When a Book Finds You Again

Of the Week: What I'm reading and an uncanny coincidence

I like when a book will find me a second (or third, etc) time. These books I pay closer attention to, as they continue to return to me. On Monday, in

Alicia Kennedy

’s paid subscribers Salon,

Cameron Steele

mentioned METAPHYSICAL ANIMALS by Clare Mac Cumhaill and Raechel Wiseman in a thread that started with Jung and expanded outward. My brain leapt in recognition at Mac Cumhaill. The surname is shared by the hero of Irish legend Fionn (also known as Finn MacCool) who I read about for my recent zine. And then, thinking about Irish things, my brain leapt to Caoineadh Airt Uí Laoghaire (the Lament for Art Ó Laoghaire), a keen written in 1773 by Eibhlín Dubh Ní Chonaill that I originally read in Doireann Ní Ghríofa's book A GHOST IN THE THROAT. I read Ní Ghríofa's book first two or three years ago at the recommendation of my friend Jules Chung, a brilliant writer. The book (reviewed in NYR by Ange Mlinko) is a memoir of Ní Ghríofa's obsession with Eibhlín through translating the tragic love poem. I underlined many lines of the keen, including:

An ache, this salt-sorrow of mine,
that I was not by your side
when that bullet came flying,

and

Oh, my thousand bewilderments,
I'm dizzied by the loss of your company.

and

this grief will never be eases,
it weighs on my heart so brutally,
keeping it sealed so tightly
as a lock clasps a chest
whose golden key has been lost from me.

I can easily assign meaning to why this book and poem found me in late 2024, a year of grief. The poem is a scream. I find consolation in letting a 251-year-old poem soothe me, thinking of the lineage of people who have also found solace in the same lines. Not solace from the grief, but from the perceived isolation.

November 2, 2021

After I wrote the above paragraph, I opened Photos and searched “ghost in the throat,” wondering if I’d taken a picture of the book when I first read it. Seven photos resulted. I opened one, placing myself: That was my old backyard wall, the gold bracelet on my wrist has since broken, my painted nails. Then the date: Nov 2, 2021. Chills spread down my arms and I dropped my head in my hands as I realized today is Nov 1. I cried for three years ago, and for now. My physical response was immediate and somewhat startling and I also felt a bit silly. I can’t help it. In the face of a coincidence this uncanny I feel the size of the universe and then travel back to earth, like a balloon deflating. It’s disorienting and orienting at the same time.

Books can be a grounding agent, and a reminder that the whole world and all realms are still out there, ever turning. The unendingness can be terrifying, and it folds me into itself and keeps me warm, nestled in a universal, unfolding history.

November 1, 2024

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The Good Enough Weekly comes out on Fridays, alternating essays and shorter updates. I also take on freelance editing and writing projects. Reach out if you’re looking for help in those departments — I’ve worked on everything from zines to textbooks.