The Long Way Home by Louise Penny is a balm for the soul

Evening on the North Shore by Clarence Gagnon

The Long Way Home (A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel) by Louise Penny is the tenth installment in the series. All of them I have loved (with the possible exception of #9). None of them have I written about, until now.

The reason may have as much to do with laziness as with my feelings about the actual books, or it may be that this one finally unearthed what it is I adore about Ms. Penny's novels.

In the Long Way Home, the author employs repetition of an old spiritual to coax the reader into the book: There is a Balm in Gilead.

There is balm in Gilead,
To make the wounded whole;
There's power enough in heaven,
To cure a sin-sick soul.

At first I thought it just sounded nice. But as the characters in the book repeated it, the deeper meaning began to surface. It felt like a meditation. I noticed that I was unwittingly repeating it throughout the day, and in the quiet moments before sleep. I wasn't sure exactly what it meant, but as the author asked me to explore its meaning vis a vis the characters, and as the story moved onward, I was liking the way it made me feel.

There is a balm in Gilead.

In the book, Ms. Penny talks about how art (mostly paintings - the characters' as well as Clarence Gagnon's, figure prominently is this story - but also sculpture, poetry and song) can convey a feeling. The art itself may be considered good or bad, may be misunderstood or defy understanding, but it is felt.

It finally dawned on me, THAT is why I love the Gamache books. They are good books. I've loved the characters, and the setting of the Quebecois village of Three Pines from the beginning. However, there is also something more, something I couldn't quite put my finger on, that attracted me to the books, seduced me. It grew stronger as I read the series.

The Gamache books subtly transmit feelings. Feelings about creativity, fear, hope, trust, love and redemption. Feelings about life, and something greater than that. I'm still reaching for words to describe it. I may be for quite some time.

There is a balm in Gilead. To make the wounded whole.

While the hymn is Christian in origin, I think it can be viewed through the lens of any religion or philosophy. I viewed it in a yogic way, as a mediation. I've just finished the Long Way Home, so what the meditation means to me will continue to expand. For now, it is a balm for this soul.

There is a balm in Gilead.

Photo credit: Irina

How I get my poetry

Much to my own consternation, I don't read poetry often. I really want to, I just don't know how. I mean, what do you do, check a book of poetry out of the library and plough through it? And, most poetry I simply don't get. What is it about? What is the poet trying to say? Is there symbolism that I'm not getting? Every once in a while though, I happen upon a poem that DOES it for me. It transfixes me, even transports me, in a way that usually only a novel can.

How does one happen upon a poem, you might wonder? In my case, it is usually a character in a book that points out a poem or a poet. In Alexander McCall Smith's Isabel Dalhousie series, Isabel loves W.H. Auden and is often reminded of his poems as she goes about her daily life as an Edinburgher, a mother, an editor of a philosophical journal, and a person who is well known for getting mixed up in other people's business. (For those, who like me, know precious little about poetry, you might remember W.H. Auden as the poet read during the funeral portion of the film Four Weddings and a Funeral. Think: He was my North, my South, my East and my West.)

I recently read A Trick of the Light by Louise Penny. Ms. Penny's Chief Inspector Gamache series includes a poet as a character. In addition to Ruth Zardo's poetry throughout the series, A Trick of the Light features a poem by Stevie Smith that was used to evoke the state of mind of one of the main characters in the story, Clara Morrow. I loved this poem, and as rarely happens, I also GOT it, so I thought I'd share:

Not Waving but Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

What do you think of the poem? Can you remember poems from books that you loved? Please share!

Photo Credit: Alvaro GL