This is Not a World of Endings
Rather listen than read? Here you go:
Recently, I rewatched the 1986 version of Anne of Green Gables. As a kid, I probably saw it a dozen times with my dad, who cried every time.
We used to joke that my dad was a teenage girl in a man’s body.
He went to every Lilith Fair that came to Denver. He’d sit as close to the stage as he could, his face beaming. He collected rare recordings by Alanis Morissette, Sarah McLachlan, and other more obscure Canadian women rockers.
He’d regularly rewatch the final scenes from Dirty Dancing, The Cutting Edge, An Officer and a Gentleman, and any other love story, usually with tears glistening in his eyes, if not streaming down his face.
My dad was the biggest goofball anyone ever knew, so I always laughed at his sentimentality. For me, just being with him was like hanging out at a county fair, full of adventure, play, and unhealthy snacks.
Recently, though I’ve been appreciating his tenderness in a way I did not understand as a kid.
I always thought I loved being around him mostly because he was fun, and funny. And when I needed him to, he listened.
But now I can see that his joy ran so much deeper.
Could it be possible we keep getting to know someone after their death?
My dad modeled uncompromising acceptance of this world. For all its potential flaws, he seemed to see life as a place of beauty, a playground for connection, a canvas for expression.
He was a goofball, but his freedom to live so creatively and sillily, was rooted in Love.
He was drunk on it. And the proof was his passion, his open heart, and his free-flowing tears.
Of the hundreds of times I saw my dad cry, I only remember two times in sadness. Once when his mom died. The other when he asked me to give his favorite guitar to his singing partner, Rebecca, which was the closest he came to say “I’m dying.”
Every other time I saw him cry, it was in love, appreciation, and joy. Of course, grief is love, too.
As we approach the 14th anniversary of my dad’s passing, I’ve been feeling him a lot lately.
“Why, now,” I’ve wondered, “after all this time, does he feel close again?”
I have a theory: I’ve begun falling in love with the world, too.
For the last twenty years I could define myself as a spiritual seeker, obsessed with my inner life. I’ve been fascinated in what I’ve learned, yes, but now I can see I’ve had a kind of fearful and ignorant tunnel vision.
Three years ago, looking out a car window driving through Vermont, my heart opened. Perhaps for the first time, I think I began looking outside myself.
When my dad played guitar, or sang, he closed his eyes and lost himself in the music.
It’s not all the time, but I’ve begun losing myself sometimes too, the way he did.
I love where I live. I love what I do. I love who’s around me. In that love, the terrified-me can finally take a break.
Together, my scared-self and I, we watch the ferns unfurl and the mountain tops glow red. We notice tiny orange lizards, and watch a sea of dandelions turn from yellow to white in a single day.
The last time I hugged my dad was nearly 14 years ago, and as I write this he is as close to me as my own skin.
Through my joy, I’m reliving his joy. Through my love, I’m learning about his love.
What is a relationship then, except the ways we imprint on one another, learn from each other?
His body died on June 19th, 2012, but every time I pick up my guitar, which was his guitar, he is here.
Every time I smile at a stranger and make a disarming introduction, the way he did, he is here.
Any time I listen generously to a friend, he is here.
Every time my mom and I sit, just the two of us, he is near.
No, Dad, you did not die that day, nor will you ever. You live on in me and DJ and Maggie.
You live on in everyone who knew you, everyone who has known us, and everyone who will know them.
As I look out on a green field that will be fallow come winter, I realize that despite appearances…
This is not a world of endings.