Honey, may you also choose to give up the prison and do the work to be free. To find in your suffering your own life lessons. To choose which legacy the world inherits. To hand down the pain—or to pass on the gift.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
People don’t come to me, I always say. They’re sent to me.
I’ve been blessed by the contributions of countless wonderful people who’ve been sent to me. It’s impossible to name every person who has moved, inspired, and taken care of me, thus contributing directly or indirectly to the creation of this book. To all of you who have touched my life, had faith in me, guided me not to give up—I celebrate your one-of-a-kind gifts and cherish your presence in my life. Thank you for replenishing my basket, helping me face the unknown, cope with the unanticipated and unexpected, and take responsibility for my life and my freedom.
To my patients, who inspire me never to retire, thank you for the ways you question me and teach me to be a good guide. And to the many people around the globe who have found meaning in my work, and especially to those who have told me their stories, thank you for moving me to share these lessons so that we all may greet each day full of passion for life—so that we all may be free.
To my teachers and mentors and all who have supported me to become a member of the healing arts profession, and to those who continue the work of guiding others, thank you for the ways you lead by example—taking care of yourselves while also moving beyond the “me,” contributing to make a better world, living the teaching that change is synonymous with growth. Special recognition to Jakob van Wielink and his colleagues for being my guides and guardians in the Netherlands and Switzerland, making the trip possible, connecting me to people I was meant to know, and carrying me to places where I was celebrated and moved beyond words. May we all use every moment in our lives to empower each other with our differences and form a human family.
Thank you to the people who support me in my daily life—in particular, Dr. Scott McCaul and Dr. Sabina Wallach, who have never doubted my strength to endure; Gene Cook, my dance partner, who lives with utmost kindness; and Katie Anderson, my right-hand woman, who keeps me on top of everything, supports me in tackling anything, and models how to be a take-charge person. Thank you all for looking after my body, mind, and spirit, always keeping my best interests at heart, and reminding me every day that self-love is self-care.
Writing my first book was a dream come true. Publishing a second book is beyond what I ever thought possible. I couldn’t have done any of it without my extraordinary team: my friend and cheerleader Wendy Walker, an inspirational role model of how to be a true survivor and live in the present; my insightful editors, Roz Lippel and Nan Graham, and their wonderful colleagues at Scribner; Jordan and Illynger Engle for the work they do sharing my message through social media; my agent, Doug Abrams, and his dream factory at Idea Architects; and my cowriter, Esmé Schwall Weigand, who takes my words and turns them into poetry.
To my daughters, Marianne and Audrey, the most powerful sisters who practice the art of agreeing to disagree, thank you for all you’ve taught me about choosing not to be a victim or a rescuer. And thank you for the dynamic and sensitive contributions you’ve made to this book, helping distill the theoretical and practical dimensions of my work. To my son, John, thank you for the courage you demonstrate every day in the way you commit yourself to others.
To the generations that come after me, and the ancestors who came before, thank you for showing me that we carry the blood of survivors. That we can always live free, never a victim of anyone or anything.
More from the Author
The Choice
Keep reading for a preview of
The Choice
by
Edith E Eger
CHAPTER 1
The Four Questions
If I could distill my entire life into one moment, into one still image, it is this: three women in dark wool coats wait, arms linked, in a barren yard. They are exhausted. They’ve got dust on their shoes. They stand in a long line.
The three women are my mother, my sister Magda, and me. This is our last moment together. We don’t know that. We refuse to consider it. Or we are too weary even to speculate about what is ahead. It is a moment of severing—mother from daughters, life as it has been from all that will come after. And yet only hindsight can give it this meaning.
I see the three of us from behind, as though I am next in line. Why does memory give me the back of my mother’s head but not her face? Her long hair is intricately braided and clipped on top of her head. Magda’s light brown waves touch her shoulders. My dark hair is tucked under a scarf. My mother stands in the middle and Magda and I both lean inward. It is impossible to discern if we are the ones who keep our mother upright, or if it is the other way around, her strength the pillar that supports Magda and me.
This moment is a threshold into the major losses of my life. For seven decades I have returned again and again to this image of the three of us. I have studied it as though with enough scrutiny I can recover something precious. As though I can regain the life that precedes this moment, the life that precedes loss. As if there is such a thing.
I have returned so that I can rest a little longer in this time
