Dear Dad,
I came across this phrase today: the anatomy of grief.
It reminded me that I had a letter to finish. I started this letter on the eve of what would have been your 94th birthday. I like to mark your birthdays with a celebration. I know you’d want it that way. First, we go shopping.
You and me.
Sometimes we buy something extravagant. Last year it was the All-Clad Copper-Core skillet, remember? This year we bought a cast iron vertical chicken roaster. Seriously. The chicken literally falls off the bone, skin so crisp you can hear it crackle. Don’t worry, for each new kitchen contraption I purchase, I give one away. This past year I gave away the fancy mandoline I purchased at Williams Sonoma. The spiral vegetable slicer, too. Grandma would be pleased. I could almost see her shaking her head from the grave whenever I prepared ‘zucchini’ pasta. “No Susanna, no,” she would say. “Pasta you make with flour, not cucuzza.”
Back to the eve of your 94th birthday. I put the letter aside knowing I could finish it the next day. I looked forward to a four-hour bus ride to New York City; I do some of my best writing on planes, trains, and buses. I’m at the stove preparing a cup of tea pondering the pork roast I’m going to make for your celebratory dinner when I hear a voice from the family room.
“Paris is under attack,” he says.
I’m convinced the hiss of the teakettle is obscuring his words.
“What did you say about Paris?”
“There is a situation in Paris,” he says, louder this time.
I feel the dread wash over me. “Where?” I ask. “Which arrondissement?”
“I don’t know,” he says, “I don’t know.”
Now everything is on hold. The letter. And dinner. We sit in front of the television set, transfixed as the horror unfolds. Oh, dad, you don’t even want to know about Paris.
Back to grief. The anatomy of grief.
This gives me pause. I’ve had some time to consider the anatomy of grief this past year and I’ve come to the conclusion that my response to grief has very little to do with age or circumstance. Loss is loss. Losing you was so much more than saying goodbye to my 92-year-old father who had lived a good life. Losing you was saying goodbye to unconditional love. Among the many gifts you have given me, that one feels the most poignant.
I’m reading a gorgeous book right now. It’s called Stir and it’s about an exceptionally brave young woman whose life comes to a screeching halt when an aneurysm ruptures in her brain. And how she finds her way back to health through the restorative power of cooking and baking. It just may be the most beautiful foodie memoir I’ve read to date. And you know how many of those books I have crammed into my bookshelves. So there I was on a plane glancing out the window at the blanket of snow covering the Rocky Mountains (in November!), reading this book, and I come to the part where her dad is sitting beside her hospital bed saying, “I wish I’d had you sooner so I could know you for longer.” Pretty soon I was sobbing, my face pressed to the window so that the lady to my left wouldn’t think I was a blithering fool. But don’t worry sweet one, for the most part the grief I feel in your absence is softened by the myriad ways I’ve managed to keep you alive.
Are you ready for this? I’m painting. No it’s nothing like the watercolor painting you enjoyed. I attempted a sketching and watercolor class and I was so traumatized by my inability to get it ‘right,’ I had to drop the class. I chose intuitive painting instead. It’s much more forgiving, no rules, just unbridled play. I discovered that while I am not producing anything I’d actually hang on a wall, I am learning to love pieces of my art. I love color and shape, tearing the pieces apart and putting them back together in new and interesting ways. Maybe that’s what I’m doing with this grieving process. Tearing it up and putting it back together in more beautiful ways.
In early November I co-led a retreat with a friend and colleague, who you would adore by the way. She has a kind and gentle spirit and a heart as big as her smile. Much like you. I’m sure that’s no coincidence. Guess what we did during our retreat? Yes, we painted. With our fingers. It was so much fun. Do you remember the day I brought my little watercolor set with me to Boulder Manor? By that time you were just as happy to see me leave five minutes after I’d arrived because you just wanted to sleep. I would bargain with you. I’d say, “It’s okay Dad, you sleep. I’ll be so quiet you won’t even know I’m here.” And then I’d take out my little watercolor set and splash color around the page hoping to a see a glimmer of recognition in your eyes. If not me, then perhaps you would recognize the paint.
There’s more. Recently I came upon a passage by Henri J. M. Nouwen, a spiritual writer and teacher who spent his life serving poor and underprivileged populations until he passed away in 1996:
“As we grow older we have more and more people to remember, people who have died before us. It is very important to remember those who have loved us and those we have loved. Remembering them means letting their spirits inspire us in our daily lives. […] Remembering the dead is choosing their ongoing companionship.”
I suppose that’s what I’m doing with each project I undertake. Choosing your ongoing companionship and sharing your spirit with everyone I meet. You’re still having an impact on me. And the world. I always knew you would.
