Tag Archives: Dad

All I Got From My Vacation Was…..

“Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we will find it not.” –Ralph Waldo Emerson

Hello friend,

I am having a hard time mustering up the drive to write to you today. My family and I just got back from a week of vacation, and my mind is still floating in that lazy haze of sand and sunshine. In many ways, I have not quite returned yet. I haven’t admitted to myself that it is time for “real life” again (whatever that even means). However, despite my stubborn denial, I know that tomorrow will find me back to the usual Monday routine. So, while I still have a last hazy moment to cling to, I feel the need to put a little bow on my week of escape.

I have been drifting blissfully in the moment for seven days, not working too hard to process the state of my life as a whole or even the state of those vacation days. My journal entries from those days show few deep thoughts and breakthroughs, few philosophical dissertations, and few great lessons and takeaways from each of those days. Mostly it shows a mind floating in easy-breezy vacation nothingness.

But it was NOT nothing! It had to be something! If it was nothing, I would not be still feeling both hazy and deeply sentimental a few days later. I would not have been near tears as I made a slide show of my trip photos yesterday. No, it was definitely something. I just have been too woozy to nail down exactly what that something was.

Right from the first night, when my Dad drove us straight from the airport to the beach just before sunset, my vacation was a reminder. It was a reminder that I am at home on the water. More specifically, I am at home IN the water. Despite a cool evening breeze and no towels to dry with, I could not resist diving right into to the chilly saltwater, hooting and whooping in delight as I rode a few waves right up onto the sand and tossed my excited kids into the surf. That water entered my soul that night and stayed all week, reminding me how organic it is to my very being. In that reminder, I also felt how tragic it had been that I had neglected that aspect of my soul for so many years, but I chose to let that regret go and simply bask in the overwhelming sense of Joy and Peace that can only be felt when one has returned Home. The water is certainly my spiritual Home. What a blissful reminder!

My vacation also reminded me of something critical to my purpose in life: to expose my children to as much of this world as I can. I try to remember this in my daily life. I read them books and show them videos of people doing brave and interesting things. I encourage them to try different sports and activities. I tell them stories about my childhood and the things I have done in my life. I ask their teachers to challenge their limits. I try to model curiosity, open-mindedness, and a love of books.   These are good things, I know.

But this trip reminded me that there is nothing quite like an adventure when it comes to broadening your horizons. Having a manatee swim by you as you are playing in the ocean, racing barefoot on a golf course at night, boating through canals full of homes worth 20 and 30 million dollars each, flying on an airplane for the first time, walking the beach with your Grandma collecting seashells. These are things that require an adventure. I was tickled every time I saw my kids’ eyes light up with the newness and wonder of Life beyond their usual borders. My eyes were glowing, too!

My vacation also reminded me of the fleeting nature of these chances to do life this way with these people. The childhoods of my kids, now 6 and 8, are flying by. Up until a few years ago, they were thrilled every time a friend of mine—whom they call “Uncle”–came over to play. He made them giggle to no end and happily joined us for things like sledding and birthday cake. Then he moved away, and no one has replaced him. On our vacation, they got to see him again, and it was like they didn’t miss a beat. Magic! But those years pass in a blink, and it is so easy to miss these things. Not just for the kids, but for me, too.

After a blissful vacation week with my parents, they dropped us off at the airport to go home. We said a quick goodbye at the curb and lugged our stuff inside. As the sliding doors closed behind us, I turned and looked back as my Mom and Dad each closed their car door and drove off. They didn’t see me as I watched them disappear. Already feeling sentimental from saying goodbye, I suddenly had the very sad realization that there may not be so many more adventures and goodbyes with them. Of course, any of us could fall ill or die at any point, but the odds change as you get to their age. I don’t know if it was the cumulative result of a week’s time with them, talking of my uncle’s recent death and the health issues of other of their friends and family members, but for some reason, seeing them drive away made me so grateful and sad. It can’t be forever, I thought, but it can be now. Cherish it. Cherish them.

And that reminded me of my last big takeaway from my vacation, something I kept noticing in passing during the week but never quite solidifying in my mind or noting in my hazy journal entries. The reminder: It’s never too late.

In recent years, I hardly ever see my parents unless there is a big crowd of their children and grandchildren gathered together in one of their houses. In that chaotic atmosphere, my old man tends to play the role of the crotchety, distant guy who might grouse about how messy you are making his house or give you a little teasing but never gets very lovey or just hangs out with you and gets to know you. His kids (and some of his grandkids) all know he is a great, big-hearted guy underneath that prickly veneer, so we let it slide and love him for what is true. My kids, though, because of the crowded and infrequent visits, have never gotten to that point with him. My son has enjoyed trading tickles and barbs a few times and never minds a little ribbing, so they have been fine but never close. My daughter, though, is more about gentle, deep, and intimate relationships and thus never seemed to bond with her grandfather. When I would remind her to give him a hug, it always seemed forced, almost scared in its distance. I always lamented that. And I figured that would be how it remained.

Imagine my delight, then, when I saw him, on our first night, walking side-by-side with my son like old friends. Or the next day, when I saw him voluntarily give my daughter a little hug and call her “Honey” in conversation. Or, at the end of the week, as I watched the three of them—my old man, my daughter, and my son—walk off together down the beach, no hesitation and no questions asked. There was genuine affection there. A bond had formed. It was totally cool. Priceless, really. If he should happen to leave us soon, their lasting feelings and memories of him will be completely different than they were before this week. That right there made the whole trip worthwhile.

But the rest was alright, too, I guess. I think I will try this vacation thing again someday!

