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.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
A New Home
As people get older the center of their lives shifts and so they become more like visitors in the homes in which they were born. It becomes where they had been, but where they now are is different and where they might one day be even more so. It can be disconcerting and requires some treading on unfamiliar ground, but to not change -- to not call someplace else home -- would be far sadder in the end.
Labels:
aging,
growth,
home,
naming,
uncertainty
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