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.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Emotional Junk Mail
They are in life responding to all the emotional junk mail, treating it as though it were significant communication and leaving no time or energy for more important matters. Perhaps the junk serves a purpose, providing busy-ness and a way to avoid what could be too hard to face.
Labels:
distractions,
therapy
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