Animal Dreams

Animal Dreams by Barbara Kingsolver speaks to the universal feeling of being lost within oneself without even comprehending the tragedy of that small negligence. In it, protagonist Codi Noline returns to the town that raised her in an effort to regain some familiarity in her life after her sister Hallie leaves for South America. She is reacquainted with her father, her childhood friends, and Loyd, all of whom push her to acknowledge who she is and stop avoiding herself and what she is capable of. I hesitate to use the word "destiny" because it is an absurd concept, but in a way, Codi is faced with committing to life as her destiny.


At one point it irritated me that Codi was turning into another character wrapped up in a gauze of aimlessness and I worried Kingsolver would send her on a quest to find her spirit animal or have a dream of her destiny in the desert, dehydrated and sunburned. Rather, without neglecting the importance of solitude, Kingsolver allowed Codi to renew her value and self-worth in the company of folks who could point her along the way without doing the work for her. Her friend Emelina, Emelina's mother Viola, Loyd and his mother, the ladies of the Stitch and Bitch Club, her own addled father, and from a distance, Hallie's letters, all had profoundly quiet influence on pulling Codi out of her habit of avoidance of who she was capable of being and who she was worthy of loving. Loyd, for all his physical loveliness and his habit of being a bit of a recluse, was able to tell her that "It's one thing to carry your life wherever you go. Another thing to always go looking for it somewhere else."

Woven into Codi's story is a brief foray into the sustainability movement as the town of Grace grapples with a devastating (and human-made) environmental catastrophe. As she idolizes her sister for her heroics in the field of sustainable and indigenous farming in Nicaragua, she is faced with her own monumental task: being the instrument for people who have become foliage in the memories of her childhood. She is caught unawares by the gravity of her involvement and simply moves forward because it is what is required of her. It seems that if a task isn't outrageously difficult or effective on a global scale, Codi doesn't see the heroic value in it. It takes the entire community, each person contributing a small action or comment to get Codi to realize that living her life with people who truly value her and her skills is heroic, even if she doesn't think so. To honor the value others see in you is often the most difficult task.

Kingsolver, master at the ache we place upon our own hearts, is also master of using the setting of her stories to reflect the characters and the story itself. I love the setting of the American Southwest (in this case, the fictional town of Grace, Arizona; how fitting and lovely!). Kingsolver uses the background as an allegory of the beauty of human emotional suffering, as well as the physical suffering of a marginalized indigenous community. The haunting wind and parched land that annually give way to the beauty of desert flora makes for a delightfully spiritual place for such a quiet and meaningful story.

Animal Dreams reinforced for me the joy of Barbara Kingsolver's stories of heartbreak and emotional redemption. Her tales of the American Southwest always carry a detail of desperate loneliness with them that makes them stand apart as complete and separate things; yet they never actually do break your heart. She manages to uplift the reader without being trite or saccharine and make you feel as if you'd earned the entire book's secrets and trust. It is with reverence that I delve into each new Kingsolver book, for the quiet themes, the lovely characters, and the fragile matter of deep human love.