“A woman’s destiny, they say, is not fulfilled until she holds in her arms her own little book.” ― Caroline Mytinger
My mind is filled with thoughts about mothers; my mother in particular and her own little book. I have always been mesmerized and moved by the stories she has had to tell over the years and how every time there was always sometime new that was never mentioned before. There was always a new detail, a missing puzzle, a lingering piece, a new splinter among the shattered fragments.
I would listen with deep intent and absorb all the tiny detail, allowing my mind to fill in the gaps and read up meanings between the lines. I use to wonder, and still do wonder, how it is possible that one individual could ever survive the kind of history that surrounds my mum. Her little book would someday become a vital piece in my collection of aged archives and it would certainly rank the oldest and richest — a true historical monument.
I am proud of her bravery and greatly warmed by her survivalism. I am genuinely moved by her great conquests and her demonstration of an unrelenting prayerfulness and fervency. I am deeply affected by her ability to forgive and even when it was hardest for her to forget, she has found ways to remold the most gruesome of experiences into opportunities for gratitude; of having pulled through in the first place.
In her simply life, she has been daughter, niece, relative-in-law, lover, scrub nurse, dental surgeon, mother, wife, soldier, single mother, reunited as wife again, sister, friend, foe, victim, double-crossed, broken, crushed, rejected, comatose, revived, revivified, alienated, separated, widowed and more. She’s been all that and almost in that exact order. Still she remains strong, loving, forgiving, praying, believing, living and above all my loving mother.
In the midst of her pages, I find myself also collecting a chain of events, crafting my scenarios and etching out my characters. I am one way or another telling my own story, writing my own little book. And it wouldn’t be done until it becomes an exuberant piece of history for my roots and those that follow after them.
It would be the story of my life; and like a torch in the darkened ages that would follow, it will give light to those who read its contents and consider its wisdom. It would be the chronicles of a generation of brave women.
A life that is lived with fervency, and with imagination as though it were an adventure, can be no other life than that of a woman. Today as you live your life as a full grown woman, you volunteer the vocals and the dialogue, the dramatics and the theatrics. Tomorrow life will present you with a little book; something for your children, your fans, and your loved ones — the story of your life! A collector’s item about what mattered most, bound and tied together, for the people who will matter in the end.
She was sensible and clever, but eager in everything; her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation.― Jane Austen