Terry Tempest Williams' writing is truly magnificent.

The manner in which she intricately weaves together her family, traditions, womanhood, and religion within her relationship with the land is simply astonishing.

I found myself repeatedly in a state of awe.

She is an extremely talented writer who possesses a highly unique perspective on the world.

This book was not an easy read for me; it is rather profound and沉重的, and the grief associated with witnessing a family member gradually succumbing to cancer was palpable.

I had to set it aside on multiple occasions as I was emotionally drained.

But it seems that this is precisely what it feels like to experience such a situation with one's family: exhausting.

So, in a way, it was appropriate.

I have heard several individuals express somewhat negative views regarding Williams' work or perspective.

I'm not entirely certain why this is the case, but I can perceive that her beliefs and perspective make an impact.

She is courageously opinionated and unapologetically herself, and she takes great delight in that.

She offers no excuses, and I kind of admire her for that.

Wow.

I have never come across another book quite like this one. It is keenly observed, filled to the brim with intimate knowledge of a specific place. That place is the bird habitat around the Great Salt Lake in Utah during a time when the lake was overspreading its usual banks.

There are multiple layers of metaphor within this incident, as well as in the state of Utah's response to it, all set against the backdrop of Terry Tempest Williams' mother's slow and painful death from cancer.

I can relate to this on a personal level as I have been on a similar journey with my own mother, although not to the extent that Williams has managed. The members of her family are wonderfully wise in the most unexpected ways, sharing profound insights from their afternoon walks and hospital rooms.

Williams has an extraordinary ability to make the need to embrace all of life, including death, concrete and manifest. She does this in a way that no other author I've read has been able to achieve.

This book is truly one of the most enriching reads I've had in a long while, leaving a lasting impact on my perspective of life and death.

In "Refuge," Tempest powerfully parallels the death of her mother with the flooding of the Great Salt Lake.

What truly resonated deeply within me while reading this book was the profound way in which humans intervened in the rise of the lake and the subsequent and far-reaching impact it had on its ultimate demise.

I was particularly captivated by how Tempest masterfully interwove her personal story with that of the birds she witnessed at the Bear River Migratory Refuge and the lake itself.

Even in the present day, this remarkable book continues to paint a startlingly vivid and disturbing portrait of climate change and the insidious effects of nuclear fallout on a community. It serves as a poignant reminder of the delicate balance of nature and the consequences of our actions.

It forces us to confront the reality of our impact on the environment and the need for urgent and sustainable change.

Thank you to my Environmental Literature course at my local community college, and my awesome professor Maryann Lesert.

She provided my classmates and me with a rich catalogue of recommendations.

We delved into various topics such as rage, the connection between women and the landscape, and how both our bodies and the body of the earth have been exploited.

I knew rage well. It burned like a fire in my stomach with no outlet.

My professor would say, "I have never known my full capacity for solitude. The gift of being alone. I can never get enough."

Solitude, she believed, was a matter of rootedness, of living in a place for so long that the mind and imagination merge.

Maybe it's the vast expanse of sky above and the water below that soothes my soul. Or perhaps it's the anticipation of seeing something new.

It's strange to sense change approaching. It's easy to overlook, but an underlying restlessness seems to accompany it, like birds gathering before a storm.

We go about our daily lives with our usual enthusiasm, yet there's a sense of something fragile in the pit of our stomachs.

My mother's penchant for drama always surprised me. Her love for spontaneity turned the most ordinary activities into special occasions.

When she entered a room, mystery followed her, and even when she left, her presence lingered.

There was little emotion on her face at times. This was a moment for details, when pragmatism replaced sentiment.

I understand the solitude my mother speaks of. It sustains and protects me from my own thoughts. It makes me fully present.

I am like the desert, the mountains, and the Great Salt Lake. There are other languages spoken by the wind, water, and wings.

There are other lives to consider, like those of avocets, stilts, and stones. Peace is found in the patterns of nature.

When I see ring-billed gulls feasting on the flesh of decaying carp, I become less afraid of death.

We are no different from the life that surrounds us. My fears surface in isolation, but my serenity emerges in solitude.

Mimi. I thought we could heal ourselves and each other.

