I firmly believe that in this life, we must do things for a good reason. That reason should be because we truly enjoy doing them, without expecting anything in return. If we don't approach things in this way, we will constantly suffer disappointments.

When we engage in activities simply because we find joy and satisfaction in them, we are more likely to give our best effort. We are not driven by external rewards or the anticipation of something specific coming our way. Instead, the act of doing itself becomes its own reward.

On the other hand, if we are always focused on what we will get out of a situation, we set ourselves up for disappointment. There are no guarantees in life, and often our expectations may not be met. This can lead to feelings of frustration, sadness, and even resentment.

Therefore, it is essential to find those things that we love to do and do them wholeheartedly. By doing so, we can lead a more fulfilling and content life, free from the constant disappointment that comes with unmet expectations.

Disclaimer: I didn’t choose this book; it came to me through a book club.

This is a beautifully written story. In fact, I should probably give it 4 stars or even more. The author has shared an incredibly personal and important piece of her life and soul here. I truly appreciate that. However, I just found it all so depressing. I read the first quarter of the book, and then I began setting it aside for weeks at a time. Once I finally reached the halfway point, I started skimming until the end was in sight. When I turned the last page and handed it back to its owner, I let out a huge sigh of relief.

I guess by now (2020), everyone has their own experience with cancer. Reading someone else's journey through it can either be deeply healing or completely overwhelming. I'll attribute this one to crossing my path at the wrong time. But I do still encourage anyone who is looking for a shared journey through loss to go ahead and pick it up. You might find something in it that speaks to your heart and helps you in your own way.

My husband and I had the opportunity to read this remarkable piece soon after its publication.

It truly had a profound impact on our lives. It served as a guiding light, helping us come to terms with and accept the difficult and challenging things that life throws our way.

So moved were we by its power that we purchased this book in large stacks. Whenever a dear friend or loved one faced the loss of someone precious, we would gift them this book.

It is, without a doubt, a great book. It has the ability to help you discover your own refuge, a place within yourself where you can find solace, strength, and peace.

I wholeheartedly recommend that you read it. You will be amazed at the difference it can make in your life.

Twenty-five years after its publication, she penned,

"There is a sentence from Refuge that still haunts me: 'If I can learn to love death, then I can begin to find refuge in change.' I have not learned to love my mother's death or my grandmother's... I can learn to love change" (302).

Williams delves deep into the language of recovery, grief, and birds. She seamlessly transitions from the starvation caused by cancer, to the soft whispers of wings, to the intense gaze of an owl's eye, to the 40 years of government nuclear bomb testing that tragically increased cancer rates for thousands, to a beautiful poem, to the simple act of hand holding, and finally to the profound emotion of love. The book has the power to震撼读者 like an earthquake. I truly appreciate how she questions everything, even her own words. It makes us reflect on how we all struggle with change.

Would that our lawmakers would take the time to read and listen to stories like these, for they hold valuable lessons and insights that could potentially change the way we view and approach the world.

After reading "Finding Meaning in a Broken World," or at least attempting to do so, I was filled with skepticism.

I was concerned that this book, like so many others, would be filled with too many loose ends and an overabundance of the "everything is everything" type of sentimentality.

However, I was pleasantly surprised. This is a book that has its heart buried deep, like a root, waiting for us to discover it thirty years later.

Now, as the Great Salt Lake is receding rather than expanding, the meanings within this book have fermented in the best possible way.

I truly loved this book.

It explores themes of mothers, lakes, and birds, intertwining loss and healing in a beautiful and profound way.

It also offers a revealing look into the secret matriarchy that exists within Mormonism, adding another layer of depth and intrigue to the story.

Overall, "Finding Meaning in a Broken World" is a captivating and thought-provoking read that I would highly recommend to anyone looking for a book that delves deep into the human experience.

Extraordinary book of grief, love, nature, family, and place. This remarkable work delves deep into the complex emotions and experiences that come with life's most profound moments. Libby, with their intuitive understanding, gifted it to me, knowing full well that it would strike a chord with my own personal journey of watching my mother pass away. The book's beauty lies not only in its words but also in the way it captures the essence of these universal themes. It has a power that draws you in and makes you feel every emotion along with the author. I was truly moved by it, and I know that I will return to its pages again and again, finding new meaning and solace each time.

This book had the potential to become my new favorite.

Everything it encompassed, I deeply cared about, and it fortuitously reached me at a rather meaningful time.

However, I found myself having very little feeling for extended portions of it, and at times, I was downright annoyed. There were several reasons for this.

