My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Monday, August 8, 2011
The Seed
Perhaps the road had wanted to receive the seed. Maybe the stones tried to nurture it. Maybe even the weeds sought to make it into something. But they couldn't. No matter how much they tried, they couldn't be earth. They would receive according to their nature, and it would be better and mean more than trying to be something else.
Labels:
acceptance,
allegory
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