Devastation knows no bounds.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines cancer as "anything that frets, corrodes, corrupts, or consumes slowly and secretly."

A person diagnosed with cancer faces the terrifying realization that something monstrous is happening within their own body.

We view the tumor as something foreign, outside of ourselves. However, it is our own creation, the one we dread.

A buck shows us his fanny.

Am I imagining this? I ask my mother and hand her the binoculars. "Do you blame him?" she replies. "We are beautiful women."

Buddha said there are two kinds of suffering: the kind that leads to more suffering and the kind that brings an end to suffering.

Suffering reveals what we are attached to. Perhaps the umbilical cord between my mother and me has never been severed.

Dying doesn't cause suffering; resistance to dying does.

Maybe we project onto starlings the qualities we loathe in ourselves: our numbers, aggression, greed, and cruelty.

Like starlings, we are taking over the world.

I can contribute to the healing process of my own body. We can help ourselves through positive thinking.

In his book, he writes, "Death is not the enemy; living in constant fear of it is."

Our correspondences disclose where our intimacies lie. There is something sensual about a letter.

The physical contact of pen and paper, the time set aside to focus thoughts, folding the paper into the envelope, licking it closed, addressing it, choosing a stamp, and then sending the letter to the mailbox - all these are acts of tenderness.

For the first time in my life, I started to be fully present in the day I was living. I was alive.

My goals were no longer long-term plans; they were daily goals, which were more meaningful to me because at the end of each day, I could assess what I had accomplished.

I believe that when we are fully present, we not only live well ourselves but also for others.

How does a man honor a woman? He puts her on a pedestal and then expects her to get down.

There is a tension in my life between my need for privacy and the obligation I feel towards my family.

Maybe tonight we can go owling. It's a full moon, you know.

There has to be a lesson here.

Oh, Terry, please, just this once, let it be bad luck!

Focusing on her health, living, and surviving so she could raise her children. Along the way, she became much more philosophical.

I admire how she conserves her energy and understands her limitations.

Today, I feel stronger, learning to live within the natural cycles of a day and not expecting too much from myself.

As women, we carry the moon in our bellies. It's too much to ask to operate on full-moon energy every day of the year.

I'm in a crescent phase. And the energy we expend emotionally belongs to the hidden side of the moon.

Until you experience the process of facing death or the possibility of it, no one can truly know that there is something that takes its place. It goes beyond hope.

My mother's entire being is in overdrive. I see her insatiable curiosity intensify.

Her desire to soak up everything fresh, natural, and alive is magnified. She is like a bird touching both heaven and earth, flying with a newfound understanding of what it means to live.

She is reading Zen, Krishnamurti, and Jung, asking herself questions she never had the courage to explore before.

Suddenly, the shackles that have bound her are beginning to break, as personal revelation replaces orthodoxy.

Remember when I asked you what you believed in?

I believe in me.

City lights are a conspiracy against higher thought, I added.

Indeed, Wangari said, smiling, her rich, deep voice echoing. "I am Kikuyu. My people believe that if you are close to the Earth, you are close to people."

How so? I asked.

"What an African woman nurtures in the soil will eventually feed her family. Likewise, what she nurtures in her relationships will ultimately nurture her community. It's a matter of living in a circle."

Because we have forgotten our kinship with the land, she continued, our kinship with each other has weakened.

We shy away from accountability and involvement. We choose to be occupied, which is very different from being engaged.

He looked out over the vast body of water glistening with salt crystals. "Sure, this lake has a mind, but it cares nothing for ours."

If the new moon is defined as no moon or a dark moon, the curlew could be associated with destructive powers.

It was long believed that ghosts, goblins, and witches were at the peak of their power in the darkness of the moon.

But the flip side of darkness is light. The new moon is also the resurrected moon, soon to become a crescent, then a quarter, and finally full.

In many cultures, it is a time to sow seeds. During the waxing moon, all those things that need to grow are tended to.

Even in the darkness of the moon, there is growth. Plants do not thrive in the noonday sun but rather in the privacy of the new moon.

On these occasions, I keep a tight grip on my imagination. The pearl-handled pistol I carry in my car offers me no protection.

Only the land's mercy and a calm mind can save my soul. And it is here that I find grace.