Firstly, large sections of the story left me cold. This was mainly because of the author's extremely confident voice and the fact that very few of her relationships were depicted. Even with her mother, all their interactions were solely about the mother's introspection regarding her cancer. Together, this created a sense of insularity and alienation between the author and her relatives in the story, as well as with her reader. It might have been a stylistic choice by the author as she explored themes of isolation and solitude, but I felt it ultimately hindered the delivery of her message and exploration of those themes more than it enhanced them.

Secondly, there were times when I felt an eye-rolling annoyance. The author forced the extraction of broad wisdom so forcefully at times. The effort was so palpable, and the resulting point made was so contrived, both in content and form.

But then, there were also moments of genuine, heartfelt greatness, of literary mastery that inspired and challenged. My edition also had a 10-year anniversary afterword that was so candid and profound that it significantly increased my enjoyment of the entire book.

All in all, it is a good book that I don't regret reading and would even recommend. However, I won't be seeking out the author in the future. (Though, really, that afterword was so impactful that it is already making me question this.)

What a truly beautiful illustration of how books have the power to enable us to peer into the lives of others and encounter experiences that we have not yet had. Terry Tempest Williams invites us to share in her grief, along with that of her family, and to witness the ugly and horrific spectacles of death. Her writing has a transformative effect on you, as if it were an intimate and sacred rite. I am profoundly grateful for the opportunity to read books such as this.

The snow persists in falling. Red apples adhere to the bare branches. I have just come back from Tamra Crocker Pulfer's funeral. It was a gathering of childhood friends and family. Our neighborhood filled the chapel, sitting on wooden benches row after row. I took my place next to my mother and couldn't help but wonder how much time we had remaining together.

This passage from Terry Tempest Williams' work not only paints a vivid picture but also tugs at the heartstrings. It makes us reflect on the transience of life and the importance of those closest to us. The simple yet powerful description of the snow, the apples, and the funeral scene creates a mood that is both solemn and poignant. As we read these words, we are drawn into Williams' world and made to feel her emotions. It is this ability to connect with the reader on a deep and personal level that makes her writing so remarkable.

To say that this is very much out of my wheelhouse is truly an understatement. I only took it up because a colleague in my thesis-writing group is focusing her project on Williams.

Nevertheless, I was pleasantly surprised by how immediately familiar the physical and mental landscapes felt. I too had a rural upbringing, snugly sheltered by religious belief and close familial/community bonds. At the same time, I was constantly struck by how differently my own response to such environmental factors has been. From the beginning, I was plotting my escape, desperate to disappear into the urban jungle, as the natural world has never been something I felt much affinity for or had a deep connection to.

Reading Refuge turned out to be a curious experience of double consciousness, constantly shifting between a sense of recognition and a sense of deep disconnect, and perhaps more often than not experiencing both sensations at once.

What I did unfailingly connect with, however, was its sense of disorientation and deep loss. Williams's book famously details how cancer strikes relentlessly against the women of her family. In the first page of the prologue, Williams matter-of-factly testifies: "Most of the women in my family are dead. Cancer. At thirty-four, I became the matriarch of my family."

It's a devastatingly bleak sentiment to base an entire narrative on, and the implications inevitably reverberate through every word that follows. And as over the last three months I've had two people very close to me diagnosed with cancer, it inevitably echoed loudly through my own current emotional state as well.

Not that I specifically recognize the manner in which Williams goes about wrestling with the pain and apprehension threaded through her everyday. She acts, thinks, speaks, and processes pain in a manner not at all familiar to me. Nonetheless, I appreciate and empathize with the way she spirals around the ineffable, attempting to synthesize and understand grief from any variety of directions, and ultimately to locate, as she writes in the epilogue added to the 10-year anniversary edition, "the new configuration[s] born out of change."

The writing in this piece is truly beautiful and descriptive. It is so vivid that I felt as if I could clearly envision everything that she wrote about.

Why haven't I been to the Bird Refuge? It makes me wonder. Maybe it's time for me to venture out to the Sun Tunnels.

This book consists of two stories that the author skillfully weaves together. One story is about the rise of the Great Salt Lake and its impact on the wildlife, especially the birds. The other story is about the progression of her mother's illness.

The way Williams combines these two storylines is both heartbreaking and deeply moving. It really tugs at the heartstrings and makes the reader reflect on the fragility of life and the importance of nature.

Overall, this is a remarkable piece of writing that leaves a lasting impression.

"La paz de las cosas salvajes:

When the despair for the world takes hold of me

and I wake up at night at the slightest noise

scared by how my life and those of my children might be,

I will lie down where the wood duck

poses its beauty on the water and the blue heron

fishes.

