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.
I am used to visiting in wellness where things are resolved or capable of resolution but I then return to the madness of my own world pretending (though not calling it such) that the madness makes more sense, when all it is, is familiar.
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