But she lives; for great poets do not die; they are continuing presences; they need only the opportunity to walk among us in the flesh.
The book: A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf
I loved these essays. Often, I think of women. I think about their strength, demure, and struggle across cultures, societies, and time. I think of their toil and hard work; they’ve carried humanity’s existence on their hips and their shoulders.
And I think about thoughts. Really. Where do they go if the person who thinks cannot muster the inspiration to script those thoughts into words, speech, literature.
Are thoughts really one’s own? To whom does a thought belong? Do thoughts exist merely in a singular person? Or do they drift from person to person, hoping to find that one who will breathe life into it.
Where do thoughts go after they’ve passed? The thought exists, we do nothing, and then it passes.
And then I think about specific, strong women in particular. There’s so many of them. Where would we be without the thoughts of those strong women? Where would we be without their words, poetry, art, design, vision, and perspective? My god, where would I be without the words, actions, and influence of the incredibly strong women around me? My mother, my mentors, my professors — even in my group of friends. All of us mid-twenties now, right on the cusp of making those personal and professional choices — and I don’t know if they think of themselves this way, but they’re so strong. Redefining what it means to be a “woman” in today’s world.
Or maybe I just surround myself with headstrong ladies who live their lives according to their own standards?
And more often than I’d like to admit, I think about the women who’ve chosen not to bear children. It’s such a natural biological process – that women have children, but it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s right for every one woman. At what point did they make that choice? What’re the societal consequences? Is it a decision they revisit over and over again? I’m going to collect bits & pieces of my interviews with these women…I want to share their stories. The topic of women deserve a much longer, more thought out piece than I can give right now. The mind needs a break.
End, Memory Thirty.
Next Week: My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok