I recently read an article in the New Yorker by Heidi Julavits. On the surface, it was an exploration of an active volcanic eruption in an accessible area of Iceland not far from the capital of Reykjavik.
The article accomplished many of the goals of excellent nature writing.
It faithfully reproduced difficult to spell Icelandic cities.
It delivered a sense of Icelandic outdoorsmanship and survivial skills through idioms and dialogue with memorable, eccentric locals.
It provided a highly specific, crisply rendered description of a remote and infrequently encountered geography.
But more than all of those things, it linked a volatile moment in geologic time to a near-universal human experience.
The author describes traversing a land bridge to arrive at a hill overlooking an active lava field one day, only to return the following day to find that access to the observation point has been cut off by a new flow of lava.
Newly formed land has cut her off from the vantage point she'd only recently enjoyed.
The change deeply depresses her, and she makes a connection between the completely predictable expectation that loss will eventually occur, and the difficulty of knowing how it will pain you when it strikes.
Over the past three weeks of family travel, I've witnessed my own children approach adolescence under a microscope. I've also known the advent of in-person schooling brings with it the prominence of peer friendships which will inevitably redefine our relationship.
I already dread what it will mean for me: feeling cut off from the inside observation point I've enjoyed until now.
Comments 2
Interesting. When I read the line “newly formed land… depressed her” I found it amazingly incongruous. She’s a “nature” writer and she witnessed “nature” going about it’s everyday business on a somewhat titanic scale (creation of new land) and found that depressing. Nature doesn’t care much about your expectations. It has other fish to fry. I find the creation of new land rather exciting. It sets into motion multiple propositions about what happens next.
I’ll leave you to consider the consequence regarding your children.
Author
I don’t do the article justice, and I assume all responsibility for the shortcomings of my summary. The majority of her writing is focused on the magnificence of witnessing a geologic event up close, in real-time. The turning point in the article is this inexplicable sadness she experiences when her unique vantage point is no longer accessible, and she loses her front row seat to change. That reverberates with this particular moment in fatherhood for me.
You think you are helping be a crutch for your kid during a pandemic when they are shut off from a lot of their support system, only to find that as they recover that support system and depend less on you, it turns out they were your crutch in the crisis.
I’m in the process of releasing and submitting to that new reality – but it feels like a gut punch to do so, even though, as you point out, nature and growth don’t care much about my expectations.
So I’m proud, a little sad, and mostly excited to see where my kids’ new wings take them.