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Quiet Surrender
When the bravest choice is letting go
I think of November as the warrior month… weary after witnessing many battles, standing guard between the temperate and tempestuous.
She arrives after ten months of manic unpredictability, bearing her battle scars in fallen leaves, dismal skies, bone-chilling damp, and the slow march of death and decay.
I think of my mother, born in November, a quiet warrior whose battles, confrontations, and crusades taught me I was worth fighting for.
November eventually succumbs to weariness, offering up one last tired burst of warm, sunny weather before giving in to the demands of winter.
December is marching in with a determined ferocity.
My mother, essence deformed by a lifetime of skirmishes, still safeguarding her daughter’s heart, tried to hold on for one last hurrah, but
December marched in with a determined ferocity.
I think about her often, but in November, I am reminded of her quiet strength.
When my mother died, I’d known her quiet strength for almost sixty years. The only time she was anything but quiet was when she was standing up for me. She spent a lifetime safeguarding my heart.