I suck on oranges as the mountains begin to have an effect on me. This is why I always return. This is why I can always go home.

We wait.

I am suspended between the past and the future, held by a spider's filament stretched across a river.

"You still don't understand, do you?" Mother said to me. "It doesn't matter how much time I have left. All we have is now.

I wish you could all accept that and let go of your projections. Just let me live so I can die."

"To keep hoping for life in the midst of letting go is to rob me of the moment I am in."

You learn to let go. You learn to be an open vessel and let life flow through you.

"It's not that I'm giving up," she said. "I'm just going with it. It's as if I'm moving into another channel of life that allows everything in.

Suddenly, there's nothing more to fight. How can I advocate fighting for life when I'm learning from a woman who is teaching me how to let go?"

If you consciously hold three-quarters of your power within yourself and use only one-quarter to respond to any communication from others,

you can stop the automatic, immediate, and thoughtless outward movement that leaves you feeling empty, as if you've been consumed by life.

This halting of the outward movement is not self-defense but rather an attempt to have the response come from within, from the deepest part of one's being.

My refuge lies in my ability to love. If I can learn to love death, then I can begin to find refuge in change.

The ability to accommodate change, when so often we are immobilized by it.

I wonder how, among the Fremont, mothers and daughters shared their world. Did they walk side by side along the lake's edge?

What stories did they tell while weaving strips of bulrush into baskets? How did daughters bury their mothers and express their grief?

What were the secret rituals of women? I'm certain they must have been related to birds.

One night, a full moon watched over me like a mother.

The light was translucent, and the music was transcendent.

We usually recognize a beginning. Endings are more difficult to detect. Most often, they are only realized after reflection.

Silence. We are seldom aware when silence begins - it is only afterward that we realize what we have been a part of.

Mother and I break bread for the geese. We leave small offerings throughout the meadow.

It's bread made by the monks from stone-ground grain. She puts her arm through mine as we walk among the shoulder-high sunflowers.

We're never going to figure it all out, so we might as well acknowledge the intangibles. Who knows, maybe these trees do have souls.

To acknowledge that which we cannot see, to give definition to that which we do not know, to create divine order out of chaos - this is the religious dance.

Faith, to a college coed, was a rejection of knowledge, a passive act more like resignation than resolve.

"My darling, faith without works is dead." That's all I remember of our discussion.

But today, the idea of faith returns to me. Faith defies logic and propels us beyond hope because it is not tied 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 greater than our own.

Faith becomes a teacher in the absence of facts.

"Doesn't it feel good to cry?" and she replied, "Only if you know there is an end to your tears."

But the feeling I couldn't purge from my soul was that without a mother, one no longer has the luxury of being a child.

I have never felt so alone.

Dad and I rolled our eyes at the woman who had to be in control. It was funny. We remain true to our characters even in death.

We each spoke of our love for Mother, and she gently said, "I'm sorry I can't be with your feelings. It's very different for me." She didn't elaborate.

What does pain prepare us for? Emily Dickinson says, "Pain prepares us for peace."

Somehow, having the world soft and white makes this easier to bear. Nothing seems real.

The family is insulated from the outside world by the walls of this house. It feels holy.

"This is my death," I can hear Mother say. "Nobody else's. It belongs to me in the intimacy of my family."

"I don't know how to die," she said to me. "My mind won't let me rest. You are losing me. I am losing all of you."

I am reminded that what I adore, admire, and draw from Mother is inherent in the Earth.

My mother's spirit can be recalled simply by placing my hands on the black humus of the mountains or the lean sands of the desert.

Her love, her warmth, her breath, even her arms around me - they are the waves, the wind, the sunlight, and the water.

Something wonderful is happening. I'm so happy. Always remember, it is here, in this moment, and I had it.

Something extraordinary is happening to me. The only way I can describe it to you is that I am moving into a realm of pure feeling. Pure color.

Her hands remain unchanged, becoming more beautiful and expressive each day. Her fingers seem to lengthen, and her nails grow long.

We hold each other's hands, and I see and feel the years of my mother's nurturing: the hands that cradled me, cuddled me, stroked my head at birth;

the hands that bathed me, disciplined me, and combed my hair as a child; the hands that called me, prepared my food, wrote me letters, and loved my father's body;

the hands that worked in the garden on long summer days, planting marigolds for the fall.

