My Father's Daughter

January 25th, 2014

A year ago today my father passed away. At the time, in that moment, I was as usual for me, somewhere else, geographically speaking at least.

He had Alzheimer's, dementia. He was always the 'absent minded professor' type, but in the years that preceded his death he became more absent than minded and the only thing professorial about him lived in the memories and perceptions of his friends and colleagues who had shared workplaces and ideas.

My dad generally worked too much. In that he worked at the university, for a firm that carried his name and legacy and myriad other special guest appearances at educational intitutions, conferences and as a consultant on various international things. For as long as I can remember he also worked at home. Often buried deep in sheafs of paper, computer files and book revisions. When I left home my bedroom became his second office (the other up in my parents bedroom). It's only in retrospect that I notice this…he had two offices in the house. That's how much he worked. His work of course was his passion, he was respected, liked and renowned in the various fields he contributed to. I don't doubt that it probably never felt like 'work' to him, in the sense that it was what he was made for in many ways. At least like many men of his generation, I imagine it was what he felt most competent at. The intellectual and creative elements of his life seemed to have escaped the emotional hobbles of a difficult childhood and early adulthood.

Dad and Adrian at a street party, circa 197?

My memories of my dad when I was little though faint are certainly wonderful in many ways. Before I became an obnoxious teen I believe I was adored in the way little girls are by doting fathers. And along with the regular stuff that dads do including piggy back rides and trips to the zoo, he also shared skills and experiences with me traditionally reserved for sons. How to hammer a nail, use power tools (some of them anyway), chop wood, explore the woods and get dirty and lost with impunity, paddle a canoe, snowshoe. He fostered in me a love for wild places, a willingness to explore them and an ability to look closely, carefully, and see things that perhaps not everyone can. This is something that persists in my life today, on a professional and personal level. I am usually the first to see the whale spout in the distance, or the wolf prints tracking around the tents in the morning. While there was a distinct disconnect between us on an emotional level, perhaps as much by my hand as his as I entered my teenage years and into adulthood, my dad was always a sweet, loving and gentle man. For sure there were layers of hurt, anger and loss beneath it. They were deeply buried and rarely spoken of. Despite that I always had the sense that he had an innocent spirit. If we talked on the phone, or if I came home to visit, his delight in seeing me was always apparent. Admittedly I often felt unable to receive it fully, though it was always freely and consistently given. Though on my visits home he would quickly retreat into an office, there was never any doubt that he loved and was proud of me, and the circuitous path that I was walking in the world. The wilderness in my veins was also his.

In his last few years, he was distilled, at least that's how I saw it, to his most basic parts. Emotional, impressionistic, absent mindedly sweet and loving in his reception of visitors (for the most part - also at many times anxious, confused and frightened). He was reduced, or made more full perhaps of what lies beneath the intellect. As he was eulogized by one friend, my dad was 'a gentle man'. I am my fathers daughter in a number of ways, some very concrete and visceral. And there are ways that I now aspire to be more like him. Daily.

It is said that it is the child's job to exceed the potential of their parents. With that thought in mind I aspire to retain an open heart, a willingness to keep moving through and beyond the things that go sideways and try again, despite loss or damage done. To live life as if there really is no way to get it wrong, but with integrity, care and truth. Before I reach a time where my intellect and memory is lost I aspire to be reduced to my purest form. I will make mistakes, gladly. I hope to remain or become more innocent. To retain and foster my naivety and trust in the goodness of the world and of people. To believe that this earth is resilient enough to withstand us.