First, the good stuff.
The last 80 or so pages are a treasure. One by one, the author describes each letter in the ancient Celtic Ogham script. Each symbol is a sacred tree. She describes their ecology, cultural meaning as well as their scientific context. Sacred hawthorn tea, taken for hundreds of years for hearbreak, is used today in cardiac medicine; gorse honey is an antiseptic.
This section is exactly everything I love: folklore, herbalism, celtic stuff, indigenous medicine, and science nerdery. It reminded me of Braiding Sweetgrass-- a beautiful marriage of the sacred and the scientific.
So why such a luke-warm rating, especially for me? (I'm a bit free and easy with the five-star ratings, because generally it takes a really engaging book for me to finish it).
Well, dear Diana's memoir reads more like a curriculum vitae or a grant proposal. "Through my innovative efforts and collaborative research, I was able to secure..." etc etc etc. But still, her research is fascinating. She is, like the title sort of hints, the Lorax. A nerdy, Irish, Canadian, scientific, tree-saving Lorax. But the chapters that describe her adult life have no narrative arc. Just-- "look at all this cool stuff I've done!" And yes! It's cool stuff! But a list of cool stuff you've done does not a memoir make!
But it's the earlier chapters about her childhood that soured me to the book. Did you ever read The Celestine Prophecy? or Mutant Message Down Under? Or, I dunno, Johnathan Livingstone Seagull? There are some books that claim to be true, but feel like lies.
That's the vibe I got.
Like there are some true things, but a lot of wishful thinking, and invented memory to fill in unflattering or confusing gaps.
There are some anecdotes that are so vivid, I am sure they are true stories-- being taught to dip warm fresh eggs in butter to preserve them. Seeing a flock of red-wing blackbirds eating wild rice. Hiding behind the chair after her mother's funeral. Studying in the coat closet at school. Her mother gifting her a box of paints. Showing her uncle the warts on her hand, and him healing them with potato water. Cutting up plant specimins and looking at every part under a microscope. I believed every word of those stories.
But many of the most romantic stories ring false. Not that they are impossible, but just that maybe the author WISHED they had happened this way, so beautifully and unambiguously and clearly. Maybe she WISHED that she had been adopted as the one and only true scion of a lost Celtic valley, and gifted the entirety of ancient celtic plant wisdom in the three summers she spent there with her aunt and uncle, and sent with a celtic women's blessing circle and ceremony complete with a prophecy about who she'd marry. Maybe she wished her aunt had woken her before dawn on Beltane to dance around a fairy alter and bathe her face with clover and watch the sunrise in the shining groove of the ancient stone. Maybe she really had a photographic memory and recited it out loud to the ominous nuns. Maybe her botany professor really did turn his entire work load over to her as a third year botany student, including teaching the third year botany classes.
I dunno. Maybe all those things really happened, and she just had a poor editor who didn't help her capture the vividness of those moments. But reading them, they rang false. Flat. Invented, not experienced.
I feel like memoir needs to be true-- not like a resume is true or a grant proposal is true, but like the things you'd whisper across the pillow to your lover are true. And even if a memoir is not a novel, the main character still needs to grow and change, and have some flaws in order to be sympathetic at all. Dr. Diana's main character has no flaws. She is first only a tragic victim of circumstance, and then a blessed orphan discovered and beloved for her uniqueness, adopted by magical Celtic seers and Canadian medicine women and admiring professors. I feel mean for doubting her! Life is full of crazy nonsense-- I've experienced absolutely fake-sounding stuff, and truth is often too nuts to put into a novel. But batshit-real-life experiences ring true. Invention doesn't. But it's just the vibe I get in the telling.
All in all, it's a cool book, and the information about trees and culture is just WONDERFUL. The reason this book is rubbing me wrong is that it isn't sure what genre it is. It's sciency, but also memoir-y, and also inspiring and spiritual.... Robin Wall Kimmerer braids those disparate strands together gracefully in Braiding sweetgrass. Here, they are awkwardly grafted into one genre-confused book.