I gave myself permission to devote myself for the weekend to one book. To be within it while the snow fell and then another front pushed in rain. To keep turning pages, stopping only to feed spruce logs to the fire, as the light filtered in over the mountains through the front windows then shifted to the western windows, then faded behind the bench.
I’d waited impatiently for my copy of Casting Deep Shade by C.D. Wright, and like any acolyte, I felt a little nervous. The book opened like slow steps on creaky wooden stairs, the rumble of words, history, memories, science, photography, art, the body. The sound of rumination, of devotion.
It’s not a book. It’s a cosmology. A treatise on how one thing is attached to every other thing. Every. Other. Thing. A map of a brilliant woman’s brain making connection upon connection, pushing further into the distance. Crossing and re-crossing subjects like neural pathways.
When I closed the covers at the end, folding them like doors to a tabernacle made of wood not gold, I thought if I went outside and pushed my fingers under the soil, I could still feel her in the root hairs, branching branching branching. Without end.