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.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Where We Are, Who We Are
Where we are often determines who we will be and so we can truly blend into places, becoming part of that environment despite its inconsistency with where we were or where we might go next; and it is not adopting but becoming -- being as home in each place and with each group we find there. All call us by one of our true names.
Labels:
acceptance,
home,
identity,
naming,
ourselves
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