How about you? What were your takeaways from your last vacation? Open up your journal and your memory and take a trip. What was your last real getaway? How big was it in your life? How long had you daydreamed about it? Was it more about action (e.g. a ski trip) or pure relaxation (e.g. the beach)? Who was with you? What did the vacation do for your relationships with your companions? Did it completely change any of them? For the better or worse? Did it change the way you relate to the people who weren’t on the trip? Did it recharge your battery? Did you have any big “A-Ha!” moments, when something important struck you? I find that whenever I travel—whether it is because of all the time in the car or sitting in the airport or on the beach or whatever—I usually end up doing a lot of soul-searching. How about you? How well are you able to leave your regular life behind and just be on vacation? Do you think that makes it easier to put your regular life in perspective? Is that a big part of what vacation is all about? Leave me a reply and let me know: What did your last vacation do for you?

Roll the windows down,

William

P.S. If this resonated with you, please share it. Let’s stir each other up!

This Life & The Afterlife: Torn Between The Two

“IMG_2404To die, to sleep – To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come….” –William Shakespeare, Hamlet

Hello friend,

Here’s the deal: I am so desperately eager to get to the next life, but I also simply cannot let go of this one any time soon. Huh? How can I reconcile that? Allow me to explain.

I believe that the state of being that comes after this life is going to be absolutely amazing. Not just amazing, though; because we throw around the term “amazing” all the time about pretty much anything we like: a gym class, our new yogurt, shoes, etc. What comes after our physical death, I believe, will be beyond amazing. Indescribably peaceful, blissful, and aware of our complete oneness with the Divine Source.

Now, let me be clear: I don’t claim to know what exactly comes next (and I am suspicious of anyone who does). I believe that we are all completely divine, that we existed prior to our appearance in this human form, and that we will continue to exist in another form(s?) when we are done with these bodies. I am attracted to many of the ideas of Buddhism, and reincarnation is one that I have played with. I am open to that possibility but not necessarily sold on it. I also don’t really buy the traditional vision of a Heaven with pearly gates and all of our friends and relatives who look exactly like they do now, a view that I think is common. I definitely don’t believe in any sort of Hell in the afterlife. But I definitely do believe in continuous existence, that we are not just going to cease entirely when our hearts stop beating.

I guess if you pinned me down and made me pick a description using our limited human ideas, I would say that I believe that when we die, we become fully aware of our pure divinity again. We lift the veil that we wear throughout our human journey, the one that allows us to believe that we are somehow separate from God and separate from each other. Unbound by our physical form, we join the stream of pure consciousness of All That Is. We are pure Love, and, more importantly, we know it. To me, that is who we are now, but we simply don’t recognize it, aren’t aware of it, and so we continue to act out of ignorance throughout our time on Earth.

You could probably say that is the foundation of my spiritual beliefs: that we are all One—all God, if you like—and thus, the end is not in doubt.

So, needless to say, I am pretty darn excited to get to the end of this ignorance and onto that plane of Bliss and Conscious Union with The All. {I don’t mind if you translate that to “Heaven” and “God” as long as you feel what I mean.} Indeed, I would love to be there now. I can’t wait!!!

BUT…..

You cannot take me now! No way, I need to be here forever! Well, not exactly forever. Just until I reach a wise, old age when my kids have successfully navigated their way into middle adulthood (and hey, grandkids would be cool, too!). I need to be here for them. I guess it is two reasons, really. First, I want them to have their Dad to help shepherd and support them through the trials of this world. I wish that for any kid, and certainly for my own. And secondly/selfishly, I simply don’t want to miss a thing! Seriously. These kids have completely rocked my world, and I am addicted to my life with them. I sometimes have daydreams about being diagnosed with a terminal illness with only a short time to go, and I get to the point of actually sobbing when I think about saying goodbye to them and how many things I would miss out on. It crushes me. I have gotten to the point where I am absolutely clinging to this earthly existence.

I was never this way before I started this family way of life. In fact, before my wife and kids came along, when I lived a solitary (by choice) life, focused intensely on my spirituality and connectedness to the Divine, I felt both blissful and completely ready for death. Eager, even. Often, in my happiest, most fulfilled moments—on the top of a mountain or in the middle of a clear stream—I would hear myself saying aloud, “You can have me any time, God!” I absolutely meant it.

But a funny thing happens when you get invested in particular Earthlings. Suddenly, you don’t want to leave this place anymore. Like the Hollywood stories of people who had given up on life until they meet someone to love, my wife and kids somehow made me want to stay here (a lot!). They didn’t’ make me happier or more at peace. No, they just made me feel responsible and desirous (desperate?) of squeezing out every possible moment with them. They took me out of the next world that I was reaching for and grounded me fully in this one. They made me think Heaven can wait.

So, what gives? Was I crazy then to want so much to move on to the afterlife, or is my mind warped now in thinking that something from this life—even my darling little angels—could be worthy of making me prefer this life to the next one? I don’t know if there is a right answer to this.

I guess the way I am approaching it, I see myself as an infinite being, so the next life is always out there and won’t be any shorter for my stay on this floating rock called Earth. So, despite its uncertainties and cruelties, I am going to take this portion of the ride for as long as it will have me. I know I am wearing the veil of ignorance and disconnect while here, and while that is frustrating at times, I just need to return to my foundational belief occasionally to remind myself: We are all One, and thus, the end is not in doubt. So, I will make the best of this veiled part of the journey, soaking up the magical moments with my family on this beautiful planet. And then, when my day comes—though they may have to drag me kicking and screaming—I will remove the veil and float blissfully away, fully aware of my divine and infinite nature. One moment at a time….

