Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul Read Free

later.
    Women who sent us their stories told us repeatedly how grateful they were for the opportunity to write them down. They said that even if their stories were not included in our book, they were happy just to have expressed them. In doing so, they felt cleansed and renewed.
    Because of this book we, too, are changed people. We see more clearly what’s really important in life. We appreciate more deeply the human experience. And we live more fully in the moment.
    Women bring such beautiful gifts to the world through their openness, compassion and wisdom. Our deepest desire is that each time you read these stories, you will come away with a greater appreciation for yourselves and for each other—as we all did.
    As one of the women who wrote to us, Mary Michalica, so beautifully said:
    All women go through periods in their lives when numerous demands are placed on them— family, work, spouse, ex-spouse, children, stepchildren, parents.
    It is important, indeed necessary, to step back and re-evaluate one’s priorities, to reflect on one’s mission in life. For it is only in nurturing one’s soul that one can nurture, take care of another. Sometimes, one must say, “Stop! Listen to me. I have a story to tell.”
    So from our hearts to yours, we offer you Chicken Soup for the Woman’s Soul. May you experience the miracles of love and inspiration when you read this book. May it touch your heart and move your spirit.

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ON LOVE
    T he best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart.
    Helen Keller

Reprinted with permission from Dave Carpenter.

The White Gardenia
    Every year on my birthday, from the time I turned 12, one white gardenia was delivered anonymously to me at my house. There was never a card or note, and calls to the florist were in vain because the purchase was always made in cash. After a while, I stopped trying to discover the identity of the sender. I just delighted in the beauty and heady perfume of that one magical, perfect white flower nestled in folds of soft pink tissue paper.
    But I never stopped imagining who the sender might be. Some of my happiest moments were spent in day dreams about someone wonderful and exciting, but too shy or eccentric to make known his or her identity. In my teen years, it was fun to speculate that the sender might be a boy I had a crush on, or even someone I didn’t know who had noticed me.
    My mother often contributed to my speculations. She’d ask me if there was someone for whom I had done a special kindness, who might be showing appreciation anony mously. She reminded me of the times when I’d been riding my bike and our neighbor drove up with her car full of groceries and children. I always helped her unload the car and made sure the children didn’t run into the road. Or maybe the mystery sender was the old man across the street. I often retrieved his mail during the winter, so he wouldn’t have to venture down his icy steps.
    My mother did her best to foster my imagination about the gardenia. She wanted her children to be creative. She also wanted us to feel cherished and loved, not just by her, but by the world at large.
    When I was 17, a boy broke my heart. The night he called for the last time, I cried myself to sleep. When I awoke in the morning, there was a message scribbled on my mirror in red lipstick: “Heartily know, when half-gods go, the gods arrive.” I thought about that quotation from Emerson for a long time, and I left it where my mother had written it until my heart healed. When I finally went for the glass cleaner, my mother knew that everything was all right again.
    But there were some hurts my mother couldn’t heal. A month before my high school graduation, my father died suddenly of a heart attack. My feelings ranged from simple grief to abandonment, fear, distrust and overwhelming anger that my dad was missing some of the most important events in my life. I became completely