100 books like Lightning Flowers

Deepak Chopra says, “I recommend this book highly to everyone.” Yes, Deepak Chopra, I agree! This is an oldie but oh-so-goodie.

Dr. Rachel Remen is a remarkable woman—a long-term chronic illness survivor, author, and doctor. She believes stories heal, and boy oh boy, she’s chock full of wisdom. This book is a swift and satisfying read, presenting life lessons in a series of brief chapters—different accounts from different patients. Dr. Remen’s winning writing style shines sparkles of truth through every single one.

Suleika Jaouad’s memoir, the most recent travel memoir I’ve read, is about a woman traveling the world alone, though Suleika traveled with her dog, Oscar.

She set off on in a van a 15,000-mile road trip across the country to meet some of the people who had written letters to her during her years in the hospital in treatment for leukemia and a bone marrow transplant.

Like me, Suleika had a dream of being a writer, in her case a war correspondent. The journey she set out on was also one of healing that began with the question: How would she reenter the world and live again. 

She continues to inspire me through her life and her writing as she brings connection, love, and wonder to the world through “Isolation Journals,” which I receive in my inbox regularly.

As a woman, I have experienced my share of sexism but it dims in comparison to what Lester faced in the 1950s and 1960s. When applying for a job at a bookstore, a young Lester is told the store can’t hire girls because they only have one toilet. Her plucky response—she could use the same toilet as the men—is one reason I enjoyed this book so much. 

Lester is repeatedly pushed to the sidelines even as she takes up the fight for civil rights, devoting herself to bettering the lives of others while setting aside her own dreams—for a time. Luckily Lester never completely loses her nerve. Her second act is a fun adventure to follow for those who have faced their own setbacks, no matter their gender.

I have a fascination with countries that don’t fully exist and have visited a few myself. So when I learned that Chude-Sokei was from a country that really no longer exists, I was hooked. The country in question was not one I recognized. Biafra was a short-lived African state that declared independence from Nigeria in 1967. 

What kept me reading the book though was the humor Chude-Sokei uses to describe his unique situation as the “first son of the first son” of a leader of a country that was “killed” in 1970, as his mother puts it. Chude-Sokei’s tales of growing up an African in Jamaica followed by his yearning to become a Black American in Inglewood, Los Angeles will resonate with anyone who ever struggled with their identity.

When I was 10 I disappeared from my life for a while. I left school, home, and my family to live in a hospital for several months. This break in my own childhood narrative is what got me into the Busby story. Cylin Busby was nine years old when her dad, John, a police officer, was shot. Her father survives, but the family is forced to disappear for their own protection. 

While the book is written by a father and daughter, it is Cylin’s young nine-year-old voice that pulled me in, reminding me what it is like to be a child and powerless as the world around you falls apart. That sounds dark, but children have a way of finding hope. This story has a happy(ish) ending.

As a female journalist who has lived and worked abroad, including in sometimes unsafe situations but excluding war, I was drawn to Miller’s story about covering the Vietnam War. In 1970 young American women were not supposed to go to Vietnam. They were supposed to get married, and Miller did—to a member of the military whose job proves her ticket to Vietnam.

As one of the rare female reporters in Vietnam, Miller captured stories her male colleagues couldn’t or wouldn’t cover such as how young Vietnamese girls were often tricked into the sex trade. An outsider in the “old boys club” of news and war Miller is able to understand better than her male colleagues how the war is impacting the locals who have in some ways been made outsiders in their own country.

If I could only have one book for the rest of my life it would be this one.

The ur-text of braided essays, and of essay collections, LJ asks us to look at pain, obsession, care, and empathy through radically surprising lenses. In my favorite of the collected essays, “The Devil’s Bait,” she creates a sense of quantum reality that demands that the reader see their own skepticism and ableism, while at the same time implanting a persistent anxiety around the possibility that they might in fact be vulnerable to the very thing they are judging.

Michele Harper’s memoir is beautifully written, and her compassion and empathy shine through.

I was deeply moved by the way in which she carried that clear-eyed compassion forward from a trauma-ridden childhood through her medical training—where she, as a Black woman, experienced both racism and sexism—and into her life as an emergency room physician. I admired her forthrightness in calling out these injustices as she saw and experienced them while still maintaining her own humanity. I was inspired by her integrity and by the way she showed us, through her own life and the lives of her patients, that, as she says in the epilogue, “[b]rokenness can be a remarkable gift.” 

Dr. Rana Awdish, a critical care physician, describes the sudden and catastrophic illness that causes a miscarriage and lands her in the ICU, in multi-organ failure, at the hospital where she works.

Her arduous recovery is nothing short of a miracle. I appreciated her perspective as a physician, trying to advocate for herself, even while she is seriously ill. She draws on stories of her patients and shares her well-founded frustrations with our healthcare system.

This powerful story will be appreciated by those who have experienced a serious illness and anyone who works in health care. 

I knew this book was going to grab me from the first lines, and it held my attention the whole way, through essays on a singularly hyperbolic experience of being a woman in a body.

There is a frankness here, and a persistent scratching at the surface of her own motivations and complicities, that helped me understand some of my own complicated feelings about attention, and insecurity, and what it means to be a creative. If you’ve ever had an uncomfortable relationship to your own beauty, this book is a floodlight and a microscope for that experience.