How about you? Are you more clinging to this life or longing for the next one, or, like me, a little bit of both? Open up your journal and take a deep dive into your beliefs about God and the nature of reality. I must admit, I found it quite challenging but wonderfully invigorating to try to put into words how I envision the afterlife. So please, make the effort on this one. I suppose the underlying question with this topic is: do you believe in a Higher Power? What do you call it? Is that Higher Power judging how you are doing in this lifetime in order to give you a sentence for the afterlife? Do you believe there is some sort of afterlife? How would you describe what you think happens to us after we die? Is it different for everyone? What do you think of concepts like Hell or Purgatory or Limbo? How about reincarnation? Pearly gates? Choirs of angels? Do you think you get to “meet” a personal God? A life review? Judgment? Is what comes next dependent upon what happens here in this existence? Do you think that what you get then depends upon what you believe now (i.e. different results for Atheists, Hindus, Christians, etc.)? How much of your view of the afterlife is dictated by a religion? Were you born into that religion, or did you adopt it when you were old enough to decide for yourself, or somewhere in between? How sure are you that your belief in the afterlife is correct? Does your belief make you want to get to the next world as soon as possible, or would you prefer to stick around here for as long as you are able? What are the things in this world that make you want to stay? Do we owe it to ourselves/our loved ones/our Higher Power to stay here as long as we can? Is that just part of the deal of being born? To what degree are you clinging to this world? Is that more due to what you have here—loved ones, etc.—or more due to your uncertainty about what awaits you when you die? Is it normal to not want to die but also to very much want what comes after death? Leave me a reply and let me know: Which life do you want more: this one or the next one?

Embrace it All,

William

P.S. If this one made you dig into your core beliefs and your psyche the way it did for me—I found this topic highly engaging—pass it on. Self-awareness is a gift!

A Golden Life: Reflections on My Parents’ 50 Years of Marriage

DSC_1086“Falling in love is easy, but staying in love is very special.” 

Hello friend,

Over the recent holidays, I got to spend several days in my childhood home. The place still feels like a haven for me. It cradles me. I love its energy, its vibe. Around Christmas, though, that calming influence is mixed with utter pandemonium, as 20+ people, a few dogs, and a cat all share the space every hour of the day. It is a circus. A delightful circus, but still a circus. The tendency is for the days to whirl by in the madness, and suddenly I am in the car again, heading back to the uncertainties of “real” life and away from the place that still fills me with the comfort and security of a child in his parents’ arms.

This time, however, even amidst the chaos, I couldn’t help but pull back a little bit and take stock. I had a few moments—when the decibels were at peak level as all the kids tore into their presents, or as the multiple conversations criss-crossed at the three tables (one for the adults, one for the teens and people like me who don’t want to grow up, and one for the little kids) at Christmas dinner—when I simply sat back and appreciated the overwhelming swirl of Love and community that filled the house. It was truly awesome. I couldn’t help but notice myself mouthing the words “Thank you” as I looked on in wide wonder. I was humbled by the gift of a seat at the table amongst such beautiful souls. What a family!

Of course, when I think about my family and its remarkable run of happy togetherness, the road leads swiftly and certainly to my parents. The part of this trip that made it extra special was that we all got to share in their 50th wedding anniversary. FIFTY YEARS! Even as I write the words, the concept astounds me. Fifty years of marriage. I was patting myself on the back when my wife and I hit twelve years last Summer. I guess we better pack a lunch!

I have spent a lot of time thinking about marriage in the last couple of years. My own, my parents’, and the concept in general. I think about how tough it is to make marriage work, why so many of them fail, and why some people stay in them long after they should probably be gone. I have seriously pondered most of the couples that I know. Gradually, though, as my study has progressed, I have spent more and more time thinking only about my own parents. They have become the example.

For many years in my adulthood, I wondered why in the world they stayed married. I wanted what was best for my Mom, and frankly, I just wasn’t convinced that being married to my Dad was a healthy thing anymore. Alcoholism lays waste to most things in its path. It is clear to me why most relationships with an alcoholic end badly. Some disastrous combination of untruthfulness and hurtfulness wears the other down until there is nothing left but to leave or be lost.

I once asked my Mom if she was thinking about cutting ties and moving on. From her reaction, it was clear that the thought had never even occurred to her. Her only goal was to get my Dad feeling well again. She knew that the magnificent man that she had married when she was only twenty years old was still in there, that he just needed some help to find himself again. And she was darn sure going to be there every step of the way. Encouraging him. Comforting him. Challenging him. Holding his hand. Loving him. And always, always believing in him. In them.

I have to admit that at the time, I just couldn’t see it very clearly. I would have cut and run, not wanting to go down with the ship. I am hypersensitive, so lies and hurtful words and acts turn my heart in a hurry. I was always amazed—but also dismayed–by my mother’s capacity for patience and forgiveness. There were definitely moments that I wanted her to stand up and shout, “ENOUGH!!!” And I thought less of her for not doing so.

I see it differently now.

As I said, I have been thinking pretty hard about this lately. I think about my parents at that time and how miserable it seemed from my view on the outside. And then I think about them now and how happy and in love they seem, so grateful to be growing old together. I realize now that I was wrong and my Mom was right. She took a lot more than I could take, and a lot more than I wanted her to take. But in her seemingly unending love and patience—and more importantly than that, in her unyielding belief in her husband and in her commitment to him—she was able to weather the storm and carry them back onto the road, where they now walk hand-in-hand to their Happily Ever After.

There are a couple of things I take heart in when I think about their long journey, and in particular about the storm. First, even though I am sure she would do a few things differently, I am even more sure that she would carry his burdens again if need be, and that her belief in him and commitment to him would never falter. And second, I know he would do the same for her.

This is how a marriage works.

I am thankful every day that I was born to these two amazing people. I am thankful for the way they raised me, the love and self-confidence that they instilled in me. I am thankful for the way they have supported me and my siblings as we have endeavored to live meaningful lives and build families around their model. I am thankful that my kids get to love them and learn from them. And I am thankful that, amidst all of my ponderings of the difficulties of marriage and the many ways that marriages fail, I have a shining example of how marriage succeeds, of how marriage is meant to be. I only hope that I can follow their lead.

