Small Wonder, by Barbara Kingsolver.

Having already written a “Poisonwood Bible,” Kingsolver again delivers a sacred text, or a text about things sacred.

In the opening and title essay Kingsolver tells the story about a she-bear that suckled and saved a lost child. Small wonder that a bear could do that. Small wonder that a bear was even there, in a time of decreasing species diversity. Kingsolver’s job, she says, is to wrest meaning from such parables, and to create new cultural myths for an age short on stories (stores) of kindness and hope. Could it be that our enemies aren’t what we perceive? Could it be we were guilty of turning our backs on the lost child? From there, Kingsolver writes about the grace of the Grand Canyon and other natural wonders, the virtues of knowing our place (hers is a hollow in Appalachia), and the risks and rewards of dissent after 9/11.

In another parable, she tells how her daughter’s raising chickens has led to lessons about where food comes from, about sustainability, and about participating in the family economy. She argues persuasively about why we should get our news from places other than the TV. Since the medium is primarily visual, it can’t delve into issues like global warming. She also argues for raising self-reliant daughters and against denying our biological connection to each other and the earth. Throughout the essays run common themes: the need to tell good stories, the need to take care of each other and the earth, and the need to simplify our needs. Could our own wastefulness have gotten us into this mess, she seems to be asking, and why aren’t our leaders talking about it? The answers to our problems, however, can be can be found less in the board or war room than in our own homes and backyards, and in the pieces (peaces) of wild things we can stake our hearts onto.

Writing is Kingsolver’s way of “giving blood in a crisis,” and the royalties from the book will go charity. For those dissatisfied with our current national and political discourse, you may need this “infusion” the way the dying patient needs blood. Kingsolver blends the keen eye of the naturalist with the persuasive technique of the storyteller, the acerbity of the social critic with the idealism of an activist, the sparkling wit of the raconteur with the gentle voice and concern of a mother. Amidst grand schemes and dark corners, she celebrates small wonders, and “the possibility of taking heart.”