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| Daddy watching over... in my officina. |
Forty-six years.
Today.
46.
And I still miss my daddy.
I learned a lot this past year. Holistically. We all did, methinks, whether we're aware or not. And I learned some very personal, intimate, specific-to-me things too. Less than a year ago I learned things about relationships that I never knew. Things I was content - so content - not knowing. Things I had no interest in knowing. Things personal to me that were shared with others before they were shared with me. Things personal that were dropped on me without a shred of check-in. Things shared from a person and space of cruelty. Self aggrandizing cruelty toward others, dead and alive, as well as toward me. Things - so far, anyway - unforgivable.
I learned of things un-welcomed and cruel. Things that have been a piece of my work this past year, work yet unfinished.
Things with which I wish I could chat with my daddy, and with my mom, too. And, sure, I chat with their spirits. My daddy's is quiet, as in silent. My mom's is, unsurprisingly, more vocal and validating. Anyhoo...
My daddy was a man of care and compassion, despite his Nixon-loyal-republican leanings. He was, methinks, a true gentleman, a man of his word, a man loyal to the oaths he carried. I say this having never known him in my adult years (whatever that means). So it's not just that I desire to chat with him, I long for an exchange, a true conversation with him. I'd really appreciate the opportunity to tap into his flavor of justice, justice potentially rooted in that care and compassion I mention.
If you've followed this blog for any aggregate of time you'll likely know that I embrace living in the mystery, real and imaginal, for lack of better phrasing. I love the nuance of life, and so much of my work - personal and collective - is rooted in that reality that I love - the mystery 'n' nuance - no matter how challenging or painful it might be exploring all the aspects of my landscape. In that landscape I do my best to pick up or roll over every rock to examine its entire perimeter, and then scratch 'n' dig in the space beneath to explore there as well. It's the kind of work that takes time and effort, and that doesn't offer definitive responses - or answers, if you prefer - from which to act. Rather, it's the kind of work that offers insight, perspective - wisdom, if you prefer - from which to make choices.
I feel my daddy may have engaged in such work as this. Thus his capacity for care and compassion. My mom was more good/bad, right/wrong, often (though not always) lacking an openness for nuance. Thus her capacity for (what I might call) brisk judgement. And as the explorer of my landscape, I see value in "both" of these... approaches, practices, behaviors. And I possess "both." Yet prefer "one."
But I babble.
My desire to engage conversation with the spirit of my daddy rests in the desire to discuss with him these things un-welcomed and cruel. For his caring and compassionate perspective, to be sure, but also for the fact that he played a part in the story, and shared life with one who continues to be demonized by the storyteller. The un-welcomed and cruel storyteller who never even owned the story. The story likely rooted in some truth, but - clearly, without doubt or question - seasoned generously with lies, cruel and un-welcomed. It was never her story to tell. Still never. Always never.
I sure wish I could share a whisky with the ol' boy now. To speak of things un-welcomed and cruel. Or to just tell him that I love him still.