How about you? Who are your greatest relationship role models? Open up your journal and examine what it is about the couples you know who are doing it right. What characteristics do they have that makes their relationships work? Do both parties have that characteristic equally, or one more than the other? Do their personalities and skill-sets complement each other? What makes some relationships last where others fail? Is it the depth of commitment each person makes? It seems that people in my parents’ generation felt more of a moral obligation to marry for life than is expected in the current generation. While you can definitely argue that that doomed many people to remain in unhappy relationships, what do you see as the upside of that moral obligation? Is my mother’s resilience and willingness to weather the storm a byproduct of such a morality? Do you see that as a good thing or a bad thing? If you are married now, how confident are you that you will make it to the end of your lives together? If you aren’t married, does the poor success rate of marriages make you more hesitant to marry, or does that awareness not play a role in your confidence? How happily were/are your parents together? Are they a good role model for you in the marriage department? What about their relationship do you most want to avoid? What do you most want to emulate? Do you expect to live happily ever after with someone? Leave me a reply and let me know: What would people say about your relationship 50 years from now? 

Let Love Rule,

William

P.S. If this made you think about your life, pass it on. Let’s build a community of self-aware people!

A Father’s Humanity

IMG_1209“Of all the titles that I’ve been privileged to have, the title of ‘dad’ has always been the best.” –Ken Norton

Hello friend,

I think my Dad probably gets a bad rap in these posts. I recently wrote about how much of a momma’s boy I am (see “A Mother’s Son”), and how so many of my most favorite memories involve my Mom. Along the way, I have mentioned how different my Dad and I are from each other in our willingness to show emotions and how I have never really gained access to that wonderful circle of friendship and common interests that he shares with my older brothers. These things are true, but they also perhaps lead the reader to believe that my old man is cold and heartless, more of a robot than a man. This is simply not true.

I think most kids tend to see their father as something of a superhero. Dads are strong, always carrying the kids around on their shoulders and lifting them up to see things. Dads are smart, fixing broken toys or knowing the answers to homework questions. Dads are powerful, coming home from work—where they were surely in charge of something–with the power to buy pizza and ice cream, or the power to punish bad behavior, because “Wait until your father gets home!” preceded him. Dads are tough, always doing brave things like getting up in the dark to go out and kill animals with guns or shoveling all of that snow from the blizzard. And Dads never cry. They keep their feelings at a distance so they won’t ever look weak. With all of this, how could we NOT see our fathers as superheroes? That is pretty much the way I saw mine.

But superheroes, as mythical and awe-inspiring as they are, are hard to get to know. Their invincibility—the very thing that makes them super—is what makes it hard for anyone to really touch them. Keeping their feelings at a distance keeps them super, of course, but it also keeps people at a distance, too. It is, quite simply, one of the hazards of the job.

My poor father! Between his innate aversion to emotional closeness and sharing, and his natural charisma and talents that made him so much the superhero to all kids, he had to go and have a son like me! As I have mentioned to you many times in other posts, I like my relationships deep and open. My innate aversion is the opposite of my old man’s: it is small-talk and all things guarded. I want to live out loud and explore the range and complexity of the human condition, one deep encounter at a time. My Dad? Well, not as much.

So, could these seemingly star-crossed souls co-exist in adulthood—after all of my childhood’s starry-eyed hero worship had settled–to either one’s satisfaction? From my end, at least, it turned out that I found what I needed in my Dad’s most difficult hours.

Twenty Summers ago, I got in my car and took an epic roadtrip from Los Angeles up the Pacific Coast Highway, checked out the mountains of Oregon and Washington, wandered through Glacier country, and arrived back in my childhood home in the wee hours of what would be my Mom’s fiftieth birthday. Later that night, my Dad had a massive heart attack and nearly died. I remember driving to the hospital later with my sisters and, just before we arrived, my dam burst. I started sobbing uncontrollably. It happened again later in the day, after talking with the nurse about my Dad’s status. I went out alone into the hallway, just out of the ICU, and just crumbled onto the floor and sobbed like a baby. At that age, still 22, I wouldn’t have called our relationship a close one. On top of that was the fact that less than two years earlier, I had made my big announcement that I was quitting pre-Med, leaving school, and heading off to become a star. I knew it was a huge shock and disappointment to nearly every person in my life. But most of all, I was completely certain that it was my Dad who harbored the greatest disappointment. It seemed, from my view at least, to be much more than just disappointment, though. It felt like embarrassment.

So it was that I found myself passing the night by his side in his curtained-off “room” in the ICU the night after his surgery. I had volunteered for the job of sitting by him and feeding him little ice chips in the brief and random moments when he would awaken from the drugs, a million tubes running out of him, to ease the extreme cottonmouth that is part of the process. In the semi-dark room, his eyes would pop open in alarm. With him unable to speak, I would look calmly into his eyes and ask if he wanted some ice. Invariably his eyes would tell me that he did, and so I would spoon him the tiny chips, as I had been instructed by the nurse. Then he would drift quickly back into oblivion, only to have the same thing happen a few moments later. Over and over through the long night. In the longer unconscious spells, I would talk to him about Notre Dame football and other random stuff, hopeful that a familiar voice might help him make it through. I am certain he has no recollection of that night, but it is one I will never forget. It gave me—the black sheep and disgrace of his wonderful brood—a chance to actually be of service to this superhero in his one moment of vulnerability. I am sure I needed it more than he did.

Fast forward many years into the more recent past. My Dad had battled and re-battled alcoholism for long stretches of my adulthood. If you have ever been around alcoholism, you know it is no facilitator for deeper, more meaningful relationships. It slowly dulls the drinker and, on its best days, dulls all relationships in the vicinity. Still, even in that subhuman state, my Dad had the wherewithal to take on the challenge of treatment to pull himself out of the abyss that is that terrible disease (I am still really proud of him for that).