These hands, even in death, are beautiful.

Death is no longer what I imagined it to be. Death is earthly, like birth, like sex, full of smells, sounds, and bodily fluids.

It is a confluence of transience and flesh.

Trust life. Understanding is love.

I began breathing with her. It started simply as a mirroring of her breath, taking the effort of her exhale, "ah...," and reflecting back a more peaceful expression, "awe...."

Mother and I became one. One breathing organism. Everything we had ever shared in our lives manifested itself in this moment, in each breath. Here and now.

Erich Fromm writes: "The whole life of the individual is nothing but the process of giving birth to himself; indeed, we should be full born when we die."

A blank spot on the map is an invitation to encounter the natural world, where one's character will be shaped by the landscape.

To enter the wilderness is to court risk, and risk favors the senses, enabling one to live well.

Songs were sung. More prayers were offered. And slowly my individual sorrow was absorbed into a sea of collective tears. We all wept.

I must question everything, even if it means losing my faith, even if it means becoming a member of a marginal tribe among my own people.

Tolerating blind obedience in the name of patriotism or religion ultimately costs us our lives.

One night, I dreamed that women from all over the world circled a blazing fire in the desert.

They spoke of change, how they hold the moon in their bellies and wax and wane with its phases.

They mocked the presumption of even-tempered belonging and made promises that they would never fear the witch within themselves.

The women danced wildly as sparks broke away from the flames and ascended into the night sky as stars.

Thank you, Terry.

If the last re-reading was 4 or 5, this one is 5 or 6, and it probably won't be the last.

It deepens with every visit.

Previous review: This was my fourth or fifth reading of Refuge and it remains one of the two dozen or so books that means most to me. It weaves together place - a part of the American West different than mine, but recognizable - spirit, science, and a sharp feminist sensibility that's uncompromising but not ideological. (No, Mormon feminism is not an oxymoron, though I'm sure that many Mormons would consider Williams' insistence that the Motherbody is as important as the Godhead heretical.

The core of Refuge is an ecological vision that encompasses nature, family, religion. We need all of the different approaches and angles of vision to apprehend the complexities of experience. No spoiler, but make sure you keep reading to the end, including the "epilog." I'm going to stop chattering and simply say that this is a book everyone should read. It offers a unique perspective on the world around us, combining elements of nature, spirituality, and feminism in a way that is both thought-provoking and engaging. Each time I read it, I discover something new and gain a deeper understanding of the themes and ideas presented. Whether you're interested in environmentalism, religion, or women's issues, Refuge has something to offer. It's a book that will stay with you long after you've finished reading it.

If you are in search of a book that can lull you to sleep at night, this one is truly excellent in every possible way.

I have a deep affection for the seamless combination of various elements such as nature, family, grief, love, feminism, and spiritualism within its pages.

What makes it even more interesting is that I recently took a trip to the Great Salt Lake, and coincidentally, I live right beside a (different) bird refuge.

Although it may not be a book that keeps you on the edge of your seat, constantly flipping the pages, it does possess a certain charm and goodness.

It offers a gentle and soothing read that can transport you to another world, allowing you to unwind and relax before drifting off to sleep.

Whether you are a nature lover, interested in family dynamics, or simply seeking a book with a touch of spirituality, this one has something to offer.

Give it a try and let it work its magic on you.

I read this book twice in 2002. Now, in May 2022, as I start reading her new book "Erosion", I find myself reflecting back on this one.

Terry Tempst Williams has had a profound impact on the way I perceive the world. Ever since I first read her work, she has continued to influence my thinking over the years. While she may be labeled an environmentalist, her writing stems from a feminine perspective, born out of true love and care. She poses deep questions and is extremely knowledgeable. Her view on living as part of the earth, taking care of it, speaking for it, and for all the beings that inhabit it, is not only evident in her words, beautiful writing, and creativity but also in how she models and lives her life. She resides in Utah and was raised Mormon, yet her faith has evolved into something entirely her own. In her latest book "Erosion", she has begun teaching at Harvard Divinity School and, as she put it, is "learning to learn a new way to pray".

