This book is the sort of beautiful that makes your soul ache.

It has received reviews that criticize the dialogue for not sounding natural enough. While these criticisms are fair, I must admit that I hardly noticed. I was so completely swept up in the maternal relationships within the book and in the ever-changing bird refuge, which serves as a powerful metaphor for a family's wholeness.

This book delves into many stark, important, and timeless truths. For me, it's about saying goodbye to those who are the very fabric of our being and how that often leaves us reeling. I truly haven't read a book that better captures what it's like to watch a loved one pass from this world. The sheer sacredness of that time is incomprehensible if you haven't experienced it, yet so tangible if you have. It's like belonging to a secret club that no one really wants to join.

If you're grappling with the loss of a loved one, I highly recommend reading this book. Even if you haven't and never will, I still highly recommend it. Empathy is such a precious gift.

This book is also a great choice for birders, conservationists, anyone living in Utah or just passing through, and definitely for those who have ever been fascinated by the Great Salt Lake.

[Four-point-five feather-laden stars for so many beautiful birds and for the women who teach us how to fly.]

DNF. As a woman, an environmentalist, and a Utah resident, it seems almost illegal to admit that I didn't like this. However, I'm a little over halfway through and I just can't continue. I give it two stars because there are some cleverly-written nuggets of wisdom, and I liked the unique commentary on such a fascinating moment in the history of the GSL. But overall, I can't stand the self-centered way she writes. It's as if every single thought that has ever crossed her mind is the most important and sublime revelation to ever grace the planet. In my opinion, the strange, dense, and meandering syntax leans more towards "unintelligible" than "poetic."

It's a real shame because there were parts that had potential. The descriptions of the GSL's history and the environmental issues surrounding it were interesting. But the author's writing style ultimately detracted from the overall experience. I found myself constantly getting lost in the convoluted sentences and having to re-read passages multiple times just to try and understand what she was trying to say. Maybe if the author had taken a step back and considered a more straightforward approach, this could have been a great book. As it stands, though, it's just not for me.

I go to the lake for a compass reading, to orient myself once again in the midst of change. Terry Tempest Williams, the narrator of Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place, reflects thus. She sounds like Thoreau, and like him, she finds a pace and perspective to manage life's changes. She does find refuge and invites us in.

I keep returning to this book. Williams, a naturalist, alternates between observing the Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge (threatened by rising Great Salt Lake levels in 1983) and her mother's cancer fight. Her scientist's eye brings the birds alive: "We saw ruddy ducks..., shovelers, teals, and wigeons. We watched herons and egrets and rails. Red-wing blackbirds... sang with long-billed marsh wrens as muskrats swam... Large families of Canada geese... while ravens flushed the edges."

Yet the birds are more than environmental objects; they are waymarks in her personal loss journey: "How can hope be denied when there is always the possibility of an American flamingo...?" I may not know all the birds, but I believe her statements.

Birds are mediators in Refuge, like angels. They help non-birders like me understand Tempest's relationships. This is a lyrical memoir, not a scientific appreciation. The entire book is infused with a narrative presence. Tempest is present to her mother's pain, life in the refuge, and the divine in nature and her faith tradition (Mormonism).

Williams quotes LDS scripture, infusing it into her views of the landscape, almost to an animistic or divine feminine point: "I want to see the lake as Woman, as myself, in her refusal to be tamed." The repetitions "I want..." and "I recognize" show a yearning to connect with the land and her mother's illness, seen in her exploratory prose.

For example, she personifies the sand dunes first as masculine, then as feminine: "Wind swirls around the sand and ribs appear. There is musculature in dunes." Then, "And they are female. Sensuous curves--the small of a woman's back. Breasts. Buttocks. Hips and pelvis." These might seem over the top, but not when compared to her mother's failing body.

Williams' sensuous depictions of the land are not just earthy feminism. The book is a meditation on grief, a solemn reflection, an effort to connect, re-see, and redeem. Her mother is dying, but there is optimism. Look at her redemptive description of cancer: "The cancer process is not unlike the creative process."

Is cancer a gift? Is creativity a cancer? Williams refuses old metaphors. She makes us see the landscape, birds, divine, and our losses all together, in a new appreciation, suffused in a peaceful light, like the distant cawing of birds along the horizon.

Terry Tempest Williams is a remarkable local author who weaves a truly transcendent story.

Her work is a unique blend of memoir, Utah history, an Audubon guide, and the perspective of an observer. She vividly tells the story of the rise of the Great Salt Lake in the 1980s and its devastating impact on the Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge.

Alongside this historical and ornithological account, Williams also shares her deeply personal search for refuge as her mother and grandmother, both "down winder" victims of the nuclear testing in Nevada during the 1950s and early 60s, succumb to cancer.

It is a profoundly moving narrative, with a profound and fluid orchestration that seamlessly links these various narratives together. Williams' prose is truly otherworldly, transporting readers to a different realm.

