Dear Reader,
During the late nineties, I was a member of a small but intense writing group with author Ranae Hanson. Her work while there thrilled me. Her essays were lyric, powerful, personal, and revolved around her experience of growing up in a remote and beautiful area nourished by lakes and rivers. She showed no interest, however, in getting them published.
When I asked why, I recall she
said that the places she wrote about were too sacred to share. They needed to
be protected. They were vulnerable to man’s predation. Her response puzzled me.
Shouldn’t we celebrate the beauties of this world? Share our love of this world
with others? Reveal our perceptions?
At the time, I didn’t know how
deeply she cared about the earth and the environmental crises it faced. I
accepted that it was enough that she share her gifts by teaching immigrants and
the underprivileged to write.
When she suddenly became deathly
ill with severe Type I diabetes, she began to recognize how closely the
planet’s struggle with climate change mirrored her struggle with diabetes.
First symptoms: drought, and thirst. The melting of the glaciers and permafrost,
her bodily cells malfunctioning. The rising sea and scarcity of potable water,
her body overwhelmed by need and so on.
The book's jacket can perhaps best
explain how Hanson structured her memoir. Rich shades of green, black, and
gold, capture a meandering river that weaves in a southerly direction through a
densely wooded landscape.
The contents wander in much the
same way. From childhood memories to climate refugees’ experiences. From the
violent intersection of devastating personal illness with the trauma nature
suffers from mankind’s ignorance and greed. The search to understand what’s
happening and taking steps to undo or mitigate the damage. And peppered
throughout Hanson meditative reflections and guides to ponder and use in our
own journey through the watershed of our lives.
Watershed reminds me of the way sunlight can pierce the evening’s approaching darkness, shimmering through leaves and across pastures and farmland, lighting the joy in a child’s eyes, sharpening shadows, and softening night’s approach.
