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, November 4, 2014
A Walk In The Woods
We walked in the woods and woods have no form, and so nothing is expected of them. There is no correct way for them to be in being as they ought. It makes each step, each new view, an adventure, an occasion for discovery and so tiny seedlings are a wonder instead of just a plant and coming suddenly into a meadow can be like steps beyond time.
Labels:
adventures,
being,
discovery,
expectations,
nature,
time,
wonder
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