It was in that setting of a treatment facility that I had my other poignant moment with my Dad that will remain etched in my memory for life. I hadn’t seen him since the intervention, which is, of course, a heart-wrenching experience for everyone involved. I drove out to the facility with my sister on a beautiful Sunday afternoon near the end of his treatment, both a little nervous about what we would find. And there he was: a superhero with a brand new supersuit and gadgets. He was so fresh and spry and sharp and all things alive. It completely floored me; I guess I had forgotten who he really was in all of those dulled-over years. I marveled at his confidence, charm, and charisma as he toured us around the facility like it was his own. He introduced us to all the guys—he even seemed proud as he did—and they all revered him as their leader and a great man. I loved that. But the moment that has stuck with me the most came after we had met everyone and toured all the buildings. We found a trail along the woods to wander and eventually sat down on a bench for a break in the quiet beauty of the day. My sister was between us, so I studied him secretly as he told stories about the guys and their families and all of the crazy drama that had brought them to the facility. He looked mostly ahead into the greenery and occasionally to my sister, and I just stared at his eyes as he spoke. They were so astoundingly alive and sharp. So vibrant. He seemed completely new. Revitalized. I had my Dad back, and that was everything. I will never forget that look in his eyes. Never.

In the end, those two little moments that my Dad wasn’t even aware of are the ones that draw us together in my mind, helping me to feel closer to a man who never made that easy. What I have learned in this ongoing process is that maybe you don’t have to be “close” to someone to still have a special relationship. I don’t expect my Dad to suddenly become all emotionally gushy at this point, and I don’t want him to pretend to be more proud of me than he really is. I still think the world of him, and he still affects me profoundly every day. I cherish the times we have together, and I appreciate that my kids have gotten to know him and love him, too. I will take him just as he is. And hey, maybe we will get one more memory before his story is all said and done, a last moment when my superhero’s vulnerability grabs hold of me in a way that speaks the language of my heart. Maybe. If not, I am okay with that, too. He will always be my old man. That is enough for me. More than enough.

How about you? What is the dynamic between you and your father? Open up your journal and take yourself through your relationship. You can do this whether your father is dead or alive, a huge part of your everyday life or hardly involved at all. How close are you? Are you closer now than you were before, or drifting further apart? How has that closeness changed through the years? What do you attribute that to? How similar are you to your Dad? Does that make things easier or harder for the relationship? What memories most define your relationship with your father? Are they big events, or subtle things that he may not even be aware of? What makes those memories stick for you? Whether or not he is alive, what would you most like your father to know? Are those words that you have the courage to say? How about today? Rather than leaving me a reply this time, use your words to tell a father that you love and appreciate him. Happy Father’s Day!

Love across difference,

William

So Long, Farewell

DSC_0819“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” –A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh 

Hello friend,

Whenever I think of goodbyes, I think of my parents. My Mom is all-in when it comes time to part ways. I think so fondly of the mornings at her house—the home of my childhood–after a long holiday stay, when I am packing the car with a million pieces of luggage. She makes sure to get up early to make a big breakfast. She finds a way to engage in a good conversation one last time, gently reminding me that I still feel so very much at home there. She comes by with lots of motherly love and rubs on the back. She tells me how glad she is that we came. She hugs. She kisses. There are lots of “I love you’s,” and even more heartfelt tears. She puts it all out there. It feels good to have a goodbye morning with her. I always drive away full of love and gratitude—and yes, a few heartfelt tears of my own. My Mom is the world champion of goodbyes.

And then there is my Dad. The man who occupies the same house on those sweet, sentimental goodbye mornings is nowhere to be found. Perhaps the dog needed to go out for an extra-long walk, or that darn post office box was in desperate need of a checking, or maybe something was left at the office. In any case, he will not be sharing in the farewell breakfast, the “I love you’s,” or the teary-eyed hugs. My Dad is the world champion of avoiding sentimental moments, especially goodbyes.

As the child of this wonderful good-cop/bad-cop duo, you might suspect that I am some kooky hybrid of the two. I suppose that is true. When it comes to that kind of goodbye with those nearest and dearest to me, I love the lingering, sentimental goodbye like my mother. I am hopelessly nostalgic, so I like to soak in those last moments of a visit like they are a warm bath, thoroughly enjoying both the moment and the grateful afterglow of the wonderful time we have shared (which makes leaving so difficult). I love the peaceful gratitude that comes from spending time with the right people. When it comes to anyone else, though, I would rather take my old man’s route and avoid it altogether. Just get me out of there!

I have been full of goodbyes lately. A few days ago, I left a job and career of many years, in the process bidding farewell to many people who hold all sorts of different places in (and out of) my heart. In the week leading up to the final departure, as I saw folks for possibly the final time, I noticed my heart and mind run through the full extremes of responses, both in the goodbye itself and even in the mere anticipation of the goodbye.

On the one hand, I really appreciated the opportunity to say farewell to some of the players, mostly because I wanted to thank them for all of the their time and effort and commitment over the years. We had been through a lot together, and a player-coach relationship can go pretty deep. I definitely felt that in my inclination to touch base with my long-time players. The more I had invested in them—and vice versa—the more I wanted to connect with them one last time and thank them for the ride. It is a great gift to get the chance to coach someone who is invested in their own improvement, and I wanted to linger in that gratitude a bit in my final moments with those special people.

Otherwise, though, I mostly wanted to avoid people all week. If I wasn’t close with someone personally, didn’t care for them, or never made that great connection that comes when someone really lets you join in their fight for their own advancement and self-confidence, I absolutely did not want a farewell. I was actually even a bit repulsed by the idea. It was the complete opposite of my reaction with the other players.

I seem to fall on the “Give me the genuine and heartfelt, or let’s not waste our time” when it comes to goodbyes. But as I write that, I see that that is exactly how I am at my core and why I mostly keep to myself. If I am going to interact, I prefer it to be deep and meaningful. I don’t suffer the shallow stuff very well. So, I don’t avoid most goodbyes the way my old man does—to hide from the emotions that might come up—but rather because they won’t bring any emotions up. That is why I had no inclination to say goodbye to coworkers; I was not close to any of them. If no one knew I was leaving, I could have easily walked out the door just like any other day and never looked back. I suppose that sounds cold or simply weird, but that is a pretty normal feeling for me. I have had enough big transitions—moves or job changes—to know my patterns. I tend toward the deep and lasting OR a complete severing of ties (mostly the latter). I am not sure if that is a good or a bad trait, but it is certainly me.

