some of their own teen mem-
containers, microwave containers with yester- ories similar to this.
day’s leftovers—some opened, some sealed, a Well, maybe not that similar.
plastic bottle of Sunny-D, apples, oranges,
celery sticks. The list was endless. And all of Natalie Martindale lives in Sandy, Utah, and has
them were hanging frozen in midair—just had a glorious career in public school for ten years. She
like the baseball at the park. loves reading (even to the point of enjoying some of
“But they’re still moving,” Celinda said, the books she was assigned to read in school) and is
thinking aloud. She remembered the baseball interested in writing. She has written several short sto-
a real-time-split-second later in the catcher’s ries for herself and poetry in school, for which she
mitt. “The fridge is exploding.” received high acclaim. She also edits her younger
brother’s writings for him. Natalie has had the
Scariest of all was the fridge door itself, courage to let her father critique one of her stories. She
totally detached from the fridge, turned on its survived the ordeal.
end, several feet off the floor, and flying
through the air about halfway between Adventures in History
Christy and Celinda’s mother. She couldn’t
even see her mom because of the door. A review of Gerald N. Lund’s The Kingdom and
the Crown, Volume Two: Come unto Me (Shadow
The only thing that I didn’t like about the story Mountain, 2001)
was that once in a while the girls would act ditzy. Reviewed by Larry Jackson
They seemed intelligent and brave, but sometimes
they would come out of that character and act like This is the second book in Lund’s series The
a couple of blondes (no real offense meant to blonde Kingdom and the Crown. Set in the Holy Land at
people). Another thing was that the popular guy the time of Christ’s ministry, it continues the story
turned out to be the jerk again. That cliché has been of the fictional Simeon, ardent zealot and of the
done many times before. The popular guy isn’t what household of David ben Joseph, a merchant of Caper-
he seems, and the girl who was going to go out with naum; Miriam, the only daughter of Mordechai

ben Uzziel of Jerusalem; and their family and Sextus waved a hand. When he reached the
friends. It is intertwined with the historical figures bottom of the stairs, he motioned toward one
of Jesus and Mary of Nazareth, five of the original of the doors, but Simeon shook his head.
apostles, and others noted in the histories of the “I can’t stay long.”
time and, in particular, the Bible. Sextus nodded. Simeon couldn’t help but
On the fiction/adventure side, Simeon recklessly see the contrast between the two of them. The
tries to undo the damage of the crisis that ended centurion was close to Simeon’s father’s age,
the first book of the series. He struggles to balance perhaps a few years older—around fifty. He
his youthful and sometimes misguided enthusiasm had probably spent thirty or more years as a
with his desire to accept and apply the more peace- legionnaire. Those years showed on his face
ful teachings of the Savior in his own life. Miriam
and in his body. He was built like an ox—
also struggles with her newfound faith, living in the
solid, steady, deliberate in his motions. His
home of a father who has forbidden her to have
hair, thick and showing streaks of gray, was
anything to do with Jesus. And, if absence makes
short-cropped. The hands were not overly
the heart grow fonder, the relationship between
large but were strong and thickly veined. His
Simeon and Miriam has miraculously developed as
features showed the weathering of a man who
this book in the series concludes.
spent his life out of doors. Like most Romans,
On the historical side, events from the New Tes-
he was clean shaven. Simeon guessed that he
tament include the parables of Jesus on disciple-
had already shaved—or been shaved—that
ship, his (and Peter’s) walking on the water, and
some of the other miracles that occurred on and morning, for there was no hint of stubble on
near the Sea of Galilee. It is the time of the rising his face. (30)
influence of Jesus and his teachings, as concerns This book is a historical novel. The novel parts
begin to build in other circles, and as his influence were easily discerned, and the author reminded me
begins to grow during the middle of his ministry. over and over when the historical parts arrived. But
This is the first book I have read by Lund. I have in receiving those reminders, I was left wondering
not read Fishers of Men, the first in this series, nor just how historical they really were.
have I read any of his other popular works. Perhaps The parts about Jesus were readily recognizable
anticipating the possibility that a reader might from the New Testament. Lund was careful, in
jump into the middle of this series, Lund included most cases, not to overextend the familiar scriptural
a very helpful three-page synopsis of volume one, story as it pertained to the Savior’s words and
along with a two-page list of major characters with actions. But on many occasions, the historical
brief one- or two-line descriptions that I found to embellishments around the scriptural story left me
be very helpful, given that there are 39 of them. wondering where history ended and fiction began.
Lund’s style of writing is different. Often, it Then, to remove any doubt, chapter notes
seemed as if he were trying too hard to craft meaty appeared. “The call to be perfect is found in
and informative sentences. Many times the effort Matthew 5:48. The account of the miracle of the
resulted in simple repetition or a restating of the coin in the mouth of the fish is found in Matthew
obvious. 17:24–27. Obviously the author has supplied some
“Shalom, Simeon ben David,” Sextus details not found in the scriptural account” (100).
Rubrius said in Aramaic. If he was surprised “The scriptural accounts do not specifically talk
to see his visitor, it did not show on his craggy about a large wave that frightened Peter, only that
face. when he ‘saw the wind, boisterous, he was afraid’
“And peace to you, Sextus Rubrius. I apol- (Matthew 14:30). Other small details were fur-
ogize for coming at this hour, but I am leav- nished by the author but are in harmony with the
ing for a time and needed to see you.” Gospel accounts” (116). The author seems to have

given much thought and effort to the chapter And those interested in a little 591-page adven-
notes, but some of them are contradictory and ture novel will find that, also.
many are not convincing.
I felt as if I was in a religion class. The reading at Larry Jackson is a husband of 28 years, father of 11,
first seemed ponderous, the author’s comments and lives with his family in the southwestern part of
well intended but sometimes patronizing. Notes at the United States. In his spare time between family
the end of each chapter served mainly to remind and church callings, he works as a budget and data
me how disjointed I felt as I read. administrator for the engineering department of a
The book never came together for me as a large corporation.
whole. I struggled through nearly half of it before
I forced myself to put aside my concerns and just It Takes a Village to Raise a Purposeful
take the text as it came. The additions to the his- Mother
torical parts were sometimes interesting but not
meaningful to me. The fictional story line was pre- A review of Colleen Down’s It Takes a Mother to
dictable. There were no surprises. Mildly exciting Raise a Village (Lightwave, 2001) and Emily Watts’s
moments in the plot were few and far between. The Being the Mom: Ten Coping Strategies I Learned
characters were, for the most part, simple. by Accident Because I Had Children on Purpose
Oddly, one of the better parts of the book (Bookcraft, 2002)
occurred as the fictional characters discussed some Reviewed by Susan Barnson-Hayward
of the things Jesus taught. The discussions (I remem-
ber two) were thought provoking, brief, and what I Four years ago, the vice-principal of the school
think an institute instructor would want to hear his where I was student-teaching told me that his
students discuss among themselves during moments mother cared for his children while he and his wife
of serious introspection and contemplation. In his worked. He said something like, “My mom’s the
preface, Lund says, “My hope for all readers, only one I trust to raise my children.” Up until that
whether they agree with my portrayal and depic- point I had planned on putting my kids in daycare
tion of the Savior and his disciples or not, is that while I pursued a teaching career, however unlu-
this work will stimulate in them a desire to answer crative that might be. But I had never thought of
for themselves the question that Jesus asked: ‘What daycare in terms of someone else raising my chil-
think ye of Christ? whose son is he?’ (Matthew dren. That did it. Shortly after graduating, I had
22:42).” our second child and filed my teaching certificate
If you enjoyed reading the first book in this in the back of the cabinet where I couldn’t see it.
series, you will probably enjoy this one as well. The That was then. This year my teaching certificate
storyline, both historical and fictional, moves for- expired and I’m growing restless. I find myself
ward. Perhaps some of the troubles I had getting scouring the want ads and planning my escape
into this book would have resolved themselves with more often than I revel in the rewards of mother-
the first, had I read it and thus become more accus- hood. Reading It Takes a Mother to Raise a Village
tomed to Lund’s style of writing. and Being the Mom: Ten Coping Strategies I Learned
I think the book is intended for adults and by Accident Because I Had Children on Purpose
mature teens. Those who have studied little of the reminded me why I’m here and for whom.
historical events at the time of the Savior will think Colleen Down wrote It Takes a Mother to Raise a
they are learning a lot. Those with more of an Village in response to Hillary Clinton’s stab at phi-
understanding of the times will find themselves losophizing about parenthood. According to her
wondering why the author tried so hard to explain publisher, Hillary believes that “how children
things about which historians and scholars have develop and what they need to succeed are inextri-
spent lifetimes disagreeing. cably entwined with the society in which they live

and how well it sustains and supports its families to “protect our children,” Down believes that stay-
and individuals.” In other words, it takes an entire ing home with our children and teaching them cor-
community to raise a child effectively. rect principles speaks louder than words (145).
Down disagrees. She believes that it’s mothers For how much I enjoyed reading and thinking
who need to raise the next generation and it’s the about Down’s take on the politics of full-time
family unit that will ultimately save society. She motherhood, there is room for improvement. I’ll
writes this book “to remind each of us just how start from the beginning with the cover. The front
vitally important we are as mothers . . . [because] and back, paintings by Bertha Morisot, depict
the institution of the family is under attack on mothers and daughters in quiet moments. Inside,
every front” (5). She has appointed herself a it’s a different story. Cartoons start each chapter in
spokesperson for us, the primary caretakers of chil- the tradition of Erma Bombeck: a bedraggled
dren, because, as she puts it, we’re all just “too mother worn out by the foibles and folly of raising
busy” doing everything necessary to raise a family children. It’s distracting to me as a reader who
and run a house to bother with it. Down’s not a bad needs a clear sense of direction, starting with the
advocate to have. She knows her stuff; with a cover. I had a hard time focusing on Down’s ideas.
degree in home economics and seven children, One moment she’s telling me how to raise boys, the
Down backs up her arguments with convincing sci- next she’s telling me that Satan’s behind the Prozac
entific and historical facts as well as personal expe- craze, and then she tells me that the government
riences and numerous analogies. has too much power in my personal life. Though
Down calls herself a freedom fighter, and in her the book is poignant in some places and humorous,
opinion fighting for freedom starts in the home. If intelligent, and inspiring in others, I got bogged
the government can pass laws for everything pub- down in all the side notes. She even admits that her
lic, then the private sphere is the only domain writing meanders, relating that her husband jokes
where we can choose what and how to teach our that she “has a hard time carrying through with one
own ideals to our children: “Our homes are the last thought.” “Well, no joke,” Down says. “Since I
bastion for freedom. If the mothers are in the mar- started the last paragraph I have had to answer the
ketplace and the children are in daycare then the phone twice, shoo a bunch of warriors outside, fix
government also controls the home” (72), she argues. my son a sandwich and run the garbage cans out to
Down believes that we have grown complacent, the curb” (83).
willing to forfeit responsibility for our personal Down imagines that “efficient” writers live by
freedoms to a democratic government that would the sea and meditate. I don’t know too many writ-
gladly take them all away (139). “The job of gov- ers who have that luxury, even the ones who write
ernment was never meant to be our caretaker. Yet stuff that takes “three English lit teachers to inter-
we see the government interested in every aspect of pret” (83). Efficient writers have good editors.
our lives from womb to tomb” (141). According to Reading Down’s book reminded me of a play I saw
Down, because we have allowed the government to written and directed by the same person. The play
fight all of our battles, “much of what we truly hold had an interesting premise, but many hours and
dear is slipping away from us” (137). numerous characters later, I just didn’t care any-
Down fights passionately for freedom because more. I just wanted it to end. It was obvious that
she has had hers taken away. Case in point: the Secu- the playwright couldn’t let go of any part of his
rities and Exchange Commission raided her hus- story, no matter how minor the detail. It’s too bad,
band’s business on what proved to be unfounded because by losing some of his manuscript, he would
charges. “Like any government organization,” Down have gained much more. Therein lies the key to
writes, “they [the SEC] have grown to control improving Down’s manuscript. With some tighten-
many areas of your life” (136). To keep government ing, her arguments would have been more effective
control at bay and to preserve our rights as mothers and her intended audience, distracted mothers

