She felt lately as though she had served her purpose, done her job, and been dispensed with, not only by her children, but by her husband as well.

Those who had seen eyes like hers before understood instantly that she was a woman who had suffered, but wore it well, with dignity and grace. Rather than dragging her down into depression, her pain had lifted her into a peaceful place. She was not a Buddhist, but shared philosophies with them, in that she didn’t fight what happened to her, but instead drifted with it, allowing life to carry her from one experience to the next. It was that depth and wisdom that shone through her work. An acceptance of life as it really was, rather than trying to force it to be what one wanted, and it never could be. She was willing to let go of what she loved, which was the hardest task of all. And the more she lived and learned and studied, the humbler she was. A monk she had met in Tibet called her a holy woman, which in fact she was, although she had no particular affinity for any formal church. If she believed in anything, she believed in life, and embraced it with a gentle touch. She was a strong reed bending in the wind, beautiful and resilient.

Some people are just different, even in the same family.

It was the cruelest of destiny’s tricks, the death of a young person.

The woman is uniformly sacrificed to the wife and mother.

أن تكون المرأة أنثى أهم عندها من أن تكون زوجة وأن تكون أما