If you didn’t get a chance to see American Masters’ docudrama about Louisa May Alcott last week, you missed some interesting insights. She was a free thinking, spirited, and independent woman who endured hardships throughout her life, yet went on to become a prolific author of both children’s and adult literature. Her Little Women and Little Men were touchstone readings of my youth.
The presentation brought forth much about her life; some of which I already knew and some of which I didn’t. I like that. I like to be stretched and tested and encouraged to dig a little deeper, learn a little more.
Even in adulthood, often racked with pain from mercury poisoning, or perhaps the current speculation that she suffered from lupus, Alcott went out and ran. She ran and ran and ran in 19th century Boston, long before the establishment of the Boston Marathon. She would have been a worthy opponent. She is quoted in books as saying that no boy could be a friend until she beat him at a race. It was a remarkable discipline for a woman, or a man, of the late 19th century – or even the early 21st. I marvel at that. Louisa May, skirts tied into a semblance of trousers so she would have more freedom, running through the woods of Concord or through the Boston Commons. Being someone for which running means skinned knees, twisted ankles, and likely embarrassment, I respect the commitment of runners, especially those in long skirts.
“I had an early run in the woods before the dew was off the grass. The moss was like velvet, and as I ran under the arches of yellow and red leaves I sang for joy, my heart was so bright and the world so beautiful. … A very strange and solemn feeling came over me as I stood there, with no sound but the rustle of the pines, no one near me, and the sun so glorious as for me alone. It seemed as if I felt God as I never did before, and I prayed in my heart that I might keep that happy sense of nearness all my life.”
Louisa May Alcott, age 12
www.louisamayalcott.org/witandwisdom_garden.html
I am a romantic when it comes to 19th century women, especially writers, but I hold no illusions of an easier or simpler life. For much of the time, they simply endured. I marvel at the accomplishments they achieved in spite of the restrictions placed upon them by the mores of their time and appreciate the study of their lives. I am reminded by them that I can be a little better, do a little more, become a better person. It is nice to have some gentle reminders now and again, no matter how old we get, or where we get them from.
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