themselves, would be able to remember more of spills and stains, and not getting caught up in the
this book when they’re through. fallacy that things should get easier the older we
In Being the Mom: Ten Coping Strategies I get. She tells us to be grateful, to be discerning, to
Learned by Accident Because I Had Children on Pur- laugh, and to focus on what’s most important: our
pose, Emily Watts approaches motherhood humor- families. She writes, “Years of sorting through life
ously, leaving her personal agendas aside. She doesn’t with never enough time, enough energy, or enough
get political; she gets practical. To be fair, Watts money to do everything that seemed important
writes from hindsight, not from the depths of the have taught me what really is important to me” (4).
battle. And it shows. Down often reminds her read- Of course we understand that Watts’s family
ers that if she doesn’t finish her book soon, a takes priority over everything else. What I found
mound of smelly, dirty socks will spontaneously particularly refreshing about this book is that Watts
ignite. Thus, she must write everything on her describes a time in her life when her husband gave
mind quickly. She shares some of the same ideas as her one night a week away from the kids. She
Watts, but they become lost in the laundry. Watts acknowledges that the key to handling all the small
has been able to concentrate—no noses to wipe in duties of motherhood is to take time out from the
between sentences. And she’s an editor herself, so role, getting to know “who you are and then bring-
she knew what to leave in, what to toss. Thus, her ing that person, well and whole, to the mothering
writing is cleaner, her ideas articulated in ten handy party” (82). I once read that creating capable, com-
chapters, making Being the Mom an easy, memo- passionate human beings takes time, and in my
rable, and worthwhile read. case more of my time than my husband’s. Part of
I could argue that Watts’s book is safer than creating other people is creating (or re-creating)
Down’s because Deseret Book doesn’t publish books ourselves. That also takes time. Watts’s husband
that would make people argue during Sunday School. provided that without needing to be asked. Down
(Even though Down says she doesn’t want to take suggests that by our example, not our whining,
sides on whether or not mothers should stay home husbands will also put the family first.
with their children, one can hardly suppress an I don’t believe that a woman should be the only
opinion on it after being frightened into the notion one to stay home, nor do I believe that it’s a simple
that the government will raise our children if we proposition to stay home with little kids and put
don’t.) Everyone knows that Deseret Book sticks to our careers on hold for years on end. Almost all the
the spiritual stuff. Aside from a scathing account of mothers I know are on some kind of prescription
drinking Cherry Coke at a ward campout, Watts drug. This makes me think that saving that tradi-
doesn’t venture into the political arena. She’s writ- tional family should start with nurturing our
ing to an audience of women who don’t need to be mothers. Our sanity should be a group effort
convinced to stay home; they’ve already made the involving our husbands, our community—which
decision. Her purpose is to share coping skills and to to this LDS woman means the ward community—
remind us of the joy of mothering, not to rile us up. and ourselves. If mothers are so important to the
Watts’s book, though less controversial, does gospel, and if we as mothers believe that, why don’t
offer some helpful ideas. After growing ambivalent we make a group effort to eliminate or reduce
about being at home, Watts gave me some perspec- meetings and extraneous LDS cultural obligations
tive: “When you choose mothering, you’ve chosen to make more time for our families and ourselves?
a form for your life. You have instantly imposed I don’t believe that we can hope that the men in
upon yourself a certain level of responsibility. You our life get it simply by showing them how much
will have to choose more carefully where to put we love being at home. Like Watts says, we need
your resources, particularly your time and energy to know when to holler for help (59). Why don’t
and probably your money as well” (124). She advises we acknowledge that as mothers of small children,
not worrying about the housework, the constant we need our husbands around? Why do we accept

