Lately I come across stories that choose the Land as a character, such is the case of the following two novels: When women were birds (2012), by Terry Tempest, and I sing and the mountain, dance (2019), by Irene Solá. Tempest is Californian and Mormon and Solá was born in a rural town near Barcelona. Both give voice to the consequences of ecological deterioration and make men and animals speak. In addition, they touch on themes such as pain, joy, motherhood and death.
Terry, an activist who takes care of nature with her actions and words, also reflects on the creative process and the power of words and their absence. Her novel When Women Were Birds stems from her mother’s singular legacy: a blank diary. The empty space invites her to think about how the voice and silence of women are constructed and she writes: “I am writing the creation of my own voice through the blank pages that my mother inherited from me. Transgression is transmission… Word for word, women’s language often begins with a whisper” and once it reaches a higher pitch it deserves to be heard no matter who is speaking it; when the decibels drop, women, but also men, find themselves.
AloneFor his part, he chooses a nostalgic and painful tone, linking the sounds that unite the evolution of men and that of nature. Thus, the word discovers beautiful things and those that are not. The author, in this irresolvable duality, proposes the natural space as a refuge and tells us about an orphan girl who lives on a mountain in the Pyrenees among choruses of life and death, just like others dispossessed by the Spanish Civil War. Later, she changes her voice and we listen to the raindrops, the animals or the town sheriff. On the way we feel the healing power of the plants and the force of the water. But all the time the sobs of human tragedy are heard. Perhaps Irene can show this complex print because she is a plastic artist and she spent her childhood there. She knows the noises of the wind and the creaks of the mountain. Just like Terry, she continues to be amazed by the Utah rocks or the sorority of Mormon women.
This symphony of images and sounds that the two writers refer to is everywhere because in the middle of the asphalt the roots continue to make their way to show us their greenery. So why are we still few of us who see the signs that point to the place where we can be saved? Don’t know. But this type of literature is part of that signage. I also know that if we continue indifferent, it will soon be too late, and the longed-for place will be a place that will only exist in memory.
While we know others are convinced, I maintain that reading a good book is equivalent to suffering or enjoying a story with meaning; and if, in addition, between those words we come across beauty, the author can feel satisfied. That happened to me reading Irene and Terry because their stories invite us to see the Land mimicking their looks. I reaffirmed my conviction that listening to it with a capital letter, like the you with which his name begins, is indispensable. Helping her is helping us. Perhaps reading and writing is not enough to raise awareness, but I am sure that it supports and disseminates the work of those of us who are already convinced. Read, see and soon you will act, if you don’t succeed, restart.
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