Next week I will say goodbye to one of the best friends I have ever had. He is moving far away, and who ever knows what happens then? For the most part, I just want to have one of my Mom’s goodbye mornings with him and linger in the gratitude and fond memories. In some ways, though, I want to be my Dad and make his goodbye a little easier for him—it is already tough enough to move away from a life you have built, no doubt—by disappearing until he gets out of town and avoiding all the sentimental stuff. But this is a guy who tends to go dark, so what if this is the end? What if I don’t get the chance again to tell him that he’s the best and that I love him and that I thank him so, so much for all that he has been to me and my family?

This is when I know how much I am my mother’s son. The Truth in my soul demands a proper farewell, no matter how many tears must be shed or hugs must be hugged. It would be false to my Truth to go out to walk the dog for this one. I will stay. After all that we have been through, I must say my goodbye.

How about you? How do you do with goodbyes? Open up your journal and your heart, and share your Truth. Do you have a typical pattern for your big goodbyes? Are you the world champion of them, or are you the one who avoids them like the plague? Does your response change wildly, like mine, depending on the bond you have made? How have you handled your biggest goodbyes (e.g., moving away, leaving a job, even the death of a loved one)? I love the Dr. Seuss quote that goes “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” Do you tend to be the one smiling or crying, or both? It can be a complicated matter, so dig deep on this one. Maybe allow the feelings to come out that you didn’t when you said (or avoided) some important goodbyes. It is a good release. In any case, tell your Truth. That is always the most important thing. Tell your Truth. Leave me a reply and let me know, How do you do goodbye? 

The real you is amazing,

William

I Can See Clearly Now

DSC_0528“I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.” –Flannery O’Conner 

Hello friend,

A funny thing happened on the way to the blog post!  When I sat down to write my usual daily journal entry today, I had not yet decided on my next blog topic.  I figured I would do some brainstorming later in the day.  So, I started to write a pretty basic, humdrum journal entry.  But by the time I finished, I had found a subject that puzzled me enough that I needed to write myself through it until I had a clear idea of how I felt about it.

I have always said that one of the best things journaling has done for me is to give me clarity about how I feel and who I am.  That is exactly what today’s entry did for me; it took a topic that I had kind of a vague notion about and brought it into sharp focus.  So, I think that instead of my usual post to you that gets several re-reads and edits before I send it out, I will share with you directly from my own journal.  I do this not because it is very well-written—indeed, I hope you are able to follow my mind, which I really allow just to go wherever it wants as I write—but because I think this entry is a good example of how clarity can come from the process of journaling.  So, I hope what I am giving you today is a double-whammy: a plug for journaling and also a topic to consider writing about.

I will spare you the more humdrum stuff at the beginning of the entry.  I wrote about my eagerness for Spring and Summer, and about my kids’ first day back at swimming lessons.  Then, as I was thinking about all of the big stuff up ahead with the kids, I started this stream of consciousness:

It is so challenging and fun to be a Dad.  I would have missed out on so much had I chosen to stay single and childless.  I would certainly have gained in other areas and had a great time, but oh, these children provide a totally unique experience that is simply priceless.  I think about Jon and his new relationship with a 51-year-old.  He would be such a great father, but, if this relationship sticks, fatherhood goes out the window as an option.  That saddens me.  This is an awkward thought process, because it seems narrow-minded and judgmental to put a “should” onto someone.  I mean well with it, but I am sure the sentiment wouldn’t be received well.  Where is the line?  Is it that I wouldn’t push the idea on him but would answer honestly if asked.  Hmmm…..  This is starting to sound like a good blog post idea.  Hopefully we are in the era where, no matter what your racial or sexual identity or preference is, you can choose to have a child, whether that is out of your own body, via a surrogate, or through adoption.  So, when someone chooses to not have a child, even if you don’t judge them for it, is it okay to feel bad for them, to believe they are missing out?  Because I am a little sad about Jon probably missing out on this amazing ride called parenthood.  I see how great he is with India and Isaiah and think, “Man, any kid would be LUCKY to have a guy like that for a Dad!”  I guess it comes down to this: I don’t think less of him; I just feel bad for him.  And even though I know that sentiment totally comes from a place of love and good will, I still wonder if it is not being self-righteous to think that.  I suppose it has parallels in terms of religious people who feel bad for anyone who does not believe as they do.  If you feel your religious doctrine is the one true path to happiness and ultimate glory, you would be justified in feeling bad for the people who don’t believe as you do.  I think where the line would get crossed is when you judged them and denigrated them for their beliefs.  Maybe this is more a question about being evangelical about it.  I am not totally sure I am using that word right, but what I mean is that it is probably okay to feel bad for Jon or the nonbelievers, but it would get offensive/inappropriate if I tried to sell them on my belief.  I suppose the question for any type of crusader is: “If I really think my way is the best, don’t I have an obligation to others to sell them on it?  After all, I am only looking out for their best interest.”  I can see how this becomes a slippery slope toward intolerance.  What a fascinating topic!  I suppose to find the middle way here, you need to go on the assumption that everyone has all of the information.  Jon has plenty of examples in front of him, and I have studied all of the religions.  To get in either of our faces with a hard sell would be insulting to both our liberty and our intelligence.  Once you know someone has all of the information, it is to live and let live.  Bless them.  Feel bad if you must, but wish them well and love them.  That is how to be a good human on this earth.  I can see it more clearly now.  I am so grateful for journaling.  It reminds me of the quote that Jen sent me the other day that reminded her of me: “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.” –Flannery O’Conner.  Today is a perfect example.  I love the process and am so grateful for it.  It reminds me why I am so glad I started “Journal of You”: so that others can be blessed by the process in the same ways that I have.  I am a lucky man.  Life is truly beautiful.