callings that we feel unable or too depleted to devote mother and has a very difficult time adapting to the
our time to? Why do we let our husbands sit in changes all around her. Fortunately, she finds true
meetings or activities five nights a week and all day friendship in a beautiful and well-liked classmate
Sunday when our children need their fathers? You named Sara. Through Sara’s friendship April begins
can call me one of little faith, but no one can deny to fit in and enjoy life once again. Sara even sets her
that an alarming number of Utah women are addicted up on a blind date with April’s “dream boy,” a Mor-
to antidepressants—just ask any of my friends or mon named John who is visiting a friend in Boston
even my family. The demands of motherhood cou- for the weekend. April never forgets about John
pled with the responsibilities of the LDS culture and dreams constantly of being reunited with him.
can deplete even the staunchest of women. April’s parents reconcile and get back together.
As for the political side of mothering, I’m not Just as things couldn’t be better for April, Sara is
too busy to be an advocate for our cause, I’m just diagnosed with terminal leukemia. As Sara’s health
realistic. I figure that if Clinton thinks the solution quickly declines, she begins searching for an answer
to a deteriorating society is to create more childcare to the question of what will happen to her after she
centers, she doesn’t get it and neither do others on passes on. Although April doesn’t join her friend in
Capitol Hill. Though Down writes that “we need her search for religious convictions, she supports
to make mothers feel important and acknowledge Sara when she says that the Mormon missionaries
the great role that they play in our lives” (155), she have the right answers. After Sara dies, April feels
doesn’t say how we as a society can do that, other lost all over again and uses drugs and alcohol to
than to make ourselves feel important. I don’t need numb her pain.
childcare. I need mothercare. I want social security Despite the fact that she is only feeling worse
for these years spent at home. I want benefits. I want with the added problems of substance abuse, she is
a day off every week—and I want my husband’s unable to stop until Sam, a tall, dark, and handsome
company and our church to understand that his chil- “Jiminy Cricket” Mormon convert, comes along
dren and I need him more than they do. If moth- and helps her get away from the wrong crowd.
erhood is such an important full-time job, I want Although April and Sam love to get on each others’
to be treated like a respected professional. If we cases and argue, they become very close friends,
don’t want the village to raise our children, we don’t thus making the rest of high school bearable. April’s
have to sacrifice mothers for the cause. Mothers parents were worried about her motivation for
and fathers should be responsible for the children, her education and future after witnessing April’s
and not on one lousy holiday a year or even one destructive behavior and are relieved to see her
evening a month for Enrichment Night. spending time with an on-track person like Sam.
With Sam’s help (and without telling April) they
Susan Barnson-Hayward is a mother of three living in
enroll her at Brigham Young University. After April
Salt Lake City. She tried antidepressants once but
learns that John will be Sam’s roommate, she has no
didn’t swallow. She staunchly supports MAMMM:
problem with attending school there. April’s fresh-
Mothers Against Meaningless Mormon Meetings and
man year of college is full of ups and downs as she
hopes to one day become Mother Superior of her ward.
and John become reacquainted. To please John,
she wants to conform to the Mormon ways, but
Lessons in Friendship as she knows little about them and is interested in
A review of Julie Wright’s To Catch a Falling Star religion for the wrong reasons, she ends up feeling
(Cedar Fort, 2001) more confused than anything. After a lot of soul
Reviewed by Meredith Eaton searching and some help from supportive friends
(old and new), she gains a solid testimony of the
In this novel, April, a high school senior, moves gospel, is baptized, and finds true happiness in love
from Georgia to Boston with her newly divorced and in life.
The main purpose of the book is to show how inviting her to visit England. Isabelle realizes that
tragic, hard experiences can come to us all and this is her chance to get away—an answer to her
how we can triumph over them and become desperate prayers. But even as she makes her new
stronger in the end. The themes of friendship and home in England, Isabelle lives with a shadow of
helping those we love through difficulties are con- fear that James will always be after her, that he will
stantly presented. Between April, Sam, Sarah, John, never let her go.
and April’s parents, they are each able to help Blair, Kerry. Closing In (Covenant, $14.95).
another do something that they could not do Libby James, the new librarian for Alma Elemen-
alone, or for themselves at all. The author demon- tary School, has come to the small, quirky town of
strates well-developed writing skills, but there is Amen, Arizona, to spend her life in her books, in
some room for improvement as far as repetitive- her garden, and in solitude. But she is hiding from
ness, typos, and smooth transitioning. The Mor- far more than just the outside world. Libby is really
mon culture is shown from an initially nonreligious Elisabeth Jamison, owner of Jamison Enterprises
person’s perspective, which adds a nice sense of and one of the richest women in the country.
realism and will make the book more enjoyable for Unbeknownst to her, Libby is also suspected of sell-
anyone, whether they are a new convert, not par- ing classified information from her company’s gov-
ticularly decided on any specific beliefs, or a life- ernment defense contracts. As a new semester
long member of the LDS faith. begins at Alma Elementary, David Rogers, a young
naval officer, arrives to teach sixth grade, courtesy
Meredith Eaton is a 20-year-old English major who of a grant from the government. At least that’s his
loves to sing, take pictures, travel, read Jane Austen story. He’s actually been sent undercover by the
novels, watch the A&E version of Pride and Prejudice, CIA to find out all he can about Libby James.
and spend time with family and loved ones. David quickly learns that Libby is completely
unaware of what is happening at her company.
Selected Recent Releases Soon his agenda shifts from proving her guilty to
protecting her from whoever is guilty.
Arnold, Marilyn. Fields of Clover (Cedar Fort, Brown, Marilyn. Ghosts of the Oquirrhs
$16.95). Oscar Carpenter’s mind is gone. He has (Cedar Fort, $14.95). From Cecily McKinsey’s
forgotten his newspaper days in Muddy River, Col- journal, rescued from a fire in an old garage, comes
orado. What he remembers best is his childhood in a richly imagined tale of the gold-mining town of
the small town of Clover. Edith, his wife, whose Mercur, Utah. For many who called it Sweet Pie, it
fragile body has failed, feels their lives have not suc- is a place of extraordinary tolerance and peace. Yet
ceeded because their crop of children seem to bear in the midst of such harmony, strangers unwit-
little love for each other. When Stella, the only tingly set in motion the forces of evil.
daughter, finds herself enmeshed with others’ Carter, Ron. Prelude to Glory, Vol. 6: The
tragedies, she begins to understand the importance World Turned Upside Down (Deseret Book,
of family. $19.95). Having underestimated the resolve and
Bell, Michele Ashman. Without a Flaw (Cove- strength of the Continental Army in New England,
nant, $14.95). On the surface, theirs is the perfect Great Britain adopts a new strategy in the war with
marriage—James Dalton is a successful attorney, America. British general Clinton leads his forces in
while Isabelle is a dutiful wife. Yet she grows more an invasion of the South. At first the campaign
fearful of her husband every day and knows that to seems an unqualified success, when in December
survive she must leave him. She wonders how she 1778 American general Benjamin Lincoln surren-
can escape from the domineering man who has ders his entire command army at Savannah, Geor-
robbed her of her past and her self-worth. While gia, and a second army at Charleston, South
James is away on an unexpected business trip, Carolina. But the British are not prepared for the
Isabelle receives a letter from a long-lost relative, fierce resistance from the common people. Famed
guerrilla fighters Dan Morgan, Nathanael Greene, into the mountains, where it will require all of his
and Frances Marion (the Swamp Fox) use frontier courage and strength to survive his captor, danger-
skills and Indian warfare tactics to erode the British ous animals, and all the unforeseen struggles that
forces. Meanwhile, Benedict Arnold enters into await him on the trail to Hans’ Pass.
treasonous negotiations to surrender Fort West Point Heuston, Kimberley. The Shakeress (Front
to the British. Finally, General Washington traps Street, $16.95). After Naomi’s parents and youngest
the British at Yorktown, where American and French brother are killed in a fire that destroys their home,
forces mount a siege and compel the surrender of she and her sister and two remaining brothers seek
General Cornwallis. The embittered and once-proud refuge in a Shaker village. Because Naomi has some
British see the American victory as evidence that knowledge of herbs and doctoring passed down
the world has truly been “turned upside down.” from her mother, the Shakers apprentice her to the
Eno, Thomas. Deep Waters (Covenant, $14.95). village herbalist, Sister Martha. Naomi learns a
A quiet stranger, John, comes to Hampton Corner great deal and develops her skills as a healer. As
seeking work. Life in this small town has its share Naomi matures, she begins to realize that while she
of excitement, drudgery, and trial. But no one is loves and respects the Shaker people, she cannot
prepared for the heartbreak that looms in the dis- fully embrace their way of life. With the help of her
tance. In simple ways, John has a dramatic impact brother, Ben, she leaves her siblings with the Shak-
on the lives of the townspeople. People like Jeff ers and moves to a village where her skills as a doc-
McFarland, an inactive LDS man who loses his son tor and pharmacist are needed. There, she discovers
and his livelihood but is able to rediscover his faith Mormonism. She meets two people who have been
and regain his family. And people like Mike and helped by faith healers and witnesses a faith heal-
Linda Torres, recent converts to the Church, who ing. So moved is she that she decides to leave the
desperately want a baby, thinking it will bring the comfortable life she has established for herself,
two of them closer together and heal their troubled which includes a wealthy and handsome fiancé and
marriage. a successful medical practice, to follow a group of
Grossman, Jeni. Behind the Scenes (Covenant, Mormons to Ohio.
$14.95). Dulcey Martinez is a feisty young televi- Jensen, Marcie Anne. Homeward (Covenant,
sion reporter for AIRtime, the nation’s top inves- $14.95). This is the story of Dennie Fletcher, a
tigative reporting team. Her new job and the life thoughtful, attractive woman who is torn between
that goes with it—burgeoning popularity, elegant two men, one who is ready and willing to sweep her
dinner parties, and the thrill of meeting the rich off her feet, the other a man whose feelings for her
and famous residents of New York—dazzle her. On have been separated by time and distance. Dennie
a highly publicized assignment to cover a series of also struggles with the conflict between the life and
dangerous drug busts, Dulcey is approached by a beliefs she has always known and a family’s secret
young member of a powerful drug cartel who offers hopes that await her thousands of miles away.
her the scoop of the century if she can get him Lyon, Annette. Lost without You (Covenant,
enough money to start over. But when the news $14.95). For two and a half months Christopher
assignment goes disastrously wrong, Dulcey’s life Morris has been Brooke Williams’s idea of the per-
hangs in the balance. fect man—attractive, charming, and fun to be
Hawkes, David. Shoshone Trail II—Hans’ around. But over the last two weeks, he has begun
Pass (Cedar Fort, $14.95). As the exciting sequel to to act strangely. Brooke feels that she has no choice
Shoshone Trail begins, Moroni and Sara have been but to break up with him. But Christopher does
left for dead. Miraculously, their mysterious Indian not take it well. And as he wildly drives her back
friend Hawk finds them. Under his care they are home, they are involved in a car accident. That’s
nursed back to health, only to realize Sam has been when Brooke first meets police officer Greg Stevens.
taken away by a ruthless Indian. Sam is taken deep And she keeps meeting him—at the worst possible

times—and they soon begin dating. Greg confesses Savage, Jeffrey. Into the Fire (Covenant,
that he is a widower and that Brooke is the first $14.95). Joe Stewart is a success by nearly every
woman he has so much as looked at in three years. definition of the word. Over the past 12 years, he
But even as Brooke agonizes over whether Greg will has built his computer networking company into
ever be able to truly love her, Christopher makes a one of the top in the industry. He is a devoted
dangerous return into Brooke’s life. husband, a loving father. Everyone agrees that Joe
Mouritsen, Laurel. Turning Point (Covenant, Stewart is a pillar of the community. But the pillar
$14.95). Fresh from their college graduation, is about to crumble. In a dramatic series of events,
Savannah Lawrence and her roommate, Carly, Joe loses virtually everything: his job, his wealth,
embark on a summer road trip. But their innocent his home, his reputation, and his health. Even his
journey turns into an incredible adventure when an family teeters on the brink of falling apart. His only
accident nearly takes Savannah’s life and a dream hope lies in the strength of his faith and in the
propels her on a search for a mystery woman who words of a mysterious stranger: “Know your enemy
holds the key to Savannah’s past and future. Her and protect that which you deem most valuable.”
search leads her to the historic town of Nauvoo, Schow, Vione. Phay Vanneth: Dead or Alive
where she meets Bridger Caldwell, a friendly, (Cedar Fort, $12.95). “Hurry, hurry or the soldiers
young LDS man. This new friendship, along with will catch us!” Vanna and Vanthy ran for the hill-
the restored city and the rebuilding of the temple, side, sure that Vanneth was behind them. As they
opens Savannah’s heart to the gospel. But will she found cover for themselves, they heard Vanneth
trust her feelings enough to embrace the truth? And scream. Vanna parted the grasses just wide enough
who is the mysterious woman who inhabits her to see the soldiers carrying Vanneth off.
dreams, urging Savannah to carry out a promise she Thus begins the story of Phay Vanna, a coura-
can’t recall making? geous Cambodian girl who vows to find her twin
Nelson, Lee. A Thousand Souls (Cedar Fort, sister Vanneth, no matter the cost. Based on actual
$18.95). When Spencer W. Kimball set apart Elder events, this novel follows the path of Vanna’s jour-
Nelson for a mission, he blessed him that he would ney to the United States after the Khmer Rouge
be protected from harm, enjoy good health, and be destroyed her family. She finds herself in Utah,
instrumental in bringing a thousand souls to the immersed in a new culture and the LDS Church.
truth. That promise weighed heavily on young Lee Warburton, Carol. Edge of Night (Covenant,
Nelson as he began his mission to Germany in the $14.95). The year is 1858, and Tamsin Yeager is
1960s, but also served as a motivator for him in alone in the world. With her sisters gone west with
accomplishing the work of the Lord. the Mormons and her mother dead, Tamsin finds
Peters, Dory. The Warriors’ Code (Cedar Fort, herself at the mercy of Amos Mickelson, a local
$12.95). Victor’s grandfather Lee held a secret that businessman. When he makes improper advances,
the young Navajo could only imagine. As Victor Tamsin flees in the darkness of night with little
begins to unravel his grandfather’s past, an amazing more than the clothes on her back. Through the
story unfolds of courage and triumph on the bat- kindness of a stranger, Tamsin finds work with a
tlefield. As World War II progressed, the U.S mili- mysterious bachelor, Caleb Tremayne. Tamsin is
tary desperately needed a communication code that warned on the first day to keep her nose out of his
couldn’t be broken. The decision was made to use affairs, which include frequent trips away from
Navajo, an unwritten language that is unintelligible home. Over the months, Tamsin also learns of
to anyone without extensive exposure and training. Caleb’s hatred of slavery, which only adds to her
That decision directly affects hundreds of young growing intrigue and attraction to her employer.
men, including Lee, who make the change from life When Tamsin discovers a hidden room and a run-
on the Navajo reservation to being a key part of the away slave, she unwittingly becomes part of some-
United States’ success in the war. thing more dangerous than she could have imagined.

Wassom, Warren. Pure Gold (Cedar Fort, M O R M O N

$15.95). After the death of his wife, aerospace L I T E R A R Y
engineer Clyde McFadden slips away from main- S C E N E
stream life. All he wants to do is fly his biplane and
grow alfalfa in Black Pine, Idaho. Then Clyde Compiled by Christopher Bigelow
innocently crosses paths with Alan and Reggie, two
scientists with a secret, who are willing to kill for a
carefully concealed mine filled with pure gold. The
Books
scientists leave Clyde for dead, entombed in the • Gordon B. Hinckley, president of the LDS
mine deep below Black Pine Peak. Following his Church, has released a second nondenominational
escape, the reclusive alfalfa farmer is swept into mainstream book, this one aimed primarily at teen
intrigue and danger. readers. Published by Simon and Schuster with an
Wobbe, Rudy, and Jerry Borrowman. Three initial printing of 400,000, Way to Be! 9 Ways to Be
against Hitler (Covenant, $14.95). Rudi Wobbe: Happy and Make Something of Your Life “appears to
“Charged with Preparation to High Treason and have had its genesis in the November 2000 sermon
Aiding and Abetting the Enemy.” Thus began the President Hinckley delivered to LDS youths in the
trial of Rudi Wobbe and two of his teenage friends Conference Center and broadcast via satellite to a
as they stood before the justices of the Volks- worldwide audience,” according to the Deseret News.
gerichtshof, the infamous supreme court of Nazi “At the time, he urged young people to: ‘Be grate-
Germany. All the indignation of the Third Reich ful, be smart, be clean, be true, be humble, be
now focused on these three young men who dared prayerful.’ For his book, President Hinckley has
to distribute the truth about the war to their neigh- added three additional ‘B’s’—be involved, be posi-
bors. If found guilty, they faced imprisonment— tive and be still.” Hinckley’s first mass-market title,
and perhaps death. Why did they do it? Because the the AML-award-winning Standing for Something:
teachings of their parents and the Church taught 10 Neglected Virtues That Will Heal Our Hearts and
them to respect liberty and rely on their conscience Homes, has sold more than 500,000 copies for Ran-
in choosing between right and wrong. Now their dom House since 2000.
naïve confidence was shaken by the torture they’d • The New York Times Book Review favorably
endured at the hands of the Gestapo. Yet their bril- reviewed The Shakeress, a “thoughtful and ambi-
liant young leader, Helmuth Huebener, whose tious” novel for ages 12 and up by Kimberley
intelligence and conviction stood out like a beacon Heuston, published by Front Street. “The energy
of truth in the oppressive courtroom, faced his of this orphan tale set in the 1830s is entirely aimed
accusers with confidence. at the mystery of God,” wrote the reviewer. “A chil-
dren’s book about God is almost necessarily prose-
lytizing, but The Shakeress suspensefully holds off
showing its cards. After Naomi leaves the Shakers
to serve as healer in a tiny Vermont village and
meet her Prince Charming, it seems possible that
hers will be a more personal than denominational
resolution. After Heuston transcribes a page-long
excerpt from the Book of Mormon, though, the
answer to Naomi’s questions becomes increasingly
obvious. The ending is a decent surprise, but read-
ers in search of clues to the author’s sympathies
might look to the biography on the jacket flap,
which gives her home as Salt Lake City. Thankfully,

the arrival of revelation doesn’t spoil the search. by Mormon missionaries, he takes his family from
Without subscribing to her religious sympathies, it Auckland to Salt Lake City. Once there, Myra, his
is possible to appreciate Heuston’s sensitive por- wife, is overwhelmed by both his religious zealotry
trayal of religious life.” and his slow mental disintegration.” He concludes,
• “Characters with real personality disorders, but “If Mormonism is not always treated accurately,
in interesting ways, populate all of the stories in it is not done with a heavy-handed anti-Mormon
Spencer’s book,” wrote Martin Naparsteck in The approach.”
Salt Lake Tribune about Darrell Spencer’s Caution: • Cornerstone, a small Utah publisher that made
Men in Trees, his story collection recently released an aborted attempt to purchase fellow LDS-market
in paperback by W. W. Norton. “This is his fourth publisher Horizon, is apparently now defunct. Exact
book, and all are filled with stories of oddballs, details remain hazy, but Cornerstone reportedly
mostly from Utah (he used to teach at Brigham filed for bankruptcy as a result of complications
Young University), sometimes from Nevada. One from the failed deal. Horizon is now advertising
of the stories in Men in Trees is set in Ohio, where Cornerstone’s three published novels for sale under
he now teaches.” Naparsteck continues: “Oddballs the Horizon name.
are automatically interesting, but their appearance • Clair Poulson has now published two crime
can at times seem manipulative, in the same way thrillers with Covenant, the second-largest LDS-
false sentimentality manipulates us. [. . .] Yet, his market publisher. His latest novel, Relentless,
best characters are always credible.” Naparsteck involves a small-town hostage situation. “I handled
added that Spencer “has a trademark stylistic device: two desperate hostage situations when I was a sher-
he uses clichés in fresh ways.” iff,” Poulson said. “I wanted to accurately display
• Reviewing Judith Freeman’s recent Mountain the tension that an officer feels being responsible
Meadows Massacre novel Red Water, a Deseret News for an innocent person’s life.” Poulson’s first crime
reviewer complained that Freeman too freely fic- novel, I’ll Find You, sold more than 20,000 copies.
tionalized the personality and inner life of Emma Despite his publishing success, the author contin-
Lee, one of John D. Lee’s plural wives. “While Free- ues his work as a Utah judge. “While I’m on the
man did succeed in making Emma interesting, it bench, I have to find the truth, the right ending,
seems inherently unfair to construct a personality but when I’m writing, the pressure is off and I get
for a woman who actually lived and would have to create the right ending,” he said. “Being good at
had a personality of her own. Here’s an example of one makes me better at the other.” He added,
that unfairness: When asked for proof that a les- “I also feel a sense of pride that I am able to write
bian scene between Ann and Emma actually took a suspenseful novel without any objectionable
place, Freeman said she really didn’t believe either material.”
woman was a lesbian, she was merely trying to • Places to Look for a Mother, Nicole Stansbury’s
show that polygamy had many nuances.” The novel published by Carroll & Graf, includes some
reviewer concludes, “The best historical fiction is Mormon settings and themes. “The first third
factual in setting but uses fictional characters—not could stand alone as a novella, one of the best
real people—to express all the nuances the author extended pieces of writing about the difficulties
cares to imagine.” encountered by non-Mormons trying to fit, unsuc-
• Deseret News staffer Dennis Lythgoe recently cessfully, into a Mormon culture,” wrote Martin
reviewed Belief, a novel by Stephanie Johnson Naparsteck in The Salt Lake Tribune. “Since so
published by St. Martin’s Press. “This novel is set in much of the novel is set in Utah and since at one
the late 19th century, when William McQuiggan, a point [the protagonist] seriously considers becom-
New Zealand farmer, has an epiphany. It causes ing Mormon (despite her numerous anti-Mormon
him to leave his Australian wife and newborn twins remarks), it’s tempting to see references to other
and travel to America in search of God. Converted literature about Mormons. Hints that she might

be referring to Robert Hodgson Van Wagoner’s Handcart, a fictional story involving the historic
great 1999 novel, Dancing Naked, are peppered Martin Handcart Company, is set for release on
throughout.” October 11 (handcartthemovie.com). Planned for
• Based on her personal journals, Carol Lynn this fall, Day of Defense concerns two missionaries
Pearson’s new book Consider the Butterfly, Trans- forced to defend their religion in a small town
forming Your Life through Meaningful Coincidence (www.dayofdefense.com), and the film version of the
addresses her 21-year-old daughter’s death from a play The Best Two Years of My Life will relate the
brain tumor in addition to other experiences. true story of four LDS missionaries in Holland. In
According to a Salt Lake Tribune reporter, Pearson January 2003, The Singles Ward team returns with
has “merged Mormonism with mystical, New Age their next comedy, The R.M., a comic, modern-
teachings that have helped her make sense of her day version of the Old Testament story of Job
daughter Katy’s death in 1999.” The reporter con- (www.rmthemovie.com). February 2003 is the target
tinues: “If there is one lesson she can offer, Pearson date for The Work and the Story, a satirical look
said, it is to pay attention to intuition. Writing at the birth of Mormon cinema starring Richard
about it certainly doesn’t hurt, either. Decades of Dutcher (theworkandthestory.com). Cary Der-
journal entries are more useful than years of ther- bidge, producer of the recently re-released LDS-
apy, she says. ‘The church will always play a role in themed film Out of Step, is planning a Mormon
my life,’ Pearson says. ‘But I have become a cau- wedding film called Anxiously Engaged for April
tious enthusiast of the New Age stuff. I don’t want 2003. Hollywood producer Jerry Molen plans to
anyone to think this is scary. It isn’t.’” release The Legend of Johnny Lingo in spring
• Deseret News writer Dennis Lythgoe summa- 2003. Next year will also bring Suddenly Unex-
rized Robert Marcum’s new novel, House of Israel, pected, the story of a missionary and his quirky
Vol. 1: The Return (Covenant), as follows: “The greenie companion (www.suddenlyunexpected.com),
main character is Hannah Gruen, a young Jewish and American Grace, LDS novelist Curtis Tay-
woman in post-war Germany, who emerges from a lor’s California coming-of-age story featuring
concentration camp to find she has no home or Richard Dutcher and LDS rock musician Randy
family. She falls in love with Ephraim Daniels, an Bachman in supporting roles.
LDS American pilot. Eventually, she sees that the • Since forming in 2000, Excel Entertainment
logical place where she and other Jews will find has distributed three LDS-oriented films to
freedom and safety is faraway Palestine.” Lythgoe become the nation’s eighth-largest niche distribu-
continued: “It's an odd premise, considering the tor, behind Sony Classics and ahead of Fine Line.
explosive nature of the Mideast today. It's too early (Niche or limited-release distributors are those with
to tell whether this slow-paced book, filled as it is films playing in fewer than 600 markets.) God’s
with pedestrian writing and clichés, will attract Army, Brigham City, and The Other Side of
enough readers to turn it into a multivolume Heaven have together grossed more than $8 mil-
work.” He noted that the author is a BYU religious lion at the box office. Excel recently announced it
studies professor who has traveled extensively the will handle theatrical distribution for Charly, the
past 30 years. film version of Jack Weyland’s classic LDS novel.
An Excel press release stated: “As one of the nation’s
Film leading niche film distributors, Excel hopes that
Charly will follow in the footsteps of other niche
• The new wave of Mormon film continues love stories like this summer’s surprise hit My Big
building momentum, with numerous projects Fat Greek Wedding, which started as a regional hit
scheduled for release during the next year. An adap- and slowly expanded to reach a mass audience.” In
tation of Jack Weyland’s classic LDS novel Charly other box office news, The Singles Ward recently
debuted in September (jackweylandscharly.com). passed the $1 million mark, passing Brigham City