17 thoughts on “Dear Dad …”
What a beautiful piece! Meaningful to me as I too miss my father often and vividly. He lived a long full life and we were especially close in his last few years. He was an entrepreneur, we often talked business and I started my own business after he died so like you, my sense of him is in shared activity. I too ” choose his ongoing companionship and sharing his spirit” though not with as many as you do! It is good, sometimes piercingly sad, and still I really feel his spirit, voice, and presence though he passed in 2009. I have seldom read an account that felt as descrptive of my experience of my late father these past few years as yours does. The sad part has eased quite a bit with time, but it’s part of the whole for me, and I’m glad the whole experience continues. Thank you for your eloquent sharing of your father!
Thank you so much for reading and responding to this post, Wendy. I feel like I caught a gorgeous glimpse of your dad and how his entrepreneurial spirit is now living in you and through you. In my humble opinion there is no greater way to honor our loved ones when they pass. May you find continued comfort in in this ongoing companionship. xxoo
touched by your words and bringing me to my own remembrances of my father, dad. loving th warm easy conversation in writing you exhibit… sharing with him the snippets of life; this opening a way to enabling an aliveness to my own relationship with my dad.
thank you for sharing your intimacy…
xoxo
Thank YOU for reading and witnessing this piece, Teresa. I hold your words tenderly as you share with me a similar journey. A luscious legacy, indeed. xxoo
Beautiful Sue Ann. I could see you on that plane and felt the tears. What a moving letter. I love thinking about choosing our companionship and keeping our cherished relationships alive. Thank you my dear friend.
Thank YOU, Cami, for helping me keep his spirit alive and for sharing with me snippets and slices of your life, your love. Forever grateful for our friendship. I’m quite sure my dad had a hand in that. xxoo
Sue Ann, you have a gift for putting “how I feel” in writing, in a way that invites others to experience it fully. Your experience and theirs. Mine. Thank you. xo
Thank you, Kim. We have witnessed both joy and loss during the course of our food-loving friendship, from our very first chocolate encounter (Did I tell I now have a waffle iron thanks to a very dear friend?) to the loss of loved ones we hold dear. Thank you for taking the time to comment, it means the world to me. xxoo
“Losing you was saying goodbye to unconditional love.”
“…the grief I feel in your absence is softened by the myriad ways I’ve managed to keep you alive.”
The Henri J. M. Nouwen quote is touching to me because, as I’ve remembered the people who have loved me and I have loved, my relationship with them has grown even after their death. Matured. Softened. Softened so much that I was able to, finally, let in the love I wasn’t able to let myself feel when they were living.
This has been a powerful experience for me. Why was I resisting unconditional love? And the softening of losing these dear ones, and the work with them on the other side of the veil, has allowed me to open up my heart to accepting some love that is being offered now.
I sewed after my mom died and understood her better. After my step-father died I walked…and listened to the things he was trying to tell me with words and actions…things I heard when he was no longer saying them in person, but I finally experienced when the silence abounded. I walked on the beach after my brother died and picked up stone after stone and remembered our childhood at the water’s edge.
Love lives on in the tangible places. Of this I am convinced. I’ve found it there after my loved ones departed the play places and I still felt their joy lingering there.
Love to you, my friend.
Oh Rebecca, these words touched me deeply, today, thank you. “Love lives on in the tangible places. Of this I am convinced.” Yes, that. xxxooo
You keep outdoing yourself, Sue Ann! This is a GREAT letter! My personal favorite line is:”Maybe that’s what I’m doing with this grieving process. Tearing it up and putting it back together in more beautiful ways.” That reminds me of a book I liked quite a lot back when my mourning for a lost friend was active. It was called Broken for You, and I remember it with warm feelings, although it’s been too long for me to properly evaluate its literary merits. If you ever have nothing to read (HAHA) I think you’ll enjoy it.
I’m going to have to check out that book, Mindy, and add it to the ever-growing (ALWAYS growing) pile. Thank you for taking the time to leave a comment and for holding my words so warmly. xxoo
Sue Ann, I always cry when reading the posts about your sweet father. This is one of my favorites yet. I am so very sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine. I just can’t imagine… Many hugs to you. Love, Michelle
I don’t think we can ever imagine the loss, Michelle, but what I hope you take from this post is that even on the ‘other side of the veil’ as Rebecca so beautifully stated, there is so much joy to still embrace when we choose it.
reading your tender and bittersweet posts about your beloved dad always bring me close to the raw edge of grief for my beloved mom. i love the way he’s looking at your hands create something magical in that precious photo. love to you.
Holding you tenderly here, April. xxoo
Sue Ann, your letter has left me speechless. I am very touched and grateful that you have shared your soul. I would have loved to have met your father. What a great, sweet man.