Just discovered the fantastic Red Leather Diary yesterday, through Facebook.
A certain Miss Lily Koppel discovered the decades old diary of a teenage girl, Florence Wolfson. Koppel set off on a trail and eventually met the writer of the diary - now a feisty old lady in her nineties.
This is a fascinating discovery. A line from the diary stole my heart: "Wrote all day -- and my story is still incomplete."
I have meant all this year to get my personal writing published. So far, only my business writing has made it to print, with me dragging my feet (or my reluctant heart?) over publishing of my memoirs. One question has dogged me: "Where would I end the memoir?" I am still alive, still living, still loving, still getting my heart broken, still witnessing miracles. I have not yet found the love of my life. I have not yet made a great material fortune.
I still break further and further down every day. I still haven't mastered my love and my rage. I have little to impress people with.
I have met beautiful souls, though, and I have learned a bit about the truth of loving, the kind of love that is about shining forth - about giving. I still try to learn from my own wisdom, and still falter on my way. I open my eyes every day, and no matter what hand of fortune I have been dealt, I witness beauty and the verve of life in the plainest of creations.
I know truths, but don't find who to speak it to. I love, but have trouble sharing it. I intend to remove myself from my own way of being. And my daily life, as of now, is a patient, tender struggle with myself. I have found no person worthier of love than my own Self, which has been the only constant in my life.
So that's my story. It has no conclusion. It has no morals. It has only a few twists that I magnify for my own indulgence.
Something tells my heart, and in turn my heart tells me, that even this insignificant tale matters. Not in terms of publishing and being read and eventually forgotten. But in terms of it having been lived, at all.
So. Somehow. Without a conclusion. I am writing my life's story. I am getting my memoirs published. Story by story.
A certain Miss Lily Koppel discovered the decades old diary of a teenage girl, Florence Wolfson. Koppel set off on a trail and eventually met the writer of the diary - now a feisty old lady in her nineties.
This is a fascinating discovery. A line from the diary stole my heart: "Wrote all day -- and my story is still incomplete."
I have meant all this year to get my personal writing published. So far, only my business writing has made it to print, with me dragging my feet (or my reluctant heart?) over publishing of my memoirs. One question has dogged me: "Where would I end the memoir?" I am still alive, still living, still loving, still getting my heart broken, still witnessing miracles. I have not yet found the love of my life. I have not yet made a great material fortune.
I still break further and further down every day. I still haven't mastered my love and my rage. I have little to impress people with.
I have met beautiful souls, though, and I have learned a bit about the truth of loving, the kind of love that is about shining forth - about giving. I still try to learn from my own wisdom, and still falter on my way. I open my eyes every day, and no matter what hand of fortune I have been dealt, I witness beauty and the verve of life in the plainest of creations.
I know truths, but don't find who to speak it to. I love, but have trouble sharing it. I intend to remove myself from my own way of being. And my daily life, as of now, is a patient, tender struggle with myself. I have found no person worthier of love than my own Self, which has been the only constant in my life.
So that's my story. It has no conclusion. It has no morals. It has only a few twists that I magnify for my own indulgence.
Something tells my heart, and in turn my heart tells me, that even this insignificant tale matters. Not in terms of publishing and being read and eventually forgotten. But in terms of it having been lived, at all.
So. Somehow. Without a conclusion. I am writing my life's story. I am getting my memoirs published. Story by story.
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