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.
Monday, August 18, 2014
Fleeing The Moment
When we are uncomfortable in the moment, when we are focused instead on something else -- a different person, a different place -- then we have lost the moment, given it away to fantasy, and while at times it is hard not to, it is not wise. My tendency when fleeing the moment is to be drawn toward what was, or to bring forward from then the people who were parts of moments past. At times it is my effort (or my wish) to share with them what currently is, but mostly it is the familiarity I am seeking. It is inviting them to notice or to ratify what is available (and sometimes sadly so) only to me.
Labels:
familiarity,
losing,
now,
past,
sadness
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