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Thin Places: A Natural History of Healing and Home by Kerri ní Dochartaigh

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margaretpinard's review against another edition

dark emotional inspiring reflective sad medium-paced

4.0

This book felt like a distillation of a LOT of learning, pain, reflection, and courage. I appreciated hearing the author's view of and experiences during the Troubles, how she found solace in the liminal environments available to her, and then fought through the defensiveness her traumas had forced up on her in later life. It wiggled a bit in pacing, and I wish there had been more diving into the language of the thin places, the kinship felt with past inhabitants, but that's just my expectations burdening the narrative. Heartfelt memoir.

monalyisha's review against another edition

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challenging dark emotional hopeful informative reflective sad tense slow-paced

4.0

I feel strongly about this book as a physical object; I think it might be the prettiest book I’ve ever seen, with the gossamer wings of a moth gracing its cover. My feelings about the words inside are more complicated. The author tells of her life growing up in Ireland, specifically in Derry, at the center of the Troubles, in a mixed religion household. Her childhood home is bombed with her inside.

Though she and her family escape, the rest of her life is marked by this trauma and more. Her best friend is senselessly murdered when she’s 16, in a place (not Derry) that she’d just begun to think of as “safe.” She battles alcoholism, depression, and suicidal ideation, as well as physical illness. She struggles to escape abusive relationships with others and with herself.

Though she finds sanctuary in nature (especially in the water, as well as through a connection with winged things), this isn’t an easy book. The story the words tell isn’t an easy one. Neither are the words themselves easy; oftentimes, sentences are fractured, mirroring the brokenness inside. The teller is also unabashedly in love with certain ideas — liminal spaces, in particular (see: title) — and I think the voice of those ideas sometimes overshadows her own, unique voice.

I wish there had been more structure, too - that each chapter had been more like a separate essay. It almost feels as though each page is written like it’s the end of the book, like the language is coming together and everything is wrapping up, continually. But then…it doesn’t. It keeps going. It’s as if she has become so sick of boundaries that her words and her work have none of the typical ones I’ve come to expect. And that’s not wrong. It’s just not easy. Dochartaigh’s deep consciousness of language sometimes reads as affected; when it doesn’t, it dips, soars, and sparkles.

I struggled as a reader at times. But on some level, that feels sort-of right. I’m glad that the author has come to a place where she’s so herself and is no longer afraid if her story makes other people feel unsettled. Even if I was unsure about the particulars of the telling, I was never uninterested or unbothered. I would read more by Kerri ni Dochartaigh - with the foreknowledge that I’d need to be comfortable with moving through her words slowly and with patient attention - which, fittingly, is also what nature asks of us.

Content Warnings