Helen Macdonald was, from a young age, determined to become a falconer, learning the arcane terminology and reading all the classic books. Years later, when her father died and she was struck deeply by grief, she became obsessed with the idea of training her own goshawk. She bought Mabel for £800 on a Scottish quayside and took her home to Cambridge, ready to embark on the long, strange business of trying to train this wildest of animals.
Here in Aotearoa NZ, H is for Hawk is published by Penguin Books, which describes the memoir as an unflinchingly honest account of Helen Macdonald's struggle with grief during the difficult process of the hawk's taming and her own 'untaming'. This is a book about memory, nature and nation, and how it might be possible to reconcile death with life and love.
Reading H is for a Hawk had a profound impact on the way I think about writing and storytelling but also how I have moved through my own grieving process. When I began reading it, I found myself bathed in melancholy, because I couldn’t help but compare myself to Helen and judge myself harshly. I questioned what I was doing attempting to write something about the Brahminy Kite when I had zero expertise in any aspect of ornithology, other than being able to admire them soaring in the sky above me. And, in comparison to Helen’s experience, my retreat from the world after Steve died felt so inane. Then I realised my relationship with these eagles was all about the metaphorical significance – as remote, unattainable soarers – rather than my intimate relationship with them. And that my retreat from the world gave me the fortitude to start construction, of both my new self and my new life. Once I let go of this self-judgments, I found myself completely absorbed in her story.
I loved the world Helen creates and how honest she is about her place in it:
It was about this time a kind of madness drifted in. Looking back, I think I was never truly mad. More mad north-north-west. … I knew I wasn’t mad mad because I’d seen people in the grip of psychosis before, and that was madness as obvious as the taste of blood in the month. The kind of madness I had was different. It was quiet, and very, very dangerous. It was a madness designed to keep me sane.
At first, the summaries and analyses of TH White’s 1951 study, The Goshawk, one of the classic books Helen had first read as a child, annoyed me. Yet, although White never really comes across as a likeable character, I grew to enjoy the digressions as much as main story. As he provided Helen with the inspiration to love raptors, I appreciated it when she wrote, “I have to write about him, because he was there.” And then his world became as vivid as Helen’s did, with observations about the importance of place, like this:
The mirror works both ways. The lines between the man and the landscape blur. When White writes of his love for the countryside, at heart his is writing about a hope that he might be able to love himself.
And, on the multiplicity of selves we carry with us, she writes:
But what I should have realised, too, on those northern roads, is that what the mind does after losing one’s father isn’t just to pick a new father from the world, but pick new selves to love them back with.
The only aspect of the story that I thought could have been clearer was the timeframe but perhaps that’s just my own confusion. I found it difficult to calculate how much time had elapsed between Helen's father’s death and his memorial, or over the duration of the book (my best guess is about nine months) and as someone who paid great attention to the passing of time in the year that followed Steve’s death, I wanted to know.