to become the third-highest-grossing LDS movie, story with a Pygmalion twist, a romance about an
after The Other Side of Heaven and God’s Army. artist who helps an aspiring actress find success.”
• Wolfgang Petersen will reportedly direct the LaBute’s film based on his play The Shape of
film version of Orson Scott Card’s novel Ender’s Things is expected to debut later this year, and Pos-
Game for Warner Brothers. The German director’s session, his adaptation of A. S. Byatt’s novel, is cur-
past films include The Neverending Story, Enemy rently playing in theaters to mixed reviews. His
Mine, Outbreak, In the Line of Fire, The Perfect other film projects in various stages of development
Storm, Air Force One, and Das Boot. In other Card reportedly include The Danish Girl, The Burnt
news, his novel Lost Boys has been optioned by Orange Heresy, Blue Angel, Leave Her to Heaven, and
Universal for director Jonathan Mostow. “Card is Bleeder.
not writing the screenplay,” reported LDS film • Paul Thomas Anderson’s latest film, Punch-
specialist Preston Hunter. “In the novel, the main Drunk Love, stars not only Adam Sandler and
characters are Latter-day Saints, but per the author’s Philip Seymour but also four real-life Mormon
request their religion will be unspecified in the brothers from Utah, who play four Mormon broth-
movie, so that non-LDS writers don’t get the cul- ers in the film. Sander’s character is a “small-busi-
tural details wrong.” Hunter also commented: ness owner who doesn’t fly but is obsessed with
“Lost Boys is highly underrated as one of the best, collecting frequent-flyer miles, which he does by
most accurate portrayals of contemporary Latter- collecting pudding-box tops,” according to LDS
day Saint life to be found in any nationally pub- film reporter Preston Hunter. “He has seven sisters
lished novel.” In addition, independent producers and is something of an odd fellow. The four blond
hold options on Card’s novels Treasure Box and Mormon brothers from Utah are the bane of his
Treason. existence.”
• Walter Kirn’s novel Thumbsucker is being • Bumped to an October release by competing
adapted as a feature film starring Elijah Wood. summer movies, Handcart will depict the life of
Kirn’s novel is about a young man who replaces his fictional character Samuel Hunter, who joins the
thumb-sucking habit with substitutes ranging from LDS Church for the woman he loves and follows
drugs to Mormonism. Kirn, who converted to her on a doomed handcart journey. “Director Kels
Mormonism as a teen but is no longer active in the Goodman, 35, Orem, said he decided in 1997 to
faith, serves as GQ magazine’s literary editor and make a film about the ill-fated Martin and Willie
writes novels, articles, commentary, and reviews. handcart companies of 1856 when he was shooting
• According to The Hollywood Reporter, Mormon documentary footage of the reenactment of the
filmmaker Neil LaBute is remaking a 1973 thriller Mormon migration from Illinois and Iowa to the
called The Wicker Man. Originally a British film, Salt Lake Valley,” reported the Deseret News. Most
the story concerns a policeman who searches for a of Goodman’s $500,000 budget “came in incre-
lost girl and becomes involved in a secret pagan ments of a few thousand dollars here and there,
society on a mysterious island. On AML-List, R. networking through family and friends, after a
W. Rasband called the original Wicker Man “one of group of investors pulled out following the finan-
the most intelligent movies about religion I have cial panic sparked by Sept. 11.” While Goodman
ever seen. It satirizes both orthodox Christianity first set out to make a “movie that would sell,” the
and paganism (although the Christian is treated venture quickly turned into “a spiritual situation.”
not unsympathetically, and the pagans turn out to Goodman said, “I’ve been on my knees a lot, not
be more evil than you imagine). You can see how only in telling the story but doing it on the budget
LaBute could use this to comment on both funda- that I had.”
mentalism and New Age spirituality.” LaBute is • The Salt Lake Children’s Film Festival pre-
also reportedly preparing to adapt Vapor, Amanda miered during August with five full-length features,
Filipacchi’s novel that has been described as “a love several short films made by children, and related

workshops and activities. Nearly all the films were serial killer. Welcome to your worst nightmare,’”
made in Utah by Utah filmmakers, many with LDS reported the Deseret News. “I see the reasoning
ties. “Being such a family state, it’s about time we behind it from a marketing standpoint,” Dutcher
have a festival focused on children,” said filmmaker said. “I do have concerns that the people who
Tim Nelson, the festival’s programming director. would really enjoy this movie may not rent it, and
“These films let children know they have a voice. the people who rent the movie based on the cover
All these films are about living your dreams and art may not enjoy it.” Dutcher succeeded in arrang-
standing up for what you believe is right.” A film ing for an alternative cover with “Richard Dutcher
called Little Secrets headlined the festival before holding a gun Dirty Harry–style, with costars Wil-
opening across the country. Other full-length ford Brimley and Matthew A. Brown behind him,
features appearing at the festival were Princess and and a faint LDS Church steeple in the upper left-
the Pea, Children on Their Birthdays, The Penny hand corner, along with the theatrical poster tagline:
Promise, and No More Baths. ‘Nothing attracts a serpent like paradise,’” reported
• Speaking to a newspaper about the new LDS the Deseret News. Dutcher commented, “Unfortu-
cinema movement, Mormon filmmaker Richard nately, the alternate cover will probably only be
Dutcher said: “My hopes for Mormon filmmaking seen in LDS bookstores and the Jell-O belt.”
have changed. I had the hopes that they would all • Reporting on the video release of Richard
be intelligent and there would be a real depth and Dutcher’s Brigham City, Provo Daily Herald
substance to them, and a certain level of technical reviewer Eric Snider changed his original assess-
quality. The reality is that those are going to be the ment of the film. “The thriller angle of the film,
highlights.” He continued: “I don’t want Mormon I maintain, is not very well done. As a thriller
cinema to be Utah cinema. I want Mormon cinema alone, it would never stand up against other films
to be very diverse. Whatever the story is, if you’re of that genre that are more suspenseful, more sur-
telling it honestly and with sincerity, even though it prising and more logical. But my point is, that’s not
may have Mormon particulars and may be satu- the point. Brigham City, more than any movie I
rated with Mormonism, then it can become uni- have ever seen, offers penetrating insight into the
versal. It can transcend the regional specifics.” nature of repentance and redemption. It speaks
Dutcher expressed his support of other LDS film- directly to people of faith and offers hope in a very
makers: “I’ve always had this open-door policy, as personal, spiritual, Christian way. Its framing story
far as sitting down and sharing whatever informa- could have been better told, but its core message is
tion I have. People are very guarded about distri- beautiful and sublime.” The Washington [D.C.]
bution information, exhibition information, how Times named the film its “Video Pick of the Week”
you actually get movies into theaters. I’m always and said: “The fact that Brigham City is set deep in
very open about that, and will continue to do so the heart of Mormon country and was created by a
because I want to see these movies made.” Dutcher Mormon filmmaker might turn off some viewers.
highly recommended the film Out of Step and said This would be a big mistake, because Brigham City
the film The Other Side of Heaven was visually rates with the greatest modern indie noirs.” The
pleasing. He reportedly requested that his cameo be reviewer continued: “Brigham City is a model of
removed from the video release of The Singles Ward. economy wherein every detail serves the story, with
• After winning the video distribution rights to nary a wasted word to be found in its swiftly paced
Richard Dutcher’s Mormon murder mystery 115 minutes. Auteur Dutcher explores his main
Brigham City, non-LDS-affiliated Spartan Home themes—outsiders vs. insiders, self-destructive
Entertainment designed a cover with “the dripping- denial vs. self-protective guile—while delivering a
blood title Brigham City above an eyeball peering taut, tense, at times emotionally devastating thriller
out of a leather mask, and outstretched bloody fin- that will keep you guessing to the end. Anything
gers, along with this tagline: ‘Your neighbor is a but a proselytizing Christian film, Brigham City is

a must for everyone in the mood for a terrific, tex- Vuissa serves up no easy answers or platitudes; he
tured suspenser that will echo long after the end simply serves up a glimpse into a fascinating and
credits roll.” thought-provoking story.”
• Although well received by some conservative • Though not explicitly LDS-oriented, the new
and mainstream reviewers during its national roll- Salt Lake Film Festival plays to Mormon cultural
out, the Mormon missionary film The Other Side sensibilities. Billing itself as the valley’s only “truly
of Heaven received overall lukewarm-to-negative independent” festival for films that “stir the soul,
reviews, despite its generally acknowledged good heal the heart, and enrich the world,” the festival
acting and visual appeal. Entertainment Weekly’s permits no profanity, vulgarity, racial degradation,
C grade was representative: “If Groberg ever ran overt sexuality, or otherwise “questionable mate-
into much resistance from the natives or experi- rial.” Held in August at a Salt Lake Community
enced any humanizing moments of doubt, they College campus in Sandy, the festival was organized
didn’t make their way from his memoir into the and directed by Wayne Lee, a film-studies graduate
movie; the resulting absence of dramatic tension of the University of Utah. According to the Deseret
ensures the film will make fewer converts than he News, Lee expected to consider mostly Utah-made
did.” A New York Times reviewer identified another productions for festival screening, but most of the
common complaint: “The movie’s vision of a white 50-plus submissions came from outside Utah. In
American zealously spreading a Puritanical brand addition to screenings, the festival included panel
of Christianity to South Seas islanders is one only discussions and industry workshops. If response
a true believer could relish.” On AML-List, play- merits, organizers will expand next year’s festival to
wright Eric Samuelsen wrote: “The point of mak- a full week and increase the number of screening
ing and marketing this film was to make a film that venues. According to LDS film observer Preston
people outside the Church would enjoy and find Hunter, the World Congress of Families has
compelling. And the protagonist of the film was announced it will screen the festival’s winning films
too weak for that to happen. Consistently critics around the world.
were saying there wasn’t enough character develop- • The burgeoning Utah-based movie editing
ment, or the main character seemed flat and unin- industry moved closer to open litigation when a
teresting, or we don’t know enough about John CleanFlicks franchisee filed a preemptive lawsuit
Groberg at the end of the film to care much about against 16 high-profile directors. Utah newspaper
him. What they’re saying is, this is a film about John writer David L. Politis described the situation as a
Groberg, and John Groberg is not a compelling war “centered on key constitutional premises of
character. I’d say he’s insufficiently volitional. Char- ownership and authorship, a war likely not to be
acters are defined by the choices they make, and resolved without a hearing before the U.S. Supreme
this character doesn’t make many choices.” Court. At the heart is the question of whether an
• LDS film reporter Preston Hunter recom- individual has the right to take a creative work
mends Christian Vuissa’s “absolutely stunning” that he has legally purchased, specifically a movie
short film Roots and Wings, now available in LDS stored on video tape or a DVD, and alter that
bookstores. “The extremely realistic and beautifully movie to suit his or her tastes.” Politis concludes:
shot story of a Mexican Catholic immigrant who “We are on the cusp of what likely will become a
finds his wife and children becoming distant as they wide-flung, drawn-out and costly legal battle, one
assimilate American ways and Latter-day Saint faith, that will embroil participants and observers alike
Roots and Wings is the work of a filmmaker who is throughout the U.S. and abroad, a battle that ulti-
obviously destined for great things. Every shot is mately will result in fundamental changes to copy-
thoughtfully and meaningfully framed. The acting right laws and new answers to the question of
is so natural and the emotions so raw that the film ‘Who owns a creative work—the creator or the
often seems like a beautifully shot documentary. purchaser?’”

