Kindle Notes & Highlights
how I am supposed to find my own story, woven as it is amongst those of my husband and my children. How can my story be excavated from the mine of my life when so much of it has been devoted to others? How can my truth find its way out of the tunnel and into the light, when I have lost myself in someone else?
As the girls and I weave through our days, treading and retreading familiar paths, pressing our hearts firmly into the sand, pouring tears into the waves, I wonder if this is the power of the domestic. Tiny repetitive acts, running in circles around my back lane, walking up and down the stairs with baskets of laundry, pulling warm pyjamas over growing bodies, are these the bricks that build a life?
