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, December 18, 2014
Drifting Into The Past
It is hard some days to be present in the present moment, to not notice and to move toward memories, and it is hard not to wish ourselves off into a different place, a new time, one whose time is not yet here. Maybe instead of resisting the call of reminiscence or the hope of what might one day be, we should instead drift closer to them, even if only to visit.
Labels:
doing the best you can,
hope,
memory,
nostalgia,
past,
possibilities
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