Drama and Kevin Kelly’s The Ark has finally arrived,”

wrote Provo Daily Herald reviewer Eric Snider
• A Deseret News reviewer called Yellow China about this pop musical retelling of Noah’s ark.
Bell by LeeAnne Hill Adams “one of the most “Many things about the show have changed. Songs
provocative and passionate plays ever to hit a BYU are gone, new ones are added, and the whole thing’s
stage. It is intense, powerful, shocking and reveal- shorter. But the greatest change is that it has been
ing. It is not meant to entertain and amuse. It is simplified. Before, it tried to tell too many sto-
meant to teach, expose and cause emotion and ries—someone can’t forgive himself, someone has
thought.” Based on a real-life experience, the play low self-esteem, and so on. Now it is pared down
tells the story of a 15-year-old girl who is kid- primarily to Ham’s inner turmoil, but with enough
napped in Armenia and taken to Volgograd, Russia, attention paid to other characters’ issues to give it
to marry her kidnapper. “The scenes are vignettes all some weight. This is a show of great humanity
of past, present and future events connected with and beauty. It is sometimes uproariously funny, and
present-day dialogue. It is of one woman’s journey other times uncommonly moving.” In addition to
to find ownership of herself, her body and of her
its Utah stagings, the show has appeared in the
ability to choose.” The reviewer congratulated
workshop-style Festival of New Musicals in New
the BYU theater department “for allowing such a
York City and at the Village Theatre in Issaquah,
production.”
Washington.
• Bill Brown, cofounder of the Villa Institute of
• Writing in The New Yorker about the London
the Performing Arts with his wife, novelist Marilyn
debut of Neil LaBute’s new play The Distance
Brown, received newspaper attention for debuting
from Here, John Lair comments: “LaBute’s job
an original comedy/mystery at the same time he
description remains staunchly the same: to force
received his bachelor’s degree in theater and media
the audience to stare at the terrible so as to fathom
arts from BYU at age 61. Brown’s third play,
it. Like any man who believes in sin (he is a prac-
Throwing Stones, is based on an experience Brown
ticing Mormon, although his play Bash got him
had during his real estate career when a big-name
rock star tried to buy a mansion. The play was pro- ‘disfellowshipped’ by the Church elders), LaBute
duced at the couple’s Little Brown Theater in does not trivialize darkness but treats it with proper
Springville, Utah. awe.” A U.K. Guardian reviewer summarized the
• The Nauvoo Theatrical Society is opening the play as follows: “At Darrell’s home we seem to be in
Center Street Theater at 50 West Center Street, the midst of the human jungle. His mother, Cam-
Orem, Utah. Designed as a showcase for “Mormon mie, paws her muscular boyfriend, while her step-
artists exploring Mormon life through theater,” the daughter, Shari, ignores her bawling baby. Matters
theater’s inaugural season starting this fall will worsen as the maniacally jealous Darrell, believing
include Carol Lynn Pearson’s My Turn On Earth, he has been sexually betrayed, kidnaps his stepsis-
Tim Slover’s Joyful Noise and Hancock County, Eric ter’s baby and uses this as a means of extorting the
Samuelsen’s The Way We’re Wired, J. Scott Bron- truth from his girlfriend.” The Guardian reviewer
son’s AML-award-winning Stones, and Thom said the play struck him as “a dismayingly cold
Duncan’s Wedlocked and Joseph and Emma. In piece: a vision of the spiritual emptiness of Ameri-
other Tim Slover news, a screenplay version of Joy- can suburbia recorded with the scientific detach-
ful Noise won second place out of 1,255 entries in ment of a zoologist. LaBute presents the evidence
the 2002 International Screenplay Competition, without analysing the causes of the U.S.’s descent
sponsored by the American Screenwriters Associa- to the abyss.” The New Yorker reviewer concludes:
tion and Writer’s Digest. “LaBute, in his most ambitious and best play to
• “After two runs as a work-in-progress and date, gets inside the emptiness of American culture,
numerous revisions in between, Michael McLean the masquerade of pleasure and the evil of neglect.

The Distance from Here, it seems to me, is a new Princeton Theological Seminary and earned a doc-
title to be added to the short list of important con- torate in American religious history at Columbia
temporary plays.” University, where she wrote her dissertation about
• Utah!, the historical musical associated with 19th-century female Protestant missionaries who
the outdoor Tuacahn Amphitheater in Ivins, Utah, tried to save Utah women from polygamy. An LDS
has reopened there in a fifth incarnation after a Church member since 1993, she lives with her hus-
four-year absence. Credited to the pseudonym of band and children in Clark County, Kentucky.
Stallion Cornell, the newest version is the work • During the LDS Church’s general conference
of Jim Bennett, a former Tuacahn administrator in April 2002, several leadership changes had con-
and current communications director for Sandy nections to Mormon literature. Best-selling histor-
City. He is the fifth writer to work on the script, ical novelist Gerald Lund was called to the Second
which has gone through about 25 drafts. With Quorum of the Seventy; the effect of the new call-
input from Mark Ogden, playwright Robert Pax- ing on his writing career remains to be seen. Sheri
ton wrote the original script for the show’s 1995 Dew, an executive at Deseret Book, was released as
premier, a three-hour production with music by a counselor in the Relief Society general presidency.
Kurt Bestor and Sam Cardon and lyrics by Doug The new first counselor in the Relief Society gen-
Stewart. After criticism about the show’s portrayal eral presidency is the wife of Dean Hughes, another
of polygamy and the Mountain Meadows Massacre, best-selling author of LDS historical fiction.
Paxton and Reed McColm changed subsequent • LDS Living, a new bimonthly print magazine
versions. In 1998 an all-new version by playwright for Mormons, debuted in August with an initial
Tim Slover premiered, with lyrics by Marvin Payne circulation of 30,000, including 8,000 subscribers.
superimposed over the existing score. The newest The 64-page premiere issue featured articles on
production is shorter and focuses on southwestern building cultural bridges with other faiths, scrap-
Utah and pioneer Jacob Hamblin's life, with only booking, fatherhood, marital commitment, parent-
passing mention of polygamy and nothing about ing teens, and other lifestyle-oriented topics. A
Mountain Meadows. The new production retains “Resource Guide” section offered articles about
the original musical score and restores many of Mormon filmmaking, family history web sites,
Stewart’s original lyrics. cooking, finances, and more. Based in Orem, Utah,
the magazine is not officially connected with the
Miscellany LDS Church. Editor Howard Collett said that
LDS Living will neither compete with the LDS
• Since 1999, Mormon convert Jana Riess has Church’s official Ensign magazine by addressing
served as Publishers Weekly’s religion book review doctrinal issues nor resemble the defunct This
editor. Her reviews, articles, and columns appear regu- People magazine, which Collett said focused mainly
larly in the trade publication, and she oversees about on LDS celebrities. Queries can be sent to editor@
100 freelance reviewers. “I try to give every book a ldsliving.com. For more information, visit www.lds
fair shake and an honest read,” she told a Lexington, living.com.
Kentucky, newspaper. “I think also, as an author, • Salt Lake City Weekly highlighted two Mormon
I’m more sympathetic, because I realize how diffi- writers in its annual “Best of Utah” issue. Provo
cult it is to write a book and how courageous it is.” Daily Herald writer Eric Snider’s column “Snide
Last year, religious book sales rose 17 percent and Remarks” was named “Best Unread Humor Col-
Riess received review copies of about 2,500 new umn”: “His satirical insider takes on Utah cul-
titles, fewer than a third of which received review or ture—including his brilliant series of Olympics
mention in Publishers Weekly. Raised by an agnos- columns—are often hilariously caustic, enough to
tic mother and an atheist father, Riess attended inspire plenty of humorless angry responses from

Utah County readers.” Terry Tempest Williams nature and why it seems so rare a point of discus-
was named “Best Overhyped Utah Writer”: “Yes, sion on this list. We all know that Joseph Smith
she writes beautifully. Yes, every sane, conscientious needed the seclusion of the grove for his vision, and
person realizes the importance of preserving our that the prophets have long touted the wilderness
state’s natural beauty. So tell us something we don’t as a place to seek for and experience divinity.
already know.” However, a good many Utah Mormons (and
• Tossed out in January 2001 on the grounds that other types) are vigorously (one could say: ven-
stories based on historical events cannot be copy- omously) anti-environment and anti-wilderness.
righted, a lawsuit against Deseret Book and author We learn much about the creation in the temple,
Dean Hughes has been reinstated by the Denver- but that seems to change very little.
based 10th Circuit Court of Appeals. “It is clear Terry Tempest Williams, Doug Thayer, Eugene
Hughes copied much of the plot line for Wally England, and a few of our poets seem to be the
Thomas,” wrote the judge, referring to a WWII only ones concerned with nature.
soldier character in Hughes’s Children of the Promise Any ideas why there is this silent treatment? Also
series. “In some instances, the copying goes beyond any ideas why LDS people seem to be so anti-
environment?
close paraphrasing and reproduces Jacobsen’s words
If you think I’m begging the question on this last
exactly.” The plaintiff, Wade Jacobsen, claims he
bit, I’m not. A friend of mine, John Torres, a soci-
submitted his war memoir to Deseret Book and
ologist, is working on a study of this, and it’s true
was subsequently contacted by Hughes for back- that Mormons are generally against environmental
ground material. The case has been remanded back issues. Also, our church takes a strangely passive
to Utah district court to be heard by a jury. position against environmentalism. [. . .]
Prophets and apostles from Brigham Young to
A M L - L I S T Neal A. Maxwell have had something to say about
H I G H L I G H T S how we should treat the environment, but the people
seem to say there is a problem. Environmentalism
Compiled by Marny K. Parkin along with feminism and postmodernism seem to
be the three primary reasons someone objects
AML-List provides an ongoing forum for broad- to BYU professors (at least according to an AAUP
ranging conversation and a stimulating exchange of report).
opinions related to LDS literature. Discussion during So what’s the deal? And why aren’t there more
February, March, and April included topics such as LDS nature writers? Science fiction is popular, but
race issues in LDS literature, cultural imperialism not writing that deals with the planet we already
and green Jell-O, good young adult literature, and have.
sensual poetry. Read on for a sampling of the senti- Jim Picht (April 15): Us nonpoets are plenty
ment on some other interesting topics. If you find concerned with nature. We just don’t have that
yourself champing to chime in, send an e-mail message poet impulse to share our feelings with strangers.
to [email protected] that reads: sub- We had a poet out at our place waxing eloquent
scribe aml-list. A confirmation request will be sent to about “silver-green leaves on sinuous vine, trem-
your e-mail address; follow the directions to complete bling in the promise of nature’s warm caress.” We
your subscription. AML-List is moderated by clapped appreciatively (we aren’t soulless cretins)
Jonathan Langford. and told him he was celebrating a patch of poison
ivy. We appreciate nature without getting all senti-
LDS Nature Writing mental, emotive, and demonstrative about it. In
these parts, she has the subtlety of a mean female
Todd Robert Petersen (April 9): Lately I’ve dog, and she’ll chew up a poet with as much gusto
been thinking about the LDS relationship to as she’ll chew up a deaf and blind possum.

