The Red Book
musings on symbolism and the Earth's power to absorb our stories
Hello my friends!
Earlier this week, while weeding, I came upon my college 35th reunion “Red Book,” officially known as The Class Report.1 Every five years, prior to each reunion, we receive this inch-thick tome containing missives from many of my 1600 or so classmates. 2
I’d forgotten that after skimming some of the entries after I received it last spring, I brought it out to the garden. The reality is that while I submit a short summary of my life for others to read, I am completely overwhelmed by the narratives this book contains, just as I was completely overwhelmed by Harvard itself. As someone with lifelong undiagnosed anxiety (until a few years ago) and a propensity to distraction, the energy outside my safe suite with my core friends was often too much.
Anyway, it doesn’t surprise me that I uncovered the Red Book this week, as this is the time of year I tend to manage memory and meaning associated with all manner of stuff. In fact, it was in October 2017 that, just below where this red book now stands, I composted most of my notes from my college classes, mixing and mingling them with coffee grinds and filters from Umpleby’s Bakery & Cafe as well as other detritus from the garden.
Circled in red: Call to Life. And just above, notes about a toothache and shortsightedness. How fitting is that, given the politics of the time,3 though I’m sure this was in reference to some pre-Raphaelite master. But also how fitting to notice the threads - - It was symbolism that captured my imagination when studying art history and it continues to be symbolism that inspires me every day.
So here is The Red Book, slowly decomposing into the garden. I love how the lines of the pages mirror the lines in the tree’s bark and how the base of the stump and the base of the book are blurred together in dark shadow. I wonder what they’re talking about?
Anyway, this is the time of year I ‘put the garden to bed’ before the first frost. For years, that job included turning the compost and moving much of it into the garden before winter.4
So yes, in fact, it was this week five years ago that I composted my Harvard and University of Virginia diplomas, a few weeks shy of my 30th Reunion. If finding The Red Book isn’t symbolic of something, I don’t know what is!
Clearly, my relationship to this institution is complicated. Perhaps it’s the fact that I wouldn’t exist if my parents hadn’t met there decades ago and that I’m writing this post on what would have been their 66th wedding anniversary.
Or, perhaps it’s the fact that I continue to practice one of the essential skills I learned in Cambridge - - to ask hard questions and to expect that the answers will only lead to more questions.
It’s all too connected for words!
But words, and the power they can wield, are what this is ultimately all about. There are the words that comprise my classmates’ narratives in The Red Book; There are the words on my diplomas, Bachelor and Master, that caused me such dissonance; And there are all those damn words we were supposed to know for the SATs in order to get into Harvard.5
And there are the words in the news every day reminding us that even though we are considered the most powerful nation on the planet, we have still not resolved core social, economic and environmental issues that plague us, including gun violence, sexual harassment, extreme economic inequalities and the climate crisis.
Oh dear, I’m getting awfully worked up. Time for some visual joy. Aren’t fall flowers and the pollinators they attract intoxicating?
It is for them, after all, that I’ve been transforming our property from grass to garden for over a decade. The place where I was weeding earlier this week and where I buried my college notes is in fact a layered ‘mound’ of compostable matter that is finally ready to be planted.
I’m thinking ferns, Solomon’s Seal, and wild geranium…yet another example of the power of compost to nourish new life, and the layers of ‘stuff’ that make it all happen.
And just to continue this digression, and pick up on the topic of my parents, my parents gave us two Adirondack chairs when we first moved to Hanover in 2003. Sadly, they started to fall apart (the chairs, not my mom and dad), so being me I added them to the ‘mound’ and, over time, they, like everything else, have been absorbed and reprocessed into soil.
Every time I look at these images I feel deep gratitude to the Earth for her capacity to keep absorbing all aspects of our lives, including us.
Which brings me back to The Red Book and the power of words, especially the stories we tell about ourselves - - those we share with others and those that drive us from deep within, but we rarely acknowledge, even to ourselves.
Which leads me to wonder who actually submits material to the Class Report and who does not? And why? And whose voices do we not hear, not just in The Red Book, but in our lives? Perhaps that’s another reason I started 13 Tons of Love - - As I approach my 60th birthday (in a few years), I realize there are many voices, including my own, that have been too quiet for too long.
In my case, the hidden narrative that has kept me relatively quiet has something to do with expectations, impossible standards for success, and years of being afraid of everything, from snakes to large dark windows at night, from large groups of people in small spaces to conflict of any kind.
Clearly, though, I’ve never been afraid of having something small, like a red book or perhaps a blue wool sock, represent something much larger, like issues surrounding elitism, the stories we tell, fast fashion and/or the power of regeneration, transformation and renewal.6
Wow, you’re still here! Thank you for sticking with me to almost the end of this post!
Before we meet again, perhaps you might consider what objects and narratives in your life are ready to be composted. What do these things and stories represent to you? My hunch is there is symbolism all over the place and you won’t have to look far to find it. If inspired, please share your micro-moment in the comments section below!
You can be sure I’ll continue this train of thought and these kinds of images next week. Stay tuned…But this photograph of Leaping Lilly might give a clue, as she’s jumping over some books that are just a few feet away from the subject of this entire post…
As always, thank you for sharing your time and this space with me.
With cheers and gratitude for you being you,
Lyn
And if you find this inspiring, please share 13 Tons of Love with others!
Reunions occur every five years, so you can imagine how gripping the stories must be. In 2012, my classmate, Deborah Copaken, wrote a novel based on these stories called The Red Book. You can follow her at
- - I have always admired and to be honest, been intimidated by Deborah’s forthright and frighteningly confident way in the world. But at this stage in my life, I really appreciate her willingness to speak uncomfortable truths.Don’t get me started on all that paper and the energy it takes to send these books around the country and the globe. It’s a tradition, but I wonder if this tradition might be re-imagined to ensure less impact on the earth…Of course, if it were electronic, there would be all the energy necessary to store the information in ‘the cloud.’ My generation really has created some crazy conundrums!
Ronald Reagan, the president who inspired unfettered capitalism, was in power when I wrote all these notes and Donald Trump had been in office less than a year when I buried them. As you might imagine, I am more of a Jimmy Carter kind of person, valuing his honesty and deep humility - - by the way, Happy 99th Birthday! President Carter, back in 1976 you gave me hope in ‘the system’ (I was only 10). I was grateful for someone in power who told the truth and had a strategy to ensure we would not have to cope with another oil embargo, impeachment or other scandal.
As you may remember from previous posts, we had to stop composting our food waste a while back when a bear got into our composter. Once a bear finds a source of food, it always returns, and that is not a good thing when you live in a neighborhood very close to town!
I know for a fact that if anything, my SAT scores and my imperfect academic record were not what gained me entry to Harvard. In addition to my clearly being a legacy (it goes back generations before my parents), I had things to say, like during my interview I was able to have a deep and thoughtful conversation about the threat of nuclear war, the roll of the nuclear freeze, and the importance of honesty. I really knew how to have fun, eh?
This is why I call myself a Micro-Climate Photographer. I am interested in all those micro-moments that put larger and often overwhelming circumstances into context. Showing up to compost over years says something about the power of individual action, especially in a democracy; A blue sock in the compost pile invites conversation about fast fashion, the Fiber-Shed, international trade and other stuff (like where does the dye come from?). I find these smaller narratives so much more accessible than large landscapes of big stuff that feel extremely remote.
"It’s all too connected for words!" - *the* quote of the week!
Lyn! This is beautiful. And meaningful. And I thank you for your kind words and gorgeous art. xx, D