Rising

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Elizabeth Rush. Rising

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PRAISE FOR ELIZABETH RUSH’S RISING

“Deeply felt … Rush captures nature with precise words that almost amount to poetry; the book is further enriched with illuminating detail from the lives of those people inhabiting today’s coasts…. Elegies like this one will play an important role as people continue to confront a transformed, perhaps unnatural world.”

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In a hundred years none of these trees will be here. No object thick with pitch to make the mind recollect. And if we do not call them by their names we will lose not only the trees themselves but also all trace of their having ever been. Looking at the bare tupelos at the farthest edge of Jacob’s Point, I am reminded of something John Bear Mitchell said when my students asked him how the Penobscot people of Maine have responded to centuries of environmental change. “Our ceremonies and language still include the caribou, even though they don’t live here anymore…. The change is in how we acknowledge them.” His response surprised my students. He seemed to be saying: learn the names now, and you will at least be able to preserve what is being threatened in our collective memory, if not in the physical world. His faith in language clearly eclipsed their own.

And then there is the pleasure of it. I like my excursions best when I am alone. Waking early to ride to a slender little marsh that most overlook. The wild blackberries, ripe from summer heat, seemingly fruiting just for me. The black needlerush dried in logarithmic spirals, and patches of salt marsh cordgrass that look like jackstraws and blowdowns in an aging forest. Both bearing the delicate trace of the last outgoing tide.

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