Anne Morrow Lindbergh
Life is a gift, given in trust – like a child.
There are no signposts in the sky to show a man has passed that way before. There are no channels marked. The flier breaks each second into new uncharted seas.
The bearing, rearing, feeding and educating of children; the running of a house with its thousand details; human relationships with their myriad pulls – women’s normal occupations in general run counter to creative life, or contemplative life, or saintly life.
I have been overcome by the beauty and richness of our life together, those early mornings setting out, those evenings gleaming with rivers and lakes below us, still holding the last light.
The punctuation of anniversaries is terrible, like the closing of doors, one after another between you and what you want to hold on to.
How hard it is to have the beautiful interdependence of marriage and yet be strong in oneself alone.
How one hates to think of oneself as alone. How one avoids it. It seems to imply rejection or unpopularity.
To give without any reward, or any notice, has a special quality of its own.
Only in growth, reform, and change, paradoxically enough, is true security to be found.
After all, I don’t see why I am always asking for private, individual, selfish miracles when every year there are miracles like white dogwood.
By and large, mothers and housewives are the only workers who do not have regular time off. They are the great vacationless class.
Those fields of daisies we landed on, and dusty fields and desert stretches. Memories of many skies and earths beneath us – many days, many nights of stars.
What a circus act we women perform every day of our lives. Look at us. We run a tightrope daily, balancing a pile of books on the head. Baby-carriage, parasol, kitchen chair, still under control. Steady now! This is not the life of simplicity but the life of multiplicity that the wise men warn us of.
I believe that what woman resents is not so much giving herself in pieces as giving herself purposelessly.
Men kick friendship around like a football, but it doesn’t seem to crack. Women treat it like glass and it goes to pieces.