I once figured that my parents would just become part of my history as I grew older, having learned what I could from them while growing up. It would then be up to me to head out and make my own way in the world.
I was only half right.
Remembering or Pondering?
The connections to those training sessions early in life remain. As a son, I was subjected to any number of conversations about what it means to be a man. Take responsibility. Be nice to your sisters. Eat your broccoli. The usual.
My attitude at the time was along the lines of wondering when the indoctrination session was due to end, so I could go outside and play. I was not a real attentive audience but Mom and Dad had patience.
Now as I write about this all these years later, I am astounded at how so much of those early interactions keep bubbling back to the surface of my awareness. Writing has always been a therapeutic medium for me. A place to solve old problems, remember important lessons, even talk with people who aren’t there anymore. Journaling has always provoked memories and ideas so I can work through unfinished business.
Always exciting to find sources of insight in these very old conversations. Internally walking through the thoughts and having those conversations by proxy. Discovering the excitement of looking at childhood events with now adult eyes.
Getting older is not what I expected.
Then there is the remembering. Those odd little incidents, forgotten for decades, that suddenly come to mind and shed light upon those old relationships.
Remembering the look on my father’s face the first time I exerted some independence by buying a puppy with my savings after he had said no. Or the warm laughter of my mother when she warned me to get into bed correctly or she would pour water in my ear as I lay across the pillow– and did it when I didn’t cooperate!
Moments that resonate with the adult I grew into. Sharp, clear memories that no one of realized were important at the time. Locations, people, buildings, furniture long since changed or gone.
Nothing beats an “a-ha” moment of clarity when you realize that something you have felt regret over for years suddenly comes into focus when you see that the parent involved was far too human and acting as such. They may have just been having a bad day.
I think this is called letting yourself off the hook.
Funny what turned out to really be important in development of character. Funny what things provide comfort now.
Maybe it is connecting with the impermanence that really makes up Life. Reaching a point where more of my living is viewed in the rear-view mirror than through the windshield.
Caught Myself
As a Hemingway fan, I have always been enamored of his economy with language. Saying in a phrase what some will do in paragraphs. Beautiful simplicity.
While watching an old movie recently, one of the characters was asked why he was defending his hard-to-love father. The young boy responded simply, “Because he’s my dad.”
I was floored. I had been working through some tough memories of my less-than-perfect father. Trying to resolve my loyalty with the conflicted emotions and this one line of dialogue answered my internal question. I had nothing to feel guilty about because in many ways, I was still just his son.
I wish insights came this easily but I’ve learned that if you leave yourself open to an answer, one may just appear. It’s that letting go business that takes a whole bunch of practice.
Wisdom
I am close to people my age that claim to have no recollection of growing up or hold the recently departed so very closely, lest they should lose contact with their memories. I don’t always understand these responses, nor do I wish to. All of them have personal work pending and these are just outward expressions of that unfinished work. Mine is not to know but to be there for them when they need.
Which brings me to a little nugget of wisdom to let people live as they want. No one has the answers, though I suspect many of us possess bits and pieces of them. Allowing everyone to follow their own path appears to be the most enlightened approach.
And the maturing person inside of me suspects that there is far less seriousness in all of these lifetimes of permutations than man-made philosophies have allowed for, if only for all of these incidents that just make me smile.
Once a son of my parents, always that son of my parents.
“The older you get, the closer your loves are to the surface.
― Elizabeth Hay
Dad's Back 