Miss Peregrine and other thoughts on defense and attack and being open

I just finished reading, well, galloping through, Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children, by Ransom Riggs, and was amazed to find that I, this nonlover of fantasy, sci-fi, at all, was totally engrossed in this story. Full of adventure and angst, and relationships, and mystery, and fear and you name it, including some of my personal water-related fears, which I managed to read through anyway, it was a day of adventure.  

There's an element of Cassandra in it, too, speaking the truth and not being believed.  And an element of heroism, undertaken by a hero who does not see himself as any such thing. And a righting of wrongs, to some extent. And shape shifting, that ancient trope, seen all the way back to Greek and preColumbian mythology, used for very much the same purposes, too. And time shifts, which I usually find very irritating, very superficial, are here treated by a writer with much greater ability than the ones I've previously encountered who wrote in this style.  

It's not just a gimmick, the kind that annoyed me in previous attempts at scifi using time travel, but a pivotal idea in the novel.  He doesn't set up each part of time to mock the others and make fun of their primitive ways, nor have the earlier travelers gaping in wonder at how marvelous modern people are.  He knows that to everyone, when they lived was just how life was. They didn't dress in costumes and look quaint with their cute hand tools.  They just got dressed and went to work.  He has respect, is what I think I'm trying to say.

And it reminded me to be open to just trying books I come across even if they're in a category I thought I wouldn't like.  Sometimes I find I've missed something good.  I'm pretty good at giving things a try, but this was a little departure.  I thought I didn't much like books with modern Asian settings until I read a few of them. Some excellent Korean and Japanese and Chinese writers enlightened me on that point.

This morning's sighting on a walk on a grey, cold, raw morning: well, not a sighting, more a hearing.  A Carolina wren in the tree right above me, calling, and being answered by another wren from across the street.  Aha.  Soon there may be nesting and young to feed, and the squirrels, even Butternut Boy,  will be driven from the feeders if they get anywhere near a nest with babies.  

I've seen a tiny pair of wrens completely rout a sturdy squirrel who ventured too close, one pecking his head, the other his tail, as he galloped away.  They didn't stop until he was completely vanquished and hiding in the trees down the street.  Then they figuratively dusted off their beaks and went back to providing dinner for the family. Squirrels have pretty long memories, and once handled roughly by a pair of wrens, they don't come back, and their friends don't either, until the young have fledged and the danger is past.

So there we are, still listening to Richard Rohr and learning to let go, bit by painful little bit.  And seeing Josie George on Instagram, a long interview about her new book A Still Life, out in the UK, not available in the US yet, in any form.  She's a transformational thinker, not setting herself up to be one, she just is one.  

I follow her on Twitter, and am daily struck by the casual wisdom she expresses.  A person acquainted lifelong with disability and pain and restriction and yet able to create a life within tiny boundaries for herself, her son, and her long distance partner.  And to do it with grace and fun and humor, it's amazing to witness.  And recently, she's discovered miniature making, and is very excited about it.

 Her blog Bimblings,  here  is well worth checking into. Go there, you'll like her.