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.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Call It Sickness
Call it sickness and it becomes sick. Say it is yours to cure and you will take it from the person to whom it belongs. Were you to call it distress or sadness, would you treat it differently? And if you allowed it to remain with the person whose experience it is, would it change more readily?
Labels:
illness,
naming,
perspective,
sadness
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