I go to the peace of wild things

that do not burden their lives with expectations

of pain. I go before the quiet waters.

And I feel upon me the stars blinded by the day

that wait with their light. For an instant

I savor the grace of the world, and I am free.

This poem by Wendell Berry beautifully captures the essence of finding solace and peace in the midst of a chaotic and often despairing world. The poet describes a state of being where the worries and fears about the future, both for oneself and one's children, seem overwhelming. However, instead of succumbing to this despair, the poet seeks refuge in the natural world. By lying down near the water where the wood duck and blue heron go about their lives, the poet is able to observe the beauty and simplicity of these wild things. They do not worry about the future or burden themselves with thoughts of pain. This contrast with the poet's own state of mind serves as a reminder that there is a different way of being. The poet then goes before the quiet waters and feels the presence of the stars that are hidden during the day. In this moment, the poet is able to savor the grace of the world and experience a sense of freedom. It is as if, for a brief instant, all the cares and concerns of the world fade away, and the poet is able to simply be in the moment and appreciate the beauty and wonder that surrounds them."

This is an extremely interesting book that delves deep into various aspects of life such as family, love, life, death, sickness, the wilderness, the weather, landscapes, birds, flooding, refuge, and faith.

It is exquisitely written and highly thought-provoking. Most of the women in Terry Tempest Williams' family have been afflicted with breast cancer. This book vividly describes how she, along with her mother, grandmother, and other family members, respond to this.

She makes a comparison to the times when the Great Salt Lake floods - something that is completely out of their control yet affects an entire community. She and her mother often seek solitude and refuge in the landscapes and patterns of life, and in truly appreciating the present day.

This book has made me deeply reflect on how we face trials in our lives. We have the power to choose how we will respond. I firmly believe that we cannot judge how someone else copes with their trials, but we can use our own experiences to strengthen our faith and relationships or, unfortunately, become upset and withdraw.

Although I have some slightly different thoughts about faith than what is portrayed here, I truly appreciate the reminder to live in the present and enjoy what and who is around us at this very moment, as well as the profound thought that love is the true refuge.

Here are a few quotes from the book that I found particularly captivating:

"Perhaps, I am telling this story in an attempt to heal myself, to confront what I do not know, to create a path for myself with the idea that 'memory is the only way home.' I have been in retreat. This story is my return (p. 4)."

"Great Salt Lake: wilderness adjacent to a city; a shifting shoreline that plays havoc with highways; islands too stark, too remote to inhabit; water in the desert that no one can drink. It is the liquid lie of the West (p. 5)."

"Because Great Salt Lake lies on the bottom of the Great Basin, the largest closed system in North America, it is a terminal lake with no outlet to the sea. The water level of Great Salt Lake fluctuates wildly in response to climatic changes. The sun bears down on the lake an average of about 70 percent of the time. The water frequently reaches ninety degrees Fahrenheit, absorbing enough energy to evaporate almost four feet of water annually. If rainfall exceeds the evaporation rate, Great Salt Lake rises. If rainfall drops below the evaporation rate, the lake recedes. Add the enormous volume of stream inflow from the high Wasatch and Uinta Mountains in the east, and one begins to see a portrait of change (p. 6)."

"There are those birds you gauge your life by...Each year, they alert me to the regularities of the land (p. 8)."

"Genealogy is in our blood. As a people and as a family, we have a sense of history. And our history is tied to land (p. 14)."

"The Bird Refuge has remained a constant. It is a landscape so familiar to me, there have been times I have felt a species long before I saw it....The birds and I share a natural history. It is a matter of rootedness, of living inside a place for so long that the mind and imagination fuse (p. 21)."

"The hospital doors seemed heavy as I pushed them open against the air trapped inside the vestibule. Once inside, it reeked of disease whitewashed with antiseptics. A trip to the hospital is always a descent into the macabre. I have never trusted a place with shiny floors (p. 26)."

"I know the solitude my mother speaks of. It is what sustains me and protects me from my mind. It renders me fully present. I am desert. I am mountains. I am Great Salt Lake. There are other languages being spoken by wind, water, and wings....Peace is the perspective found in patterns (p. 29)."

"'Perhaps you can help me visualize a river--I can imagine the chemotherapy to be a river running through me, flushing the cancer cells out. Which river, Terry (p. 39)?'"

"The flooding of Salt Lake City lifted everyone's spirits. People went fishing. Signs saying YOU CATCH 'EM--WE'LL COOK 'EM were posted in front of State Street restaurants. A few trout were caught and fried....My favorite innovations were made by the kayakers who complained about having to portage around the city-block bridges and made local officials promise to build rialtos next time with appropriate clearance (p. 47)."

