September Pick: Remarkably Bright Creatures — Shelby Van Pelt

Reflection

I didn't love Remarkably Bright Creatures, but I liked it—and, more importantly, I found myself thinking about it long after I finished listening. And what initially hooked me was Marcellus—the giant Pacific octopus.

Marcellus — a North Pacific giant octopus

The opening chapter, told from Marcellus's perspective, immediately intrigued me. Here was this remarkably intelligent creature living in an aquarium, observing the humans around him while knowing that his own time was limited. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it at first, but I wanted to keep listening. And if you have the chance to listen to the audiobook, you’re in for a treat—Marcellus’s voice is everything.  

By the end of the book, I had become surprisingly attached to Marcellus. I felt a genuine sadness knowing his days were numbered. And yet, I also felt hopeful that he was able to enjoy what little time he had left—to be “home,” in his own way, and to experience the familiarity and connection of the place where he had spent his life.

And then there is Tova.

Tova is a grieving widow and a mother whose son disappeared decades earlier. She carries on quite strongly. She works. She shows up. She maintains her routines. From the outside, she seems to be managing.

But I couldn't help wondering how empty her life must feel on the inside.

There is the Irishman, Ethan, who quietly cares for and loves Tova from afar, even as she keeps her walls firmly in place. There are her judgmental friends and the version of herself she performs around them—the appropriate responses, the social rituals, the appearance of being fine.

And then there is the Tova who exists outside of that performance.

The woman who is grieving.

The woman who is lonely.

The woman whose life, beneath the routines and expectations, feels almost unbearably empty.

I found myself thinking about how often we do some version of this in midlife. We can become very good at presenting a life that looks fine from the outside while privately wondering if the life we're living actually feels like our own.

There can be a gap between the life we perform and the life we experience.

Tova's job is another interesting piece of that. It might be the kind of job other people would look down on, but there is something about being at the aquarium after hours that gives her a sense of purpose and peace. In the quiet world beneath the surface, she seems to find a place where she doesn't have to perform at all.

And then there is her grandson.

That relationship moved me.

After losing her son and never knowing exactly what happened to him, Tova is given this extraordinary connection to his child. What a gift that must have been—to have this living, breathing piece of her son in her life. A source of joy she could never have anticipated. A connection to the son she lost, and to a part of his life she never knew existed.

There is so much loss in Tova's story.

And yet, there is also so much life still left.

That was the part that stayed with me.

I think midlife can sometimes bring us face-to-face with that same tension. We become more aware of what has been lost, what didn't happen, what changed, and what we can no longer go back and retrieve. And sometimes the losses are enormous. Other times they're quieter—the life we thought we'd have, the person we thought we'd become, the relationship we thought would look different, or simply the passage of time itself.

Some of these losses don't have a name, which can make them difficult to grieve.

But perhaps midlife also asks us to notice what is still here.

The relationships we didn't expect.

The people who love us even when we keep the walls up.

The places where we feel most like ourselves.

The unexpected sources of purpose.

The moments that still bring us joy.

Tova's story reminded me that carrying on is not necessarily the same as living.

And sometimes, after loss, we may not even realize how much of our life has become about simply getting through the days.

But there can still be love. There can still be connection. There can still be purpose.

There can still be something unexpected waiting for us.

Tova has lost so much.

And yet, when I think about her, I don't only think about what she lost.

I think about everything she still has left to experience, to love, and to live.

And honestly, that brings tears to my eyes.

Reflection Prompts

Consider taking a moment with these reflections and noticing what surfaces for you—what resonates, what feels familiar, and what perhaps asks you to look a little deeper.

1. What is the difference, if any, between the life you present to others and the life you are actually experiencing—and have there been times when you were simply carrying on while feeling very different on the inside?

2. The walls we build to protect ourselves can sometimes keep connection out, too. And sometimes, the people who bring us the most unexpected joy, meaning, or connection are the very people we never imagined would become part of our lives.

3. Reflect on where you feel most “at home” in your life right now. Where do you feel most like yourself, most connected, and least like you have to perform? Is there a part of your life that others might not understand, but that brings you meaning or solace?

4. When you look at this stage of your life, can you hold both what you've lost and what you still have left to live?