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, June 25, 2015
Resistance
I resist change, even when it is favorable, and can think of no reason other than it being different. What used to be was actually good, and there is not reason to doubt the goodness of what will be. I would do better to see it in less dramatic terms and to do what I tell others to do, but when reality intrudes I still try pushing it aside. It is, of course, silly and I would rather treat the moment with more respect and the future with more trust.
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