“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.”

Silvia Plath (1932-1963) – American Poet

I sit quietly, one day a week to write for myself. I reflect to my years’ experiences and oddly I use the time to try and shed the negative influences. Whether they occurred or not, pleasant memories of my youth refuse to surface. I don’t remember giggling as little girls do. I don’t remember feeling safe and warm. I don’t remember being comforted or rocked to sleep when all was not well.

Yet rather than creating an indifferent or even an angry woman, I will be the first to admit I have struggled through life’s continual lessons and have managed to retain my belief in others, some say naively; I love being around positive people, I’ll rush to anyone’s rescue or rally to their worthy causes.

I’ve often wondered if being the middle child forces the issue of a lifetime pursuit of obtaining everyone’s acceptance? Or is it that I came to this earth a gentle soul, trying to remember exactly why I am here?

My strength increases each year. My beliefs more concrete. I view each day as to lessons learned. I savor experiences with tenderness. I reach out to stretch my arms, wrap them back around myself and receive a hug of comfort, accomplishment, caring, tenderness and love.

I am, in spite of others.

I am of a quality rare.

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