This memoir from Terry Tempest Williams was given me by my sister-in-law who is not only a voracious reader but can recite poetry she has read on demand. Never ceases to amaze me. Anyway, she is formidable source and so I started the book right away--my first exposure to Terry Tempest Williams. Perhaps it was not the best place to start. Williams is spurred to write this exploration of women's voices by being bequeathed her mother's journals--three shelves of them--which, when examined, all turned out to be blank. Well that would certainly set you back on your heels. So a significant part of this book is about trying to figure out what her mother meant by this obviously sustained act of subterfuge. Apparently, it is a primary role of women in Mormon families to be the recorders of history and keep journals. Her mother certainly communicated her thoughts and feelings in other ways and there are excerpts from her letters to Terry--very loving ones--as well as from her church talks. But the book overall feels disjointed and I often did not really know where I was in the chronology of Williams life when reading a particular chapter. The chapters are occasionally polemic about her indignation over the rape of the environment or the limitations placed on women's lives. I can live with that, but it is uncomfortable at times. And discouraging, even though she means, I think to exhort us to action on behalf of our convictions. And there are also moments of shining beauty in her perceptions and descriptions. It felt as though I were sometimes being abraded or scorched--so perhaps she is simply very good at conveying what she experiences. I kept coming back and felt drawn on and had trouble putting the book down. Just be warned before entering.
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