My dear friend Shane was a solid support for me in the years after Dad died; he’d call regularly, and listen to me as I struggled or thrived. He was very present and generous, plus unfailingly sympathetic. Then his Dad Frank died. I drove across country to the funeral, and we celebrated the times of a simple man who’d lived a good life, respected in church, happily married, and whistling to himself contentedly right until the end, eating nothing but desserts.
Shane called me about a month later and said ‘I know I was there for you when your Dad died, but I’m ringing to say I actually had no idea what it was truly like did I?’ I kinda laughed and replied ‘I feel as though I went to live on another planet; the exact same style as this one, but for people who’ve lost their fathers. I’ve just been living there alone, waiting for my friends to join me one by one… So welcome, I guess.’ We laughed a sad laugh together, and another layer of our bond was laid down- the silver lining from our losses.
Now another close friend Pete is sitting beside his father as he approaches death; I’m holding them both in my thoughts, although I’ve never met his Dad. And again I’m readying a welcome to the new planet, the slightly blue planet, the sometimes-triggering-small-child-lost planet.
Today is the sixth year since my Dad passed on, and they definitely get easier. Not easy, but easier. This morning I went for my usual neighbourhood walk, listening to music while admiring people’s gardens, and I began to think about what Dad’s taught me since he left. I’ve certainly learnt about Resilience, and that Time really does heal all wounds, but here are my top six gifts from Dad, and I hope they resonate for you, dear readers who’ve lost loved ones, or inspire you to reflect on your own:
1. Acceptance/surrender/gratitude– It’s a cliché, but it’s true. We are all dying, and grief is as much of a guarantee in life as the good fun stuff like weddings, babies, and birthdays. The struggle for acceptance of loss can be short or long, easy or strong, but at some point, Life goes on without your beloved. You laugh again, you cry less, you stop thinking about them every day. Now, I reckon I only check in with Dad once a week or so, maybe less if I’m really busy. I’ve accepted his mortality, and thus my own. To surrender to that means I pay more attention to every day, every pleasure, every sunset. It means I have an up-to-date Will, that I take good care of my health, both physical and mental, and that I’m grateful for almost every day, even the shitty ones when I have to do my tax, or go to the dentist.
2. Family– This means ‘Family of Choice’ too, not just blood. My incredible cousin Jo was the rock that I leant upon to get myself through the first month, and so too my aforementioned ‘brother’ Shane. My ‘sister’ Kat continues to connect me through our history of dancing 5Rhythms, and through our creative journeys. My ‘ex-step Mum’ Suzanne feels closer than ever as the years progress, united as we are in our love for Ben, her son and my youngest brother; long term friends here in Australia know that today is ‘Dad’s day’ for me, when I retreat a little, and pay my respects. Dad was always the one ringing around, spreading the news and the tidbits, staying connected, and thereby connecting us all. Dad taught me about phone calls to family across the globe, and about making time to visit old friends, and I have a much greater appreciation of staying in touch with my widespread ‘family’ since he left.
I still miss his fortnightly phone calls, and the sound of his cheery hello down the line though.
3. Food, esp raspberries– I have vivid, multiple memories of Dad fussing about the presentation of a dish, or the laying of the table (including napkins with special ring holders). I remember his small exclamation of delight as he tasted something he was cooking, or the playful rigmarole of trying out a new restaurant. Fish, cheese, wine: Dad’s favourites. And Indian of course, which remains a strong family tradition (you can guess what we’re having this evening can’t you?). He also loved raspberries, as do I. In fact, we scattered some of his ashes around the raspberry canes growing in his garden in Victoria, and although I’ve done the research, I haven’t yet tried to grow my own, despite wanting to. But I will. Nothing joins family and friends like good food, and for that Dad, I salute you.
4. Being alone– I’ve always been independent, have often lived alone, and have travelled solo too. But when Dad died, I fell into a pit of loneliness from which I never thought I’d climb out. I slept with the light on in the hallway for at least 6 months, and had terrible nightmares that gave me insomnia. 3-5am is a lonely time to be awake, and no amount of Facebooking helps. In my deepest times of sadness, I met myself as a small child, lost and wandering, missing her Dad. Somehow we settled down together for a cup of make believe tea, and have been friends every since. Solitude now seems to be a privilege; contemplation and reflection are too, and every time I sit safely in my clean home or at the unpolluted beach, pondering life’s mysteries and gifts, I realize how happy I am to be alone, blessed with only temporary loneliness. Thanks Dad.
5. History– You can’t change it. But you can change how you feel about it. And can be mindful of the new history you choose to create as you move through your present. My relationship with Dad wasn’t perfect- nor was his own relationship with himself or his other children. But losing him has given me the opportunity to focus on all the good stuff, and let go of the bad. I still know it, and lived it of course, as do my brothers, but I am responsible for how I react to it, and what I dwell on. So rest easy Dad; I’ve finally learnt to forgive us both for all our differences and clashes, even while I now struggle here sometimes with my wilful, moody fourteen year old son! Who, by the way, seems to have inherited your ‘card sharp’ tendencies, which I believe you got from your Mum… Not to mention your sense of humour and good story-telling…
6. Energy– When Dad died in Kauai, we had him cremated. We took turns to hold his warm, heavy, strangely-humming box of ashes as we drove to the sea. At sunset, we held a small ritual farewell, and threw some of his ashes into the ocean, so that he could keep travelling the world. We put ashes on his trees in Canada, and into the water that lapped at his garden. We three children each took some of him home to our lands: America, Norway, and Australia. He’s in the pond of the Japanese Gardens in Adelaide, and here at the beach near Byron Bay. He’s still moving, transforming, and growing. For me, he’s in the sunset colours, or beneath a beautiful piece of music. He’s in a leaping whale, a rustling tree, the grin of his grandson. He’s everywhere, in everything, yet also far beyond being tied into any one form. He echoes through the tears I cry sometimes, especially today. He giggles in the funny stories I tell, or sighs with me just as I fall asleep. He’s everywhere, in everything, an eternal energy added to every other lost parent, son, friend, and even foe.
He’s larger than he ever was; so big, he’s become a slightly blue planet, the welcoming-small-child-lost-then-found planet, home to us all, one by one.