Dorothy Stewart (1928-2000) traveled the world, had many adventures, and was, for a short while, a fashion model. She was also my friend Mike's mom. She died this year, and she still had a lot of living to do. She wrote the following essay when she was just 16 years old!
I love life as all human beings do, and happiness means much to me. But life is a hard teacher, and plays no favorites. Yet even if one had only to list the gifts one wanted from life--I would not place happiness first. No, first I would ask for the ability to make friends, friendships that could stand the test of time, wealth and sickness. Faithful friends, friends who would not be shocked by the errors I made in life.
I would ask for good health, and I would ask to be attractive. Perchance if I were crippled or disfigured, or perhaps only plain I would ask for charm and a beauty not necessarily physical, but a beauty that comes from within. I would ask for the gifts of kindness, understanding and generosity. I would refuse wealth, for I want money to play no great part in my life. For it is better to be poor in gold and rich in spirit. I would want self-respect and confidence, because only with the power of belief in myself could I attain success in whatever I attempted.
Then I would ask to know all kinds of people from vagabond to the king; to travel from here to there and here again, to be in every kind of situation. I would ask to breathe the air in far, strange lands, to meet the people, to know their traditions and heritages, and to understand all of these things. For with the understanding would come a greater love for people and a broader mind.
I would want to know life in its every aspect. To live as the man in the slums, to feast with the aristocrat, to share with the hermit his freedom. I would ask to know each of the sweet, clean things of life--a colt rolling in the lush grass of a meadow, the tangy stickiness of pine sap and the pure joy of a spring day in the mountains. Then too, I would ask to know the sharp, rugged things of life--cattle being slaughtered in the stockyards, men fighting with life and death at the stakes, of pain and want and death. For how can one know the sweetness of life if one has known no sorrow?
Next I would ask for knowledge and wisdom. I would be familiar with the great--and the small--in literature. For my closest friends I would choose Dickens, Shakespeare and Kipling. I would especially ask for extensive knowledge in history. And my companions would be Mary Stuart, Abraham Lincoln and members of the French Revolution. I would no great musicians, and by knowing them I would no great music.
I would ask for belief in God, for through God all things are possible. I would ask for a sense of humor, the world is a sad place without laughter. I would ask for opportunities to help others--in any way. And I would ask to know great men. Great, that is, in ideals and character--no matter to me whether he is a king, a bum or a trapper living in the wilds close to God.
I would ask to think of others and not myself. And if all this sounds too perfect and divine in nature, I would ask to be human, with a human's passions and hates. But I would ask not to be perfect and free of hatred or evil. Because there will be those I will hate with all of my heart and soul. I do not hope to escape this--that would be impossible, being what I am--a human being. So I would ask only that I be just in my feeling. And I would ask for the love of those whom I hold dear to me and whom I love greatly. Then I would ask for the love of one person, who would mean more to me than anything else in the world. And I would share all these joys and precious treasures with him.
And lastly I would ask that my life never be complete. That until the last moment my cup of life would continue to overflow with the bitter and the sweet, happiness and sorrow and that there be no end. And in knowing death, I would know it as I had known life--and thanking God for the gifts life had given me, I would look to death for even greater gifts.
Hmmm...What's on the next page? . . .