There you have it!  That is how my crazy mind works as I write.  As I said, I offer that to you as an example of how you can find clarity in your beliefs—indeed, really learn who you are–through the process of journaling.  It works for me, and I trust that if you give it a chance, it will work for you.

So, won’t you give it a shot?  Pick up your pen and spill some ink.  Let your thoughts run.  Does my feeling bad for my friend cross the line from wishing him only the best to being self-righteous or condescending?  Which of your beliefs or lifestyle choices do you think other people are missing out on?  Is it your religion?  Your political views?  Ideal number of children, if any?  How willing are you to engage others in conversation or debate about your stance?  Is it easier to discuss with or attempt to persuade someone who is close to you (e.g. a family member) or a stranger?  On a scale of 1 to 10, how open-minded are you?  If I asked your closest friends the same question about you, do you think they would say the same thing?  Do some digging.  Be honest.  Lay yourself bare.  Then, leave me a reply.  Tell me about your process, and let me know if you learned anything from mine.  I want to know: can you see yourself clearly?

Happy looking,

William

Roadtrip Down Memory Lane

DSC_0674Hello friend,

Picture the scene: a campground in Middle of Nowhere, USA.  It is the dead of night, and at one particular site, there is no tent or camper set up, and no evidence of a campfire.  No marshmallows.  No lawn chairs.  No clothesline.  Just a solitary maroon van with North Dakota license plates.  But wait!  What is that thing on the picnic table????  The remains of a meal?  A table cloth?  Nope!  That’s just my brother.  Sleeping.  Welcome to the Rutten Family roadtrip, early 1980s-style!

With the coming of Spring Break this week and its many possibilities, I have grown increasingly nostalgic about my family trips in the good-old days of my youth.  I am sure I have, by necessity, blocked a lot out, but I cannot help but grin and giggle every time I think of our adventures in that maroon van (and the navy blue one that came before it).

What, you might ask, was going on inside that van to cause my brother to choose the cold comforts of a picnic table?  Well, let’s see.  In the back section, with the bench “sofa” folded down, you could probably find my snoring Mom snuggled up tight with my two sisters (my little sister could not sleep unless she was up against another body—tight against).  In the middle row, where there were two bucket seats that swiveled and reclined, you could find one of my brothers snoozing with his no-sock-wearing stinky feet resting on the cooler that was chock-full of all of the nutrition my Mom could pack for such a cross-country adventure (read: Mello Yello and Coke).  I was usually wrenched in the “aisle”—I use the term loosely—between the two seats or in the front passenger seat with the chair reclined back into the middle row—uncomfortably close to my brother’s aforementioned stankfeet—and my own feet up on the nearby footrest, I mean dashboard.

So, what were my other brother’s options?  He could go with the driver’s seat with all of its spacious amenities, or he could sit in the other middle row seat, next to Stankyfoot and with me either under his feet or reclining my chair into his lap.  I am guessing that by this point you are seeing his wisdom in forgoing those lavish comforts for a night in favor of the splintered wood and rusty nails of the picnic table.  But just for a night.  The next few nights, in the next few campgrounds in Podunk and Timbuktu, it would thunderstorm, and nobody goes out in a thunderstorm (right, Mom?).

That was us, night after night as we traversed this great country in that van.  Every couple of years, my Dad would have a big convention to go to in the Summer for his job.  One year it was Nashville, another time Boston.  That was big stuff for a kid from North Dakota, so I was thrilled to pile into the van several days before the convention with my brothers, sisters, and Mom.  And off we would go, just the six of us, hopped up on the Mello Yello (for the kids) and Coke (for my Mom).

Where was my Dad?  Good question.  My old man was no fool.  He was not about to sleep in a car with six other people night after night.  No sir.  While we were schlepping our way across the land from campground to campground and hitting the nearest waterslide or historic site, he was hanging out at home until the day the convention started.  Then he would hop on a plane and meet up with us at the airport.  Same thing on the return.  He would fly home and dine on a nice steak while we were eating McDonald’s for every meal—and I mean every meal—and sleeping on top of each other.  A smart man, my Dad!

But how about my Mom!!!  God bless her!  That is no small feat to shuttle five lunatics across the country and back, fueled only by Egg McMuffins and Coke.  There was no OnStar, iPhone, or TomTom, just an atlas and one cassette tape—Alabama’s “Roll On”–to get her down the road.  I am absolutely amazed by this as I think back.  That woman was a real trooper!

I have nothing but the best memories of these Mom-lead family roadtrips of my childhood.  I have been in love with the roadtrip concept ever since.  I have done many alone and others with friends, but my most frequent companion, even well into adulthood, has been my Mom.  We have driven to and/or from New York City, New Mexico, Montana, Rhode Island, Los Angeles, and Washington, DC.  I will save the tales of those adventures for another day, but suffice it to say that my Mom is the absolute best (and most bladder-challenged) traveling companion ever.

She is also the inspiration for the roadtrip bug I have been feeling lately.  My kids are now three and five, just about to the age when they could appreciate a good old-fashioned roadtrip.  When I think of trekking cross-country with them at this age, my mind tends to go directly to nightmares of chasing down rest areas while begging them to hold it, cleaning up spills on the seats, breaking up fights with the classic “If I have to stop this car!” and trying to keep them both in my sight as we walk through busy areas at stops.  It seems too stressful.  But then I think of my saintly mother in that old maroon van.  If she could do it with five of us monsters, surely I can do it with two.  My kids deserve to experience this part of my Mom’s great legacy.  Alright, I am convinced: ROLL ON!!!

How about you?  What is your favorite roadtrip experience?  Open up your journal and let your memories spill themselves out onto the paper.  What feelings does it bring up?  Did you love the driving part, or were you bored?  What music was playing?  Were your best trips with family, friends, or alone?  Where did you go?  Who was the leader, and how did that affect you?  If you have kids, are you passing on the tradition?  Leave me a reply and let me know all about your favorite spots and memories.  Tell me, are you up for a roadtrip down memory lane?