"Suffering shows us what we are attached to--perhaps the umbilical cord between Mother and me has never been cut. Dying doesn't cause suffering. Resistance to dying does (p. 53)."

"'What would you tell your children of me?' Mother asked after we had seated ourselves in the restaurant at Hotel Utah....I didn't want to think about such things. 'I'll let you tell them for yourself,' I answered, taking a sip of water....'Tell them I am the bird's nest behind the waterfall. Yes, tell them that (p. 61).'"

"All we have is now (p. 65)."

"Why couldn't I have respected her belief that the outcome mattered less than the gift of each day....The California gulls rescued the Mormons in 1848 from losing their crops to crickets (p. 68)."

"'You have to address this illness yourself. You have to decide how you are going to deal with it.....'Death is not the enemy; living in constant fear of it is.'....This year...has been the most difficult year of my life, and also the most beautiful. It has enabled me to sense and see things I never did before. It brings life into focus one day at a time. You live each moment and when you see the sunset at the end of the day, you are so grateful to be part of that experience (p. 83).'"

"Our correspondences show us where our intimacies lie. There is something very sensual about a letter. The physical contact of pen to paper, the time set aside to focus thoughts, the folding of the paper into the envelope, licking it closed, addressing it, a chosen stamp, and then the release of the letter to the mailbox--are all acts of tenderness (p. 84)."

"'More and more, I am realizing the natural world is my connection to myself. Landscape brings me simplicity. I can shed the multiplicity of things at home and take one duffle bag wherever I go....I find my peace, my solitude, in the time I am alone in nature (p. 86).'"

"I love to make lists. Maybe it's my background in beehives and breadmaking, the whole business of being industrious and frugal (of which I am neither) that a list promotes. Or maybe it's the power that comes when you can cross something off the list. Done. Finished. Move on to the next chore. I can see in a very tangible form what I have accomplished in a day. Or perhaps its the democratic nature of lists that I find so attractive. Each task is of equal importance on paper....The life of a birdwatcher is of a different order. It's not what you cross off that counts, but what you add (p. 87)."

"'Each of us must face our own Siberia. We must come to peace within our own isolation. No one can rescue us. My cancer is my Siberia (p. 93).'"

"'I believe that when we are fully present, we not only live well, we live well for others (p. 116).'"

"'I believe we must do things in our lives for the right reasons, because we enjoy doing them, with no expectation of getting something back in return. Otherwise, we are constantly being disappointed (p. 118).'"

"A deep sadness washes over me for all that has been lost. The water level of Great Salt Lake is so high now that it recalls the memory and reality of Lake Bonneville. The Wasatch Mountains capped with snow seems to rise from a sparkling blue see. I am not adjusting. I keep dreaming the Refuge back to what I have known: rich, green bulrushes that border the wetlands, herons hidden behind cattails, concentric circles of ducks on ponds....There is no one to blame, nothing to fight. No developer with a dream of condominiums. No toxic waste dump that would threaten the birds. Not even a single dam on the Bear River to oppose. Only a simple natural phenomenon; the rise of Great Salt Lake (p. 140)."

"But the flipside of darkness is light....Maybe it is not the darkness we fear most, but the silences contained within the darkness. Maybe it is not the absence of the moon that frightens us, but the absence of what we expect to be there....the only thing we can expect is change (p. 146)."

"'Just let me live so I can die (p. 161).'"

"A person with cancer dies in increments, and a part of you slowly dies with them (p. 173)."

"I am slowly, painfully discovering that my refuge is not found in my mother, my grandmother, or even the birds of Bear River. My refuge exists in my capacity to love. If I can learn to love death then I can begin to find refuge in change (p. 178)."

"Artifacts are alive. Each has a voice. They remind us what it means to be human--that it is our nature to survive, to create works of beauty, to be resourceful, to be attentive to the world we live in (p. 189)."

"Faith defies logic and propels us beyond hope because it is not attached to our desires. Faith is the centerpiece of a connected life. It allows us to live by the grace of invisible strands. It is a belief in a wisdom superior to our own. Faith becomes a teacher in the absence of fact (p. 198)."

"'What I have learned through all this is that you just pick yourself up and go on (p. 211).'"

"Since Mother's death, I have been liberated from my optimism. I have nothing to hope for because what I hoped for is gone. There are not mirages (p. 239)."

"The landscapes we know and return to become places of solace. We are drawn to them because of the stories they tell, because of the memories they hold, or simply because of the sheer beauty that calls us back again and again (p. 244)."

"For the men in my family, their grief has become their compassion (p. 251)."