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.
Friday, November 1, 2013
Becoming Who We Are
Being grown up can seem much less appealing than the irresponsible acts of childhood or even the fumbling and seemingly foolish ways of adolescence, but to visit them -- or more so, to think these bygone ways are for us to live in -- is to overlook who we are becoming or who we are at this moment. Childhood is not as carefree as it may seem from here and the invitation is not to a peaceful place; and adolescence is perhaps more distressing than it is foolish, more a place of turmoil than of peace, even for those whose place it is today.
Labels:
acceptance,
being,
childhood,
contentment,
foolishness,
joy,
mindfulness,
nostalgia,
perspective,
simplicity
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