Happy trails,

William

My Family’s Adopted Holiday

1975154_10202817070604257_1405049607_nHello friend,

My normally-silent cellphone was buzzing on Monday.  It was St. Patrick’s Day, and text messages were flying across the country seemingly every few minutes, loaded with photos of all sorts of green and/or shamrock-shaped food and other shenanigans.  It wasn’t my friends out on the town getting silly on green beer.  No, it was simply my siblings and parents, each in their respective homes, celebrating this minor holiday in a major way.  They were putting photos and comments on Facebook, too, sharing recipes for home-made shamrock shakes and photos of big spreads of corned beef & cabbage and shamrock cookies.  I have four siblings, and every single one—along with my parents—were doing the day for all it is worth, and then some.

As I watched the messages and photos pour in, I couldn’t help but think we are an odd bunch, making St. Patrick’s Day our unofficial family holiday.  To most people, I think this holiday is nothing more than a chance to get an extra party night in the year or to wear a green shirt as a conversation piece in an otherwise normal day.  Otherwise, on every 17th day of March, the world goes on the same as it did on the 16th or 25th day.  Schools are in session, banks are open, and no one is gearing their vacation around it.  As holidays go, it is more April Fool’s Day or, at best, Halloween, than it is Thanksgiving or Christmas.  Those are the big ones, the ones that not just get families together but bind them together.

Not my family, though.  No, while we enjoy the other holidays (and certainly gather more frequently at Christmas), the day that binds us together is St. Patrick’s Day.  It is only in the last couple of years that I have recognized this, and truly it was not always the case.  When I was a kid, we wore green just to avoid getting pinched, and of course I loved to get a Shamrock Shake at McDonald’s when we went to Montana on our annual skiing trip (I still love those shakes, too, and that is the one and only day of the year I visit the Golden Arches, driven mostly by nostalgia but also by that minty, sweet goodness).  But that was it.  St. Patrick’s Day came and went like Arbor Day or Flag Day.  It is only in my adulthood that it has become this sort of glue to my family.  But why?  This is what I was shaking my head about as I watched the messages keep flying into my phone that night.  Thankfully, it was about that time of the night when I usually sit down with my journal.  As always, my old friend helped me find some much-needed clarity on the topic.

What I came to see in the process of my writing is that the underlying motivation for us to not just celebrate St. Patrick’s Day but share it with each other in this unusually passionate way stems from our deep love of our father and our attempt to let him know that in a way that he can let in.  Let me unpack that thought.  My dad’s mother—my grandma (we called her “Nana”, and she was a gem)–was fully Irish, her parents having come from the old country and settling on the open plains of North Dakota to raise a family.  She died while I was in high school.  In the ensuing years, my old man became more sincere in his remembrance of St. Patrick’s Day, seemingly in an attempt to make sure that all of us not just remembered but honored our Irish heritage and, as an extension, his dear mother.  As my siblings and I started having kids, it was not unusual to get a little package of green necklaces, headwear, and other paraphernalia just before the big day to ensure a complete celebration and a passing of the torch to the next generation.

Tracing this back to my grandma’s death helped me see the source of the passion from my Dad’s end, but still the question was lingering about why my brothers, sisters, and I have so completely climbed onboard with it and are passing it to our own children.  It turns out that for us kids, it is also about paying tribute to a parent.  You see, my old man can be a bit difficult to get close to.  Like a lot of guys his age—or any age for that matter—he doesn’t really let his guard down enough to allow you to share a truly intimate moment with him.  He tends to disappear when it is time to say goodbye after a visit, leaving the hugs and tears role to my Mom.  It is tough to say “I love you” and have him truly receive it; he just doesn’t take that in very well or make it comfortable for you to try to say, even.  It is tough to get past the wall.

I love my Dad like crazy.  I always thought I would never be able to tell him that, though, never be able to share with him that he really means the world to me.  As you might guess, I am more open and expressive with my emotions than he is, so we are not always on the same page in the communication department.  But, as I came to understand while writing about St. Patrick’s Day in my journal on Monday, it turns out that I have, unknowingly, learned to speak his language and say what I want to say in a way that he can hear.  In the absence of a lot of hugs, terms of endearment, and the like, adopting this holiday has become the one way for the kids to tell the old man “I love you” in a way that he can accept.  We can kind of slip it in under the radar.  No one has to admit—even if we are aware of it, which I wasn’t until writing about it—that this is what is really happening.  Embracing St. Patrick’s Day to the hilt is our tribute to him and our acknowledgment of his love for his mother.  We celebrate her to celebrate him.  And since no one says that out loud, he doesn’t put up any walls or keep the celebration at arm’s length.  Even though that sounds like a lot of subconscious smoke & mirrors, it actually seems to work for everyone.  I am okay with it.

So, it seems that for my siblings and I, the depth of our sincerity in celebrating St. Patrick’s Day is less about honoring our Irish heritage than it is about honoring our Dad.  My Mom sent us all a text message Monday morning with a picture of the old man all clad in green (see above) and a quote from him: “If you’re lucky enough to be even a wee bit Irish, you’re lucky enough!  Happy St. Paddy’s Day.”  To that I would say of the man who bestowed upon me the middle name Patrick: if you are lucky enough to have a Dad even a wee bit like mine, you are lucky enough!

Okay, your turn.  Get out your journal and start exploring your mind.  What holiday has your family adopted?  What is it about that holiday that connects you to each other more than the other holidays?  Is it, like mine, underlined by a sentimentality toward a parent or grandparent?  Also, how do you communicate with your parents or family members?  Are you as affectionate and physical as you are with your close friends, or do you feel like you have to filter yourself?  Have you found a new language to speak in, like my placing uncommon importance on a holiday?  If you have kids, is the pattern reproducing itself, or have you charted a new course in affection and communication?  Probing the depths of your heart and mind about family matters is an enormous can of worms, but the digging is, in my experience, simultaneously fascinating and liberating.  How deep are you willing to dig?

Be brave and be YOU,

William