Most of the history books were written by men and consist of battles - people killing each other for glory and plunder. I didn’t like history in school for that reason: All men, with a few queens to egg them on, killing each other. But the world is full of more exciting stories. Stories of everyday life - and this is where women are at an advantage. So, write your story and instead of reading other people’s stories to your children or grandchildren at bedtime, read them yours. And if you are a man, then yes, you too. Write your story as well. Even if it involved killing and plunder.
I think I’ve led an interesting life. Different anyways from many of my friends. Not exactly how I expected it to be, but who really has the choice? We can't choose where we are born, what country, town, class, or family. We don’t have much control over what we look like, how healthy we are or where life’s many roads take us. And as children, we don’t have a choice of how our parents raise us or what future they decide on for the family.
We do have some freedom to choose: buy these shoes or those, this house or that one, but if we think about it carefully, even the most straightforward decisions are based on who we are up to that point. I chose pink trim on my running shoes rather than purple - why? I just don’t like purple, and it goes back to a comment someone made a long time ago. I also don’t like brown because it was the only color of wool we had in Poland to knit with. So, give me a choice of two identical houses but one with pink flowers in the garden and blue trim around the windows, the other one with purple flowers and brown trim; I’m more likely to buy the first one.
Even when we do make a conscious choice, such as to attend a better college, that decision doesn’t always get us what we are after. Perhaps we fail at our first choice college whereas we would have succeeded in graduating from our second choice one.
Perhaps we choose to move to another country to improve our lives, and we end up becoming a servant even though we had a university education and a respected profession back in our native home. Or we marry a man we think will love and cherish us but instead he is critical and abusive and leaves us with small children to look after.
And then some doors feel like they are locked to us, no matter how hard we pound on the gate.
There were times when I could have made a different decision, and I often wonder if my life would have been better, but what’s better in the long run? A house in the suburbs or a sailboat in Greece? More safety and security or more adventure? I compare my life with those of my friends from school, and I genuinely don’t know the answer to that one.
My life feels like that of a leaf blown off a tree in autumn or a feather lost by a bird, floating on the currents of air searching for a place to land. I do know that I don’t seem to have roots anywhere and so keep searching for that place where I will feel at home. My mother called me “włóczęga,” which in Polish means a tramp or drifter and that’s her fault and my father’s for cutting me off from my roots and trying to transplant me to a new country.
So, until I find that place that I can call home, I believe that the purpose of my life and perhaps yours as well, is to accept the whole basket of joys and sorrows, make the best of what I have, and develop the attitude of “so, what’s next?”
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