It has been so long since I actually read any Beatrix Potter that I barely remembered the stories at all. I have only a vague recollection of moles, hedgehogs, rabbits, mice, and sparrows wearing bonnets, aprons, and slippers; living in cottages, burrows, and villages; and having adventures. I remember watching the animated version of “Peter Rabbit” and feeling terrified when the farmer nearly shot him. When my dad recently started reading some Beatrix Potter stories to one of the youngest members of the family, I felt like the character General Woundwort in a climactic scene of Watership Down:
“For a moment some old, flickering, here-and-gone feeling stirred in the General’s memory — the smell of wet cabbage leaves in a cottage garden, the sense of some easy-going, kindly place, long forgotten and lost.” (Watership Down, pg. 452)
I love how that line captures the elusiveness and concreteness of memory.
One of the stories my dad read aloud was “Squirrel Nutkin.” Potter writes with a delightful particularity about the miniature, earthy world of little creatures: the “little rafts of twigs” that the squirrels use to cross a lake, with their tails serving as sails; the “little thread of blue smoke from a wood fire,” a present of “six fat beetles” which were “wrapped up carefully in a dock-leaf, fastened with a pine-needle pin,” and my favorite, Squirrel Nutkin playing ninepins with “a crab apple and green fir-cones.” The story is something between folktale, cautionary tale, and comedy: mischievous Squirrel Nutkin flirts with disaster by mocking, teasing, riddling, and pestering Old Mr. Brown, the owl, until the owl snaps.
On one level, it reads as a classic Victorian morality tale about the danger of disrespecting authority and the importance of hard work. On another level, I wonder if it echoes older stories of archetypes like the Trickster and the Miraculous Escape. The pattern of the story is rhythmic, like a fairy tale: there are seven days, seven gifts, disaster, and then deliverance.
Beatrix Potter, Richard Adams, Kenneth Grahame, and A.A. Milne are directly responsible for my love for the English countryside. Creatures and landscape features like badgers and hedges, moles and stone cottages sometimes feel more real to me than the features of my own region. Their work makes me want to run out and do the same for New England’s landscape: capture details like the glorious reds of of autumn, the sapphire glow of lakes and rivers in the twilight, and the sweet, haunting smell of fallen leaves.
Beatrix Potter left her mark on C.S. Lewis and J.R.R Tolkien, too. I love Tolkien’s mention of “Peter Rabbit” in his essay, “On Fairy-Stories.” He points out that even in a simple children’s story is a hint of the Fall: Peter Rabbit breaks a prohibition by trespassing in a garden, is forced to leave his coat behind, and falls ill (symbolic echoes of Adam and Eve and the Garden of Eden).
C.S. Lewis had a fascinating response to Squirrel Nutkin. In his book Surprised by Joy, he describes it as the second glimpse of that feeling he calls Joy, “an unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other satisfaction”:
The second glimpse came through Squirrel Nutkin; through it only, though I loved all the Beatrix Potter books. But the rest of them were merely entertaining; it administered the shock, it was a trouble. It troubled me with what I can only describe as the Idea of Autumn. It sounds fantastic to say that one can be enamored of a season, but that is something like what happened; and, as before, the experience was one of intense desire. (Surprised by Joy, pg. 16-18).1
Lewis captures inexpressible feelings so beautifully. “The Idea of Autumn” is a simple, profound way of articulating that longing stirred up by copper, scarlet, and amber canopy; the blaze of early sunsets; and the chilly nights under the lantern-like Hunter’s Moon and Beaver Moon.
Daniel and Esther: The People of God in the Halls of Power
For the past few months, my church’s sermon series has focused on the book of Daniel, and our women’s Bible study is going through Esther. None of the church leaders planned this, so the way these books complement each other has been a wonderful surprise. Daniel and Esther are both exiles in Babylon; both end up in kings’ palaces and positions of power; both are threatened by forces that hate God’s people; both have to stand up before thrones and speak the truth. Both books showcase the incredible opulence, luxury, and decadence of the empires that swallowed up the rebellious remnant of Israel. Daniel sees King Nebuchadnezzar make a gold state 60 cubits high; the entire first chapter of Esther describes a magnificent banquet in detail, right down to the white cotton curtains, mother-of-pearl floors, and gold and silver vessels.
Against the backdrop of pagan power and pagan wealth, Daniel and Esther had to stand firm and make courageous choices. Daniel’s three friends were thrown into a fiery furnace for refusing to worship the gold statue. Esther had to go before the king unsummoned, risking her life, to eventually plead for her people. One thing that’s become clear in our study is the role of faith: “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1b). Faith guided these two characters and others to act based on the invisible reality of God’s greater kingdom amid the drama of powerful earthly kingdoms.
Another grand theme of both books is remembrance. They are both very careful and detailed records in themselves, as well as records of record-keeping: edicts from kings that cannot be revoked, important letters sent to every province of a vast empire, and books of chronicles that are read aloud at key moments. Esther ends with repeated admonitions to remember the Jews’ deliverance from Haman’s edict with the festival of Purim. Rituals of remembrance like holidays, feasting, and gifts keep God’s goodness and His promises fresh in our minds, pointing us towards hope.
Rituals of Remembrance
October and early November are one of my favorite times of year, both because of their beauty — red berries, cinnamon-colored leaves, and swirling fog — and because they mean that we are on the threshold of the cozy festivities of Thanksgiving and Christmas. I love the family gatherings, the magic of the first snow, and the breathless wonder of children and children-at-heart that takes center stage at the end of each year.
Reading about Purim in Esther, the fourteen and fifteenth days of the month of Adar during which the Jews were to feast, celebrate, and give gifts, makes me realize that we do the same with our holidays. We are a forgetful people, but setting aside times to remember timeless truths refreshes our gratitude and praise. Stories and songs, too, imprint the goodness of God on our hearts: the concrete, particular, and specific ways He reveals His mercy, from miraculous deliverances to the splendors of autumn.
Stories of Yearning 