free essay on A Mothers Love II

This was absolutely beautiful and moving. So much of what you wrote about spoke to me. As one mother to another, I’m thinking of you and your beautiful daughter, and sending lots of love. Thank you for writing this.

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Brilliant and lovely and moving and profound. As a psychologist and mother, your beautiful piece about your unique family is full of universal truths. Thank you.

Essay About Love: Speaking of Love :: essay about love

Brilliant and lovely and moving and profound. As a psychologist and mother, your beautiful piece about your unique family is full of universal truths. Thank you.

Category: essay about love; Title: Essay About Love: Speaking of Love
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Mark sat in the living room playing his guitar. He was working as an organizer for a nonprofit environmental agency, but his real ambition was to be a musician. He had just formed his first band and was writing a new song, finding it as he went along. I told him that I had something to tell him and that it was not going to be easy. He stopped playing and looked at me, but he kept his hands on the guitar, holding it gently. This man whom I’d loved for years, had loved enough to marry, who had been with me through my mother’s death and the aftermath, who’d offered to go down on me in the gentlest of ways, who would do anything, anything for me, listened as I told him about the Technically Still a Virgin Mexican Teenager, the Prematurely Graying Wilderness Guide, the Recently Unemployed Graduate of Juilliard.

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A sample of a descriptive essay about my mother

If this were fiction, what would happen next is that the woman would stand up and get into her truck and drive away. It wouldn’t matter that the woman had lost her mother’s wedding ring, even though it was gone to her forever, because the loss would mean something else entirely: that what was gone now was actually her sorrow and the shackles of grief that had held her down. And in this loss she would see, and the reader would know, that the woman had been in error all along. That, indeed, the love she’d had for her mother was too much love, really; too much love and also too much sorrow. She would realize this and get on with her life. There would be what happened in the story and also everything it stood for: the river, representing life’s constant changing; the tiny blue flowers, beauty; the spring air, rebirth. All of these symbols would collide and mean that the woman was actually lucky to have lost the ring, and not just to have lost it, but to have loved it, to have ached for it, and to have had it taken from her forever. The story would end, and you would know that she was the better for it. That she was wiser, stronger, more interesting, and, most of all, finally starting down her path to glory. I would show you the leaf when it unfurls in a single motion: the end of one thing, the beginning of another. And you would know the answers to all the questions without being told. Did she ever write that five-page paper about the guy who lost his nose? Did she ask Mark to marry her again? Did she stop sleeping with people who had titles instead of names? Did she manage to walk 1,638 miles? Did she get to work and become the Incredibly Talented and Extraordinarily Brilliant and Successful Writer? You’d believe the answers to all these questions to be yes. I would have given you what you wanted then: to be a witness to a healing.

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I grew up with this fear: that the material that was near to me would be no good. I would have to live a life that would somehow bring me nearer to the topics “real” literature was about: war, violence, politics, travel and adventure. To this end, I moved to New York, traveled to India, and dated men who could tell me about the worlds I did not have access to, men who had been to prison, men who had been homeless, men who had been in mental institutions. I was troubled by my female protagonists who seemed to have so many emotions. They would have to go; they would have to change. I would have to change. In short, I was certain that what I really needed to do was write for men. I’m not sure anyone has written more combustibly about this recently than Claire Vaye Watkins in her essay She writes of her short story collection Battleborn: