Life is like….War and Peace?
Last June, I received this book from eight amazing women. I was fortunate enough to spend four years working beside this truly talented and gifted group. Soraya, Mary, Katherine, Peggy, Genna (Mary), Amalia, Melissa (Monte), and Patty will always hold a special place in the chapters that are my life.
I have saved this blank journal. My plan is to fill its’ blank pages the day I embark upon finding my #LifeMeant. This new path will become the grandest part of life’s great adventure thus far.
You see, I still find something inherently beautiful about scripting the written word. I find the scratches, the corrections and the free flow of thought, unhindered by the delete key, cathartic.
I once wrote when asked to describe myself, “To write about my life would be nothing less than a book as thick as War and Peace.” But, isn’t that life? A book with many chapters of stories to numberous to count.
War and Peace, in my opinion, is one of the most complex works of literature ever written. Isn’t that similar to a person’s life? A complex work crafted by your choices.
If you are brave enough to attempt its’ 1300 pages and get past that it is historical fiction set in the Napoleonic wars, you will be surprised to find that Tolstoy creates a world of complex, fascinating, unforgettable characters. It mirrors life, as it is filled with friendship, love, parties, betrayal, tragedy, failure, success, comedy and truths.
That is what my story is and will continue to be – a novel as thick and as complex as War and Peace. As I fill the pages of this journal, it will become a personal memoir of sorts. A way to document the life changing decision of letting go of all that is familiar to discover my life meant.
In War & Peace, Tolstoy wrote:
Each man lives for himself, uses his freedom to achieve his personal goals, and feels with his whole being that right now he can or cannot do such-and-such an action; but as soon as he does it, this action, committed at a certain moment in time, becomes irreversible, and makes itself the property of history, in which is has not a free but a predestined significance.