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, May 9, 2014
Being Stoic
I am not effusive and never was, but it does not bother me. I do not hug clients or people I have only just met. I do not gush, but then I never knew anyone who did, or who did so with any kind of grace. I don't mind if conversations lag, and am grateful that some of them do.
Labels:
acceptance,
conversation,
family,
good enough,
naming,
therapy
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