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, December 21, 2015
Not All Things Work Out
Despite what we might wish were so, not all things work out; and despite what we might do, some of them never will. It is not anyone's fault, though it would be were we to try to force things to accommodate more than they can or were we to insist people become other than who they are. Then it would be our fault for failing to realize life simply is -- it is neither good nor bad; and people -- despite what we may sometimes think -- are already doing as well as they can.
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