This book is an absolute must-read for local "birders" who have a passion for the avian world, as well as for those who are seeking to find their own sense of refuge amidst the loss and fragility of existence. It offers a powerful and poignant exploration of life, nature, and the human spirit.

I truly have a desire to love TTW's writing. However, I persisted with this book more out of a sense of loyalty rather than feeling an intense compulsion to keep reading. It presents a rather predictable trope that doesn't offer many surprises.

Of course, I'm sad for the sadness of loss. I can understand the feeling of wanting to record it. I did enjoy learning about the Great Salt Lake and the bird refuge there. The descriptions of that place were quite interesting and added a nice touch to the story.

But overall, for me, it just wasn't excellent. It was pleasant enough, but it didn't have that wow factor or the kind of excitement that would make it a real barn-burner. There were moments that were engaging, but they were not enough to overcome the predictability and the lack of a truly captivating storyline. I had hoped for more from TTW's work, but unfortunately, this book didn't quite meet my expectations.

Oh, a difficult book. Heart-rending and heart-lifting.

Refuge is a remarkable work that weaves together two profound tragedies. One is the catastrophic flood of the Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge in Utah, which disrupted the delicate ecosystem and the lives of countless birds and other wildlife. The other is the deeply personal loss of Williams's mother to cancer.

Terry Tempest Williams is truly one of my hero-writers. Her writing is a unique blend of solid science and mysticism. She brings the desert to life with her prose, which can be both harsh and unsparing, yet also reveals the hidden beauty that lies within. Her words have the power to move and inspire, to make us see the world in a new light.

This book is highly recommended for those who are grieving, as it offers a poignant exploration of loss and the healing power of nature. It is also a must-read for bird-watchers, as it provides a detailed and fascinating account of the birds and their habitats at the Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge.

In conclusion, Refuge is a book that will stay with you long after you have turned the last page. It is a testament to the power of nature and the human spirit, and a reminder of the importance of protecting our environment for future generations.

I thoroughly enjoyed the captivating story of Terry's mother and grandmothers and their battles with cancers. It was truly an eye-opening experience. Additionally, I found great interest in learning about the Great Salt Lake, delving into its unique geography and geology.

However, I must admit that the parts regarding birds didn't hold my attention nearly as much. Nevertheless, there were some truly terrific quotations throughout the book. I had previously used one, but I feel compelled to reference it again: “Dying doesn’t cause suffering. Resistance to dying does.” (P. 53). This profound statement really made me stop and think. Another one that struck me was “A person with cancer dies in increments, and a part of you slowly dies with them.” (P. 173). It beautifully captured the emotional toll that cancer takes on those around the patient.

The end of the book, however, was a complete shocker for me. I had no idea that the US was testing nuclear weapons in places where Americans actually lived. I had always assumed that it was only happening in the Pacific Ocean. It is truly a terrible thing to think about.

I hold tight, hoping Terry Tempest Williams will devote an entire book to her grandmother.

"Refuge" was a beautiful book that delved into love, the loss of loved ones, the loss of self, and the determination to do whatever one can to reclaim it all.

I have a deep affection for the opening of each chapter, which tracks the elevation of the Great Salt Lake during the flood of the 1980s. It is fascinating to see how the lake came to embody everything for the author and for all the people of Salt Lake City.

This is not just a personal story but also one that touches on being part of both a bad and a good world community. It explores the reality of living in a world ultimately controlled by natural forces, and the human response of either realizing or denying these forces.

Moreover, it is a very personal account of the author's love for nature, especially the lake and the birds of Utah, her Mormon religion, and her grandmother's world religion.

I am eager to read more works by Terry Tempest Williams and discover the further insights and emotions she has to share.

I finished Refuge at least two weeks ago and have spent a great deal of time pondering why I didn't like it as much as I had anticipated.

That's not to suggest there was nothing about it that I liked. I gained more knowledge about the Great Salt Lake - its structure and the birds that call it home - than I had in the years of living nearby. I adored that aspect and the way she made me view these valleys and mountains as shared spaces: native species coexisting with a constantly growing population.

Perhaps my familiarity with the area was the undoing of my enjoyment. It began with a small matter, okay, a really trivial thing that nearly drove me mad. Apparently, the author and others who spend a lot of time communing with the lake and its inhabitants don't use the article "the" when referring to it. She'd say something like, "I drove to Great Salt Lake." Most locals would say, "I drove to the Great Salt Lake." It yanked me out of the flow of reading every single time. It seemed artificial and after a while, even overly respectful. I swear I could hear James Earl Jones intoning, "Great Salt Lake" each time I read a sentence like that. I started to feel as if I needed to kneel or light incense. There was a mystical, mythological sense she was imparting to her description of the lake that I simply couldn't accept.

At the heart of the book is the interweaving of her mother's cancer and the floods in 1983. My family has not been immune to cancer in the past few years, and I did connect more with that part of the story. I respected the author's willingness to discuss the profound experiences that can occur while dealing with the suffering that cancer can bring. Here, the spiritual quality felt genuine, and I could understand that she would carry that sense with her as she spent time in nature.