William Morris (April 15): The deal is that community and outside it. Whether you like the
nature writing is a very limited market with a read- artistry of it or not, SF is getting to more readers
ership that would reject any LDS nature writing nationwide with its treatments of environmental
unless it simply didn’t deal with any LDS issues or issues than most of the straight nature writers are.
was fairly liberal (see Tempest Williams). Nature Part of that, I think, is that SF stories are usually
writing is also a marginal academic discipline that about the environment and something else. People
has only coalesced into a serious field of study in read SF for the inventiveness and speculation and
the last 15 years or so (I borrowed ideas from this get a bonus environmental comment as well, which
field for my senior thesis). Science fiction is a much opens the audience to both those interested in envi-
safer genre to explore. Writing that deals with the ronmental issues and those just interested in funky
planet we already have is almost inherently politi- stories—as opposed to catering only to those who
cal. I realize that there is some nature writing that are largely converted and specifically interested in
isn’t, that is more pastoral or tamed or built like an nature issues. Oddly, SF tends to be a little less
adventure novel, but on the whole nature writers heavy-handed about it than many of the nature
turn to the father of the genre—Henry David writers who seem bent on browbeating me into
Thoreau—for inspiration. submission with a very focused (and often unvary-
When I want religious nature writing, I turn to ing) repetition of the same message.
Gerard Manley Hopkins. A Trojan horse instead of a shovel to the face—
Scott Parkin (April 16): Except that SF is now often a beautifully wrought, artistically admirable
and nearly always has been a way of telling stories shovel, but a shovel nonetheless.
specifically about this planet, its conditions, and its I know that growing up it seemed like the only
inhabitants by using other worlds as a foil for dis- Mormon stories I could find were about com-
cussing those issues. Except for the very specifically muning with nature and finding God there. As a
science-oriented stuff, the actual stories are about child of the suburbs (San Francisco, Denver, Wash-
people interacting with each other and their envi- ington, D.C., and Chicago) I felt like I didn’t
ronment. The metaphor is obvious—one of the belong among Mormons because I had little or no
consistent charges leveled against SF, in fact. interest in sitting in the bushes waiting to kill an
You ask where the LDS environmentalist writers animal—which apparently meant that I had little
are. I suggest you look a little more closely at SF to or no chance of communing with God. To me
find some of those missing Mormons. M. Shayne Mormon literature has been so informed by the
Bell has been a passionate environmentalist writer. Western writing tradition (often focused around
So has Virginia Baker and Susan Kroupa. Dave communing with nature in an effort to find self )
Wolverton deals not only with human interaction, that I find myself happy to finally see some Mor-
but with environmental issues in his works. Even mon writers who aren’t equating all authentic spir-
Orson Scott Card has gotten a few digs in. ituality with desert communion. [. . .]
SF in general has a fairly strong affinity for issues I just don’t see SF as stealing shelf space from
of environment, be they warning stories of the nature writers, and I do see SF as dealing with
environmental catastrophes associated with global nature and environmental issues more often and
warming or nuclear devastation or asteroid impact, more passionately than most other kinds of Mor-
or more intimate explorations of individuals deal- mon writing. Or so it seems to me.
ing with their local flora and fauna—either terres- Melissa Proffitt (April 19): This is not a simple
trial, or non. dichotomy wherein you are either actively concerned
I understand that SF is not your thing, but it about environmental issues or completely dismis-
may be the writing that most consistently and sive of them. If writers in general write about the
directly addresses issues of environmental respon- issues most important to them, then all this proves
sibility and concern—both within the Mormon is that most of our writers don’t see the environment

as the most compelling issue in their lives. It doesn’t 1. They are environmental activists in the mold
say anything about the relative level of their com- of Terry Tempest Williams and believe their church
mitments to the issues they’re not writing about. community would be hostile to them if they made
We’ve also been talking about Mormons in gen- their ideas public. They fear losing their place
eral, not just Mormon writers, who are a much in their religious community.
smaller minority of the population. Maybe some of or
our most committed environmental thinkers are 2. Their environmental concerns aren’t in line
expressing their views by creating desert-tolerant with the strictures of environmentalism as it’s rep-
gardens and landscaping. (Though someone here resented in the press and by environmental activists.
in my West Valley neighborhood told me that it’s They don’t see a place for themselves within that
illegal to landscape with rocks and cacti instead of community, and believe that this means there’s no
grass, the way people do in the Southwest. Whether outlet for their ideas at all.
this is true or people only think it’s true, it implies The identity problem may be even worse for
an outside limitation on what people here are able Mormon writers, many of whom are already per-
to do to conserve resources.) ceived as outsiders simply because of their profes-
Setting aside these specific issues, I do have an sion. (Or it might mean that they feel they have
opinion on why more LDS writers aren’t typical nothing left to lose.)
environmentalist writers. [. . .] But it’s important to remember that while com-
Community identity is a powerful motivator in munity identity is powerful, it is usually not so pow-
almost every person’s life, whether they are con- erful as to erase all signs of individuality. It’s not
sciously aware of it or not. Members of a commu- logical to assume that only members of a particular
nity who exhibit traits that are different from the community—such as active environmentalists—
majority are either suspect or shunned, depending care about the key issues that define that commu-
on the traits and the rest of the community. This nity. Or that writers whose focus is, for example,
applies everywhere, not just so-called conservative the disintegration of the nuclear family do not also
groups; notice the depressing homogeneity of teens care about other things as well.
who dress wildly to stand out, but only succeed in
looking like every other rebel teen of their era. Educating an Audience
Communities provide not only identity, but com- Darlene Young (March 4): I was extremely
fort; and people who are different from the “norm” interested in the opening plenary session of the
are like sand inside your bathing suit—more or less AML meeting titled “Walking the Tightrope: Are
irritating depending on how much is there and Mormon Audiences Naïve, or Are They Making
where it’s located. Wise Choices? Do They Need to Be Educated? If
I suspect that most Mormons perceive the com- So, How?” Unfortunately, I felt the discussion fell
munities Jonathan referred to above as incompati- far short of what it could have been, but not by the
ble with the “mainstream” LDS community. For fault of anyone participating. The problem is that
the people who grow up within the Mormon com- the subject is just too broad because the LDS audi-
munity, it must take a very strong motivation ence is just too broad. I feel that a definition of the
to leave that behind for a different community, various kinds of LDS readers is necessary before we
and it is (as he points out) difficult to find a place can begin to address the subject. Here are some
where you can both remain in the larger commu- ideas of mine.
nity and hold on to the ideals that shape your per- There are those who are not really readers or who
sonal identity. read nothing but church books (favorite stories of
I think Mormons who are strongly committed general authorities, for example) and can possibly
to environmental causes may be invisible for one of be persuaded to read fiction if it is obviously
two reasons: “church fiction” (like Work and the Glory). So the

question is, do we want to “educate” these people there that would satisfy their more sophisticated
to becoming readers of fiction, or readers of more tastes. These are the people who shop Borders, not
literary fiction? I believe these people are definitely Deseret Book, because how could there be any-
teachable because I see it happening in my own thing worth reading at Deseret Book? These people
family. I’m extremely grateful to Lund for provid- need to be educated that there is LDS fiction out
ing a first step for my in-laws who, as a rule, don’t there that would be satisfying and rewarding to
read. (Reading is, after all, for lazy people who are them. The burden of this kind of education must
ignoring their other work, etc.) I’m even more fall to the publishers, I’m afraid. It’s a marketing
grateful to Dean Hughes for providing the next step. problem. I’m thinking in particular of Bennion’s
His books have been the perfect follow-up to Lund’s, Falling Toward Heaven, probably the best book I’ve
I think, because they are better written but still sort read all year and one that most of my acquaintances
of “churchy.” As a result of these books my in-laws have never heard of. Obviously word of mouth will
are beginning to look around and explore other fic- help, but isn’t there some kind of advertising that
tion and even—gasp—ask me for suggestions. would help, too? This book is LDS through and
There are those who read lots of Deseret Book through, but it is great literature and would be
fiction and who would read more literary fiction if enjoyed by anyone who enjoys great literature.
they felt they could trust it morally. They have a Any conversation about whether the LDS audi-
low tolerance for profanity, violence, and sexuality. ence needs to be educated must take into account
I believe these people can be convinced to tolerate all of these different kinds of readers. I don’t have
such elements when they are guided through the an answer to the question posed in this panel dis-
work by someone who can justify them, show how cussion. I think it’s worth discussing on the list, as
they are used to make the work stronger. (It’s ironic long as we keep in mind the subsets of readers in
to me that these same readers can tolerate a lot the LDS audience.
more of these elements when they don’t think the BJ Rowley (March 5): I, too, thoroughly
author is LDS. Go figure.) enjoyed this session at the AML conference. But
A variation of this group is those who want to the more I think about this whole issue of educat-
make sure that the book is reliable as far as testi- ing the LDS market, the more I think that what’s
mony and faith/hope go. They may be tolerant of really needed here is validation—not marketing.
language, violence, and sexuality if they know they Nearly everyone on this list can quote the now-
don’t have to worry that the general theme of the famous articles by Pres. Kimball and Elder Maxwell,
book will be loss of testimony. But again, they which have given us all, as artists, our lofty goals
might need some guidance. (The Backslider, for and aspirations, and our personal vindication. But
example, might make them uncomfortable at first, how many of the overall Mormon population know
but when they realize that it is about a man who or remember those same articles? By and large, the
learns more about the nature of Christ and Mormon market is still very much in the “scrip-
redemption, they are OK with it.) These are the tures only” mode, when it comes to LDS material.
people who won’t subscribe to Dialogue and Sun- I don’t think it’s an education or marketing issue
stone, not because they are incapable of enjoying that publishers alone are ever going to conquer.
more complex works (and they actually do enjoy I worked for nine years in a large, Dilbert-style
the vast majority of what is printed in these maga- office building, with somewhere around 500 employ-
zines) but because they hate to waste their time on ees—the majority of them LDS. Due to the nature
something that might turn out to be negative about of the company, a good percentage of us spent a fair
the Church or a hope destroyer. [. . .] Many of my amount of time traveling around the U.S. The
friends fall into this category. common practice was for a traveler to make a stop
Finally, there are the avid readers of non-LDS at the bookstore before the trip, to stock up on
fiction who believe that there is nothing LDS out reading material—either the nearest Borders or

