Hurricane Ida reconfigured the willow tree in our backyard, titling it about 15 degrees to the left of where it used to stand. As a result—something to do with the new angle of exposure?—my children Julien and Camille suddenly discovered that they can climb it, and now they'll spend a couple hours a day just sitting up in its branches.
I've been enjoying teaching my Ecological Thought seminar this semester, weaving together poems such as Ada Limón's "Overpass" and selections from Layli Long Soldier's Whereas, as well as Jamaica Kincaid on her garden, into the discussions of the main books we've been reading.
This past summer I wrote a new book on fly fishing, for a just-about-to-launch series called Practices, edited by Margret Grebowicz. It's a short book on a lifelong obsession, and it was so much fun to write—even though the prospect of it intimidated me, at first. The fishing book genre is full, and varied. And it turns out to be incredibly challenging to write about something that has been an ineffable pursuit, a practice more than a pastime, for much of one's life.
A piece related to my fly fishing book was published at Terrain, after Hurricane Ida hit. My fly fishing book also follows up on a few pieces I've written in the past, including my chapter in the book Veer Ecology, and an essay I wrote for Sierra on fly tying. The book also tunnels into a strain of my earlier book Searching for the Anthropocene: the creeping feelings of solastalgia.
