My mother’s story is one of the most valuable gifts she has given me—in which she describes the most valuable gift her mother gave her, at a time when unfathomable despair—not invincible hope—might have been expected.
Pop Quiz: when is the last time you learned to walk again? This is not a trick question. (Well, maybe it’s slightly tricky, but there’s no wrong answer.) Step. Step. Fall. Stand Up. Step. Fall. Stand Up. Fall. (Perhaps be embraced wildly and celebrated!)
Last week the nine women who will be reading and I got together to plan. One of the things we discussed is vulnerability, the vulnerability of putting one’s voice in the world, of being really visible and heard.
Fifteen years ago, my father had a dream that offered me a different— and life changing —answer to my question. I had already begun to suspect that “No” might not be the only possible reply to this question. Nonetheless, the truth that it’s not all right to feel happy…
In writing this to you now, I taste again the nectar of that butterfly’s presence and the wonder of my father’s spirit alighting (even if just in my imagination). What a perennial gift writing is, leading us, when we let it, deep into the heart. To harvest the nectar. To harvest love.