Must the phrase “coming of age” be reserved for adolescence? Like the oft-pigeonholed “midlife crisis,” we do ourselves a disservice when we relegate soul-testing personal growth to succinct rites of passage predicated solely by a fellow’s (or a gal’s) physical age. Kate Evans’ memoir is a series of comings-of-age, one after another like waves lapping onto the shoreline. We get to tag along on her womanly surfboard as she transmutes angst and confusion into expansive revelation and self-actualization. Or at least… acceptance, in the interim.
One of my favorite lines: “I didn’t want to live a small life, huddled in a cocoon because it felt safe. Weren’t cocoons meant to be temporary?”
Her epiphanies are shared in a highly approachable way. I think that memoir, far from being self-indulgent, is the most humble teaching format because the author is saying “hey, here’s my experience—maybe you’ll find pearls that resonate, or maybe you won’t. But I share it nonetheless for the benefit of those who might.” There is no proselytizing going on here, and no pretense anywhere in sight. Yet it’s chock full of useful take-aways. What human hasn’t been fraught with angst, at one time or another, over emotional entanglements with others (or within herself)? We can never glean too many perspectives on becoming self-sovereign and happy.
Particularly, I loved how she incorporates ideas and experiences that might be considered “woo-woo”—like communication with the dead, seeing people’s auras, out-of-body experience, clairaudience. But she never uses such terminology. She just mentions these things as a casual observer of occasional “woo-woo” infusions into her otherwise normal/extraordinary life. (Which is perfect, since extrasensory anomalies are more “normal” than we normally assume!)
If you love memoir, you’re likely to eat this one up, because it’s beautifully word-crafted, terminally honest and rich with vicarious adventure. It’s vaguely reminiscent of “Eat, Pray, Love” but this protagonist may be slightly more relatable in some ways. Come to think of it, early on in her timeline it’s more like “Love, Eat, Kvetch”—but who amongst us hasn’t been THERE? Have your tissues at-the-ready because “Call it Wonder” has the power to evoke strong emotion—and that, I believe, is the ultimate raison d'être of art.
The author does something rather daring and delicate by frequently intermixing time frames and tenses, but manages to pull it off. It’s not nearly as disorienting as the movie “Memento” in its slicing and dicing of linear reality, though. In fact, it’s quite clever. It pulls you in, necessitating that you really pay attention in order to keep up. I’m sure that this could be a sticking point for some, but in a world that sometimes appears to be “dumbing itself down” in a literary sense, I say, hey, more power to you, Ms. Evans!