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.
Saturday, May 9, 2015
Not Wanting to Change
It is not that change is impossible, but he just does not want to make that "one more" adjustment, and there will always be one more to make, which is not so bad except that he says he has made enough. There are always more and no matter how long life might be it would always be incomplete. There would always be something else to do, or to consider; another thought, idea or option; something to be seen or experienced; and people we had not yet met. He would rather stop than pursue them. I am not sure that is a choice.
Labels:
change,
choices,
experience,
living,
therapy
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