I have a notebook in my purse. Everywhere I go, it goes with me.
In the notebook are things I have written down that I want to always have with me. When I use up the pages I start a new one and I copy over the things that are important. There is something about having things on paper, not digitized, that can always be referred to, looked at, felt. Even if I don’t do so very often.
One of the things in my notebook is this quote from Victor E. Frankl’s book “Man’s Search for Meaning”:
“We who lived in the concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread.
They may have been few in number but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing – the last of human freedoms to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.
And there were always choices to make. Every day, every hour offered the opportunity to make a decision, a decision which determined whether you would or would not submit to those powers which threatened to rob you of your very self, your inner freedom: which determined whether or not you would become the plaything of circumstance, renouncing freedom and dignity to become molded in to the form of the typical inmate.”
Choice. This is a fundamental truth I hope to never forget. If it was possible in the most horrific, incomprehensible situation on earth, who am I to say “I can’t” now?