Sylvia Plath died 50 years ago, age 30, by her own hand. Her two young children slept in the next room. She left behind poetry and writings that explore the darker side of life. Literary critics have picked apart her words trying to find the reasons for her life and early death. Two new books about those very things have just been published.
When Plath died I was 20, married, in college, still three years away from having my first child. I am not famous. No one examines my writings to discover any deeper meaning. And yet ~ I have had daughters and watched them grow into lovely, accomplished women. I have been and am loved by two wonderful men. I have a wonderful family and eleven (almost 12) amazing grandchildren. I am in touch with students of mine from when I directed a high school drama program in the 70s. I go to the gym three times a week, hike, swim, read, write, and watch movies. I have a deeply spiritual background and meditative practice. I laugh. I cry. I am always grateful to see the sunrise. I have been touched by many lives and have given love and friendship in return.
I feel sorry for Sylvia Plath who became so depressed that she thought it better to die than to see another sunrise. Famous she may be. And she lost out on a Lot of life. I am grateful for Susan. Famous she may Not be. And she has seen, experienced and continues to enjoy a Lot of life. I’ll take me.
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