This book delves into the experiences of her grandmother and mother, who both succumbed to breast cancer caused by pollutants in Utah's Salt Lake area. She weaves together her love for these women, her personal history, faith, deep care, creativity, and love for the land where she lives. Her writing is unique and enchanting. She speaks truth and wisdom, offering a different perspective from what we often hear.

I truly admire the way she writes and the work she does on behalf of all those who live on Gaia and the wonder of the land itself.

Even 20 years later, these topics still hold relevance. Breast cancer has become even more pervasive.

"Refuge" remains one of my all-time favorite books.

This book held great interest for me on multiple levels.

It delved into profound topics such as cancer, which is a harsh reality that affects countless lives. It also explored the complex web of life and death, making one reflect on the brevity and preciousness of our existence.

The mother/daughter relationships depicted added a layer of emotional depth, as these bonds are often filled with love, conflict, and growth.

The mention of birds and the Great Salt Lake brought a touch of nature's beauty and wonder, highlighting the cycles that govern the natural world.

The inclusion of nuclear testing in Utah added a historical and environmental dimension, making us aware of the consequences of human actions.

However, I must admit that I found the book extremely detailed and slow-paced. At times, it felt tiresome to get through the numerous descriptions and minute details.

Nonetheless, when I finally finished this book, it felt like an accomplishment.

I'm glad I read it as it provided me with a wealth of knowledge and made me think about various aspects of life and the world around us.

It was a challenging read, but one that was ultimately rewarding.

Williams' writing is, as always, of such remarkable beauty. It is truly a feat that she can pen something so enchanting that I find myself engrossed in reading about birds for numerous pages. However, upon closer inspection, it becomes evident that she is never truly writing about the subject matter that is directly in front of her. Instead, her work delves deep into the profound themes of loss and grief. Through her masterful use of language and imagery, she weaves a moving and poignant narrative that tugs at the heartstrings. Her ability to convey complex emotions and experiences in such a beautiful and accessible way is a testament to her talent as a writer. It is no wonder that her work is so highly regarded and continues to resonate with readers long after they have turned the final page.

I truly love Ttw.

As I observe her life, I am constantly struck by the numerous parallels that exist with my own.

Her deep and spiritual connection to the animals and the natural world is something that deeply resonates within me.

It makes perfect sense to me how she seems to understand and communicate with the creatures around her on a level that is beyond ordinary.

The way her mother's slow and painful passing is intertwined with the connection to the great salt rising adds another layer of depth and complexity to the story.

It creates a narrative that is both poignant and complete, drawing me in and making me feel a part of her journey.

Overall, Ttw's life is a source of inspiration and wonder for me, and I continue to be fascinated by the many aspects of her existence.

A nice book indeed, which is really easy to read. However, it has a drawback. It is too often saccharine, lacking in depth and substance. Williams, the author, has a habit that can be a bit tiresome. She loves to close a section with a trite one-liner that she hopes comes across as profound. But in reality, these one-liners often seem forced and unoriginal. They don't add much to the overall narrative and can even detract from the reading experience.

It's a shame because the basic story and the writing style have their merits. The book is engaging enough to keep the reader turning the pages. But if only Williams could break free from this tendency to rely on clichéd endings for each section, the book could have been so much better.

As it stands, it's an enjoyable read, but it doesn't quite reach the level of greatness that it could have achieved with a bit more thought and originality in those closing lines.

I read this book during my college years when I was just 20. As time went by, I sort of forgot about it. However, about a week before my dear mom passed away from cancer, it suddenly popped into my mind. It felt like fate had intended for me to read it again at that very moment. As William Nicholson so beautifully wrote, "We read to know we are not alone."

This book truly became a source of comfort for me. It helped me feel less alone as I accompanied my mom through the hospice, witnessed her final moments, and now, as I begin to navigate life without her by my side. The author's experience with her mother's cancer and subsequent death was astonishingly similar to my own. There were times when I had to stop reading, just sit there in silence, and shake my head in disbelief at the similarities.

I am incredibly grateful to have had this book to turn to when I needed it the most. It was like a precious gift that put my own complex and overwhelming feelings into such beautiful and meaningful words. It served as a guide, helping me to process and come to terms with the most difficult and painful time of my life.