I must address one thing; a very different perception of the women within a shared religion and culture. She said of women who are members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (Mormon), "In Mormon culture, authority is respected, obedience is revered, and independent thinking is not. I was taught as a young girl not to'make waves' or 'rock the boat'." Like Williams, I come from a family of Mormon pioneers, and my perception of our women is one of great wisdom and strength. I was raised by a mother who wholeheartedly believed in our faith, which she passed on to me, and she never taught me that I couldn't ask questions or challenge the status quo.

This is an extremely deliberate book that is classified as "Woman's Studies/Nature."

It intricately links the slow and cancerous deaths of women in the author's family to the flooding of the Great Salt Lake in the early 1980s.

The author, a Mormon ornithologist, takes pleasure in a bird refuge that is being submerged by the gradually rising salt lake.

Her husband is involved in a part of the large government project to pump the lake into the surrounding lands, which is clearly a short-term human solution to a long-term natural event.

Her mother's cancer slowly erodes a life.

I especially favored two thoughts: when your mother passes away, you can no longer be a child, and your entire life is a process of being born.

In the final chapter, we discover that the nuclear tests of the 1950s were the presumed cause of this affliction.

I liked the connection between angels and birds, and I gleaned a little about Mormonism and the Great Basin from an author who has a deep love for the area.

This book offers a unique perspective, intertwining personal and environmental stories in a thought-provoking manner.

Terry is truly an outstanding writer.

Her poetic imagery and the meticulous detail she employs are so deeply resonant and relatable.

I have most definitely made note of numerous quotes that I will refer back to in the future.

I was able to endure the "Women's Studies" tangents and lectures.

Just to clarify from a male perspective, this book is accessible and can be read by anyone.

Terry's approach comes straight from the very core of her being.

This book has taught me many valuable lessons about life and its intricate dance with death.

It has also helped me to better understand that on the surface, we may not fully fathom why people behave the way they do.

We may not have a complete understanding of what others are going through.

Nevertheless, we can respect their ways of grieving - their sources of comfort during the tumultuous phases of their lives.

It is a seamless fusion of tragedies within the domains of family and Mother Nature.

I read this book after a quick bout of reading envy. Another reading friend posted about it on her Instagram stories and it reminded me that the essay I read in the Writing Non-Fiction class I took, "The Clan of One-Breasted Women" comes from this book. In that essay, Terry examines the facts of radiation fallout in the Nevada/Utah desert and the high occurrence of cancer in the women of her family. One of my closest friends just had a bilateral mastectomy last Friday, and I've had that essay on my mind. So when it came up again in social media, I knew I had to have it.

Last year, I read "When Women Were Birds: Fifty-four Variations on Voice" by Terry Tempest Williams, which is almost exclusively focused on Terry's mother, and the blank journals she left behind when she died from cancer. This much earlier book is also largely about her mother, during her last bout with cancer, but this also coincides with the Great Salt Lake's flooding periods, and the destruction of some of the bird habitats surrounding it. Terry is attuned to these issues because of her work. Each essay has the name of a species of bird found around the lake, the water level, and then may or may not have much to do with the bird.

So the essays are about birds and climate change. And about cancer and family. And about the decisions the author makes that aren't exactly what is expected by her family or religion, and how she navigates them. But in being about all of those things, it is about so much more than that, and I just kept coming back to it. And for a book published in 1991, it sure seemed relevant. The quote "We spoke of rage. Of women and landscape. How our bodies and the body of the earth have been mined." really struck me. When I read the very first essay where this quote is found, I immediately emailed my colleague at U-Mass Amherst, who is interested in the intersection of climate change and mindfulness, and told her she should read this book.

And of course, books on grief have been following me around, or I pursue them. Her mother dies of cancer, but it almost walks the line of a holy, sacred experience. Or maybe that is how she needed to write about it. It's a little unreal, based on my own experience, but nice that her mother was at peace with dying (having battled cancer already once before) and all the things needing to be said were said. (Except we know that this isn't quite true, based on the more recent book, where Terry is desperate for more of her mother, and all she has are the empty notebooks. But sometimes we must grieve in stages.)

And sometimes the experiences with the birds and their changing habitat help her process the grief. The quote "When I see ring-billed gulls picking on the flesh of decaying carp, I am less afraid of death... My fears surface in my isolation. My serenity surfaces in my solitude." shows how Terry finds parallels between nature's loss and her own. In "Redheads," she talks about California losing 95% of its wetlands over the last 100 years (1891-1991) and how 85% of Utah's wetlands had been lost in the last two (1989-1991), and how when wetlands go, species go, and so on. Then in the "Meadowlarks" essay, she says "A person with cancer dies in increments, and a part of you slowly dies with them." There is definitely a link there. This is a book I need to own.