Her eyes were open, taking in my tired face... Her face twitched into what looked like a squinty smile, and in her wordless expression I saw gratitude, and relief, and trust. I wanted, desperately, not to disappoint her.
Vanessa DiffenbaughTag: motherhood childbirth
If it was true that moss did not have roots, and maternal love could grow spontaneously, as if from nothing, perhaps I had been wrong to believe myself unfit to raise my daughter. Perhaps the unattached, the unwanted, the unloved, could grow to give love as lushly as anyone else.
Vanessa DiffenbaughTag: as-if-from-nothing the-unloved the-unwanted
Over time, we would learn each other and I would learn to love her like a mother loves a daughter, imperfectly and without roots.
Vanessa DiffenbaughIn that moment, we were the same, each of us destroyed by our limited understanding of reality.
Vanessa DiffenbaughFor eight years I dreamed of fire. Trees ignited as I passed them; oceans burned.
Vanessa DiffenbaughThis time, there was no escape, I could not turn away, could not leave without accepting what I had done. There was only one way to the other side, and that was through the pain.
Vanessa DiffenbaughTag: life pain philosophy acceptance-of-oneself
Non mi fido, come la lavanda. Mi difendo, come il rododendro . Sono sola, come la rosa bianca, e ho paura. E quando ho paura, lascio…
Vanessa DiffenbaughI believe you can prove everyone wrong, too, Victoria. Your behavior is a choice; it isn't who you are.
Vanessa DiffenbaughTag: inspirational choice
Meredith Combs, the social worker responsible for selecting the stream of adoptive families that gave me back, wanted to talk to me about blame.
Vanessa DiffenbaughTag: chapter-1 page-8 meredith-combs the-language-of-flowers vanessa-diffenbaugh victoria-jones
For eight years I dreamed of fire. Trees ignited as I passed them; oceans burned. The sugary smoke settled in my hair as I slept, the scent like a cloud left on my pillow as I rose. Even so, the moment my mattress started to burn, I bolted awake. The sharp, chemical smell was nothing like the hazy syrup of my dreams; the two were as different as Carolina and Indian jasmine, separation and attachment. They could not be confused.
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