B&N, or if time was tight, the airport newsstands. question to how we can educate our audience. It
And for those who just couldn’t afford that kind of seems that we are paying mere lip service to the
weekly expense, there were always plenty of books question, and I think it deserves real consideration.
around that could be borrowed. But very rarely did Does the LDS audience need to be educated?
I ever see LDS fiction going on the planes. LDS fic- Really? Why? Maybe we can start with what gives
tion is just not something that the majority of the us the right to take on that responsibility in the first
members look for or even know about. Can we place? It smacks of hubris and condescension. And
educate them? I don’t think so. Not without some if we don’t have respect for our audiences, why
big-time help. should we expect them to listen to anything we
What I would very much like to see, and what have to say?
we really need, is for a general authority in general We are given the command to help and assist
conference to get up and remind the Church mem- others, and education certainly plays a role there.
bership of the articles by Pres. Kimball and Elder The question I have is, what makes us so sure that
Maxwell. I’d like to see someone at the top give all we have a better way? And what about that word
of us struggling and hardworking artists some vali- “need”? Do others “need” to be educated? How do
dation. It seems to me that plenty of airtime (and you know what they need? (I think this is the heart
Ensign space) is devoted to the subject of avoiding of Darlene Young’s audience segregation and an
the degrading material that’s out there—be it important start.) A better question is, do people
R-rated movies, sexually explicit fiction, Internet want to be educated? Are we wannabe cultural
pornography, etc. But I don’t see them giving the imperialists because we want others to be like us
members much in the way of viable alternatives. with the conviction that they would be so much
Why can’t the leaders encourage the members to better off if they were? Or are we merely burying
support their own? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if our own hurt that we are different from so many of
they would just point in our general direction and our fellow Saints and trying to arrange definitions
say, “Look, there is worthwhile stuff out there. so that we are better than they are?
Clean, wholesome, uplifting, enlightening, satisfy- I think that if we do decide to undertake the
ing, and rewarding. And some of it actually very education of others, that we would do well to bear
well written.” [. . .] in mind that people don’t so much need to be
It’s a matter of supply and demand. The supply buried under the full ideal of the desired end result
is already there . . . maybe not in great abundance, as they need to be introduced to the next logical
when compared to the “Gentile” works that are out step from where they currently stand. In my opin-
there, but in a greater abundance than there is ion, the true brilliance of Richard Dutcher is that
demand. If those 500 fellow employees of mine he has respect for his audience and is willing to give
were to hear some form of official validation from them a ripping good story while showing them the
a general authority from the pulpit of the Confer- thrill of the next step as he perceives it—i.e., a real-
ence Center, I can’t help thinking that more LDS istic, nuanced portrayal of our people with their
works would be finding their way aboard airplanes, strengths, weaknesses, and the power of their faith.
buses, cruise ships, etc., and ultimately into LDS A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single
homes—in place of the Gentile stuff. The demand step. Too often we get bogged down in describing
would grow. And an increasing demand for LDS the beauty of the thousand-mile-distant destina-
works would also automatically create an increased tion and neglect to point out the simplicity and
demand for excellent LDS works. Quality, as well as importance of that single step. The destination
quantity, would increase, I’m certain. might be all we claim it is, but there’s a lot more
Jacob Proffitt (March 5): We ask the question benefit in knowing that next step.
of whether the LDS audience needs to be educated, Stephen Carter (March 6): One definition of
but all the conversations I’ve seen move from that education that I have been reading a lot lately is “to

draw out,” meaning that something already exist- after a pipeline is in place that brings them things
ing within the person is brought out through edu- of lesser quality but of more accessibility. Once
cation. So instead of imprinting people with our they start reading (as Darlene pointed out), there is
views, we help them be more themselves. I’ve found the possibility of inviting them to read more
this to be true for me. When a book resonates with rewarding material. To me, this means not having
me (meaning that it speaks to something that has disdain for popular genres.
been cooking inside me already, whether con- Third, we cannot expect audience education or
sciously or not, or it takes such a counterpoint to development to mean that suddenly (or even ulti-
something I believe that I have to confront it), it mately) everyone will appreciate good writing or
hooks in to something that I already have. hunger for literary engagement. I read an article in
I just reread “Phaedrus” in Plato’s dialogues The Eleventh Draft recently where the author
where Socrates argues that the written word is next pointed out the fact that with the exception of a
to worthless as far as learning goes. The only true few wildly successful writers, the most admired and
learning occurs in conversation, he said. I person- competent writers can’t expect to attract the atten-
ally think that one can enter a conversation with a tion of even the worst-rated sitcom. Good writing
book, but only if the book is willing to let you into and good reading ask of people to elevate them-
a conversation, instead of just preaching some- selves from the lowest common denominator intel-
thing. This is one of the reasons I enjoy Neil Post- lectually. The Church asks us to elevate ourselves
man’s books so much. Although he is very from the lowest common denominator ethically. It
convinced of his opinions, he always reminds the is nice when the two go together, but we can’t
reader at the beginning of the book that his book is expect that we will get both results and garner the
only a part of a conversation, and that the reader majority of eyes or hearts within or outside of the
needs to gather the other parts of the conversation Church. Not in this world.
as well as provide some of the conversation him or Fourth, validation for art should not come (pri-
herself. He also admits when his opinions change. marily) through commercial success or celebrity, or
So I guess I think books should be written to be that validation is inherently suspect. It should
conversations instead of sermons. come from ourselves and from spiritual confirma-
Gideon Burton (March 6): First, we have had tion as we recognize that what we have created was
an enormous amount of official validation from the worth the doing, and from those with whom we
pulpit over the years. Affirming the value of art and can build a community. That may mean a writing
artists doesn’t (and shouldn’t) come ahead of faith, group, a classroom, an organization like AML, or it
repentance, etc. But there are far more examples of might mean a market segment. I don’t think an
this sort of thing than the two speeches alluded to. official “we appreciate artists and authors” from
Orson Whitney, David O. McKay, Hugh B. Brown, general conference would really validate artists and
Boyd K. Packer, Ezra Taft Benson, etc., have all authors. I know I feel best about my creative works
used official channels to promote the arts. Elder when someone who experiences my art responds
Packer’s recent filmed interview in his home with personally and I sense that the world is a little less
James Christiansen was especially warm in this dark for some effort I have made.
regard, even if at times reiterating a very conserva-
tive view.
Second, I think it would be better to think in
terms of “developing an audience” rather than “edu-
cating.” The latter sounds condescending, and the
former could and should include the pragmatic com-
mercial end of audience creation. Very often audi-
ences grow in both numbers and sophistication

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Extra donation: ______
Total enclosed: ______

Make check payable to AML and mail to:
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Speaking about thedead...

I...thoroughly enjoyed...Ghosts of the Oquirrhs. It s surely some
of Brown s best and most original writing. She made old Mer-
cur or Sweet Pie and the Tintic Mining Region of old Jesse
Knight come to life as no one else ever has. What a great sub-
ject! And how wonderfully the diverse culture of the town
comes to life!...A memorable novel...establishes her securely
among the top Rocky Mountain writers of fiction...
Richard H. Cracroft, BYU Magazine
No one spins a better tale than Marilyn Brown, and few
writers have her gift for mining the past and bringing to life
some of its deeply buried treasures.
Marilyn Arnold, novelist
Perhaps what I enjoyed most...was Marilyn s beautiful gift of
language.
Sally Taylor, professor, BYU
Award-winning Mormon novel...

Winner of the Association for Mormon Letters Unpublished Novel
Award for 2002, Mormonville, by Deseret News writer Jeff Call, is
one of the most powerful LDS stories you ll ever read.
Luke Manning, an investigative reporter from New York City, is

assigned to spend one year in Utah, incognito, to infiltrate a Mor-
mon ward and uncover the truth about the LDS Church.
An emotional and spiritual experience. You will see yourself or

your fellow members and leaders on every page....Through an
inside and outside examination of the church and the gospel,
you will desire to cheer for the Saints, and to give thanks to
the Lord for this treasured way of life.
George Durrant, author and teacher
Cedar Fort, 925 N. Main, Springville, UT 84663, 1-801-489-4084

Order these and other titles from www.cedarfort.com

Irreantum, Vol. 4, No. 2, Summer 2002

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2002 summer issue.

qxd 2/11/03 12:47 PM Page 1

MAGAZINE OF THE ASSOCIATION FOR MORMON LETTERS

Terry Tempest Williams

Christopher K. Bigelow . . . . . . Managing editor Marny K. Parkin . . . . Speculative fiction coeditor

Gideon Burton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . President D. Michael Martindale . . . . . . . . Board member

Lavina Fielding Anderson . . AML ANNUAL editor Terry L Jeffress . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Webmaster

Summer 2002 2 IRREANTUM

Letters to the Editor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

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Stories Portrait of the Artist as a Young Girl: Coming of

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E D I T O R I A L Study of Literature and the Environment). But

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my own particularly Mormon mindset than P O E M

Ebb and flow in a desert land.

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E D I T O R I A L roar from the pulpits and pens of the apostles.

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I N T E R V I E W England Review, among other national and interna-

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Williams: I honestly have no idea what’s ahead, Weather Advisory

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You will welcome fall as a respite among M E M O I R

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When faced with such a daunting task E S S A Y

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P O E T R Y Moving toward You

Border zinnias, bright as bumble bees

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but soon their lemon-yellow as if I were on acid and

is the morning of your funeral. 4. Toward a Summer

A billboard: Stardust Motel toward a summer gone.

Sparkling before your head The branches

Your name thrives in a desert a cold spell

soaks cleft mud flats. —Danielle Beazer Dubrasky

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A cicada shrills, A lesson in usefulness:

A lesson in perspective: Consider the old lake’s remnant,

Watch the hummingbird, •••

Summer 2002 36 IRREANTUM