Being broken doesn't mean defeat.
We all have set backs in life . . .
some major, some minor.
During these times we need to
dig deep down inside ourselves,
stop, and take a deep breath.
I believe everything happens for a reason.
It might not be a reason we can
comprehend or like, but it's there and
we should confront it with
a clear head and heart.
Not one filled with fear or confusion
or anger, but with an open, clear mind.
So, please take that very slow deep breath
and believe there is a solution.
"We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself
the means of inspiration and survival."
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Dimensions: 5.5" x 8.5"
Page Count: 216 unlined (108 sheets)
Page Type: 60 lb.
Front & Back Covers: Laminated 5 mil
Binding: Black Wire-O
Scattered inside the journal are quotes and insights to encourage you.
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the story behind
Broken But Not Defeated!
This is the violin I've had since I was a little girl.
One day I was trying to take a picture and in order to get a certain shot, I got on my bed in a kneeling position. As I was backing up my foot went down and . . .
My friend who was helping me said, "What was that?!"
"My Violin!" I shouted as I jumped off the bed and lifted the towel. There, on the bed, laid my violin, cracked!
I couldn't stop crying. I broke my violin, the one I learned to play on, the one given to me by my parents.
After getting over the shock, I decided to find someone to fix it.
Next shock ... this very nice gentleman, who does nothing but repair old & broken violins said it wasn't worth fixing. It would cost me more than a new one and it would never sound the same.
I was faced with the hard realization that I could never play my violin again.
As I stared at her all broken up, it was like she spoke to me .... "I might be broken, but don't let that stop you, don't quit."
So, I bought another violin. Best part, the owner had etched on the back: France 1917, his name & the initials, 1st Div., A.E.F. He was an American Expeditionary Force soldier in France! During the First World War, the first A.E.F. soldiers into the trenches were called the “Dough Boys.” My violin was owned and played by a “Dough Boy.”
From sadness came beauty.
In memory of my first violin I placed her on black velvet & laid a rose for love & took this photo. This way she will always be with me in spirit and gratitude for starting me to play again.
PS: My broken violin now hangs on my wall as a perfect reminder that out of tragedy can come new life.
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