Getting to Here from There
All of the introspection leading up to and following my Dad's death has made me wonder how I got from animosity to love but also how did I get into such animosity in the first place. If you were one of those who stayed close to family all your life, this post may seem peculiar.
Dad was tough, no question about that. He drank but I'm not sure when that became a problem. His voice instilled sufficient fear so spankings were seldom needed or used. I compared my situation with that of others and thought they were given things I had to earn. It appears I took isolated instances and generalized them into great themes. Like I probably saw dad try to kiss mom when he had been drinking and her push him away which led to my having a judgement everytime he tried to kiss her. How could he want her to kiss him when he came home from work and she was cooking? Or when she was dying and noone knew that she was sick, she didn't want him to buy another rental house but I thought she was against all of his real estate dealings. Somehow he became responsible for her death in my mind. And he yelled. And I couldn't or wouldn't stay and be the mom after she died. What stories did I have to tell myself to move out on my own?
I was civil but distant. I was angry. I believed I had to do it all on my own. I moved out of state so dad couldn't just drop in on me. I called home every few months. I didn't think anything of it. I didn't see my parents call their parents very often. We went to vist South Dakota and Minnesota every second or third year.
Dad gave me a loan to have time to sell some land rather than lose it. About that same time I was living with someone who called home every week. It had never occured to me that this might be appropriate. So I called more often, like once a month. Then I had an opportunity to be with someone who was waiting for the grown kids to call, someone who refused to be a burden but was clearly affected by a call or the lack of a call. That made an impression. Calls home were superficial in my opinion but I increased the frequency. Dad and Virginia, my step mom, seemed grateful. I wrote monthly with my loan payment.
I visited every 18 months or so. A couple of times they came to visit me or we rendezvoused at a navy ship reunion. Somewhere in there, I understood the importance of the navy to him and how effected my childhood. I gradually became more grateful.
Another leap in relating came through my studies in homeopathy. Vega, my instructor often brought his 2 daughters to class. As I watched him parent them, I felt reparented myself. I started to understand what "honor thy father and thy mother" meant. I grew in appreciation for the way I was raised and the pitfalls I avoided because of the way I was raised. It was one of those classes that inspired my classmate and I to swap family stories as we drove down the mountain. That helped me remember the good times in addition to the tough times.
I had made great progress but even as late as January of this year I struggled with what to want for my Dad. His quality of life was absent from my perspective. I didn't know whether to pray for his release or his life. My homeopath suggested that was a theorethical thing and that I find a way to realize how I was connected to Dad.
After much sighing, I opened a space to find that father-daughter connection.
Dad was in the hospital, seeing dead people. I set about reflecting. This is when I made the lists of things he did that I felt good about, things that he did that were good for me but that I didn't like, and things I faulted him for. I saw the good far outweighed the bad but my little girl emotional fear still outweighed the all the good. I wrote him a letter recalling good times and bad times, asking forgiveness for anything I might have done that hurt him, and giving him permission to go if it was time. My sister read it to him. He didn't remember. I read it to him again when I got there.
It was my sister who had the fantasy of a family reunion while he was still alive. She had that idea from an episode of "Little House on the Prairie". I got on the computer and helped it happen. I went a few days early to help it flow. It was a surprize. It was amazing. The last time all siblings were together was 1994.
This brings me to this last trip to help plan the funeral and celebration of his life. Now I am a genuinely loving and apprecitive daughter. Somewhere in there we healed and my heart is opening.
Why do I love my life so much?
Dad was tough, no question about that. He drank but I'm not sure when that became a problem. His voice instilled sufficient fear so spankings were seldom needed or used. I compared my situation with that of others and thought they were given things I had to earn. It appears I took isolated instances and generalized them into great themes. Like I probably saw dad try to kiss mom when he had been drinking and her push him away which led to my having a judgement everytime he tried to kiss her. How could he want her to kiss him when he came home from work and she was cooking? Or when she was dying and noone knew that she was sick, she didn't want him to buy another rental house but I thought she was against all of his real estate dealings. Somehow he became responsible for her death in my mind. And he yelled. And I couldn't or wouldn't stay and be the mom after she died. What stories did I have to tell myself to move out on my own?
I was civil but distant. I was angry. I believed I had to do it all on my own. I moved out of state so dad couldn't just drop in on me. I called home every few months. I didn't think anything of it. I didn't see my parents call their parents very often. We went to vist South Dakota and Minnesota every second or third year.
Dad gave me a loan to have time to sell some land rather than lose it. About that same time I was living with someone who called home every week. It had never occured to me that this might be appropriate. So I called more often, like once a month. Then I had an opportunity to be with someone who was waiting for the grown kids to call, someone who refused to be a burden but was clearly affected by a call or the lack of a call. That made an impression. Calls home were superficial in my opinion but I increased the frequency. Dad and Virginia, my step mom, seemed grateful. I wrote monthly with my loan payment.
I visited every 18 months or so. A couple of times they came to visit me or we rendezvoused at a navy ship reunion. Somewhere in there, I understood the importance of the navy to him and how effected my childhood. I gradually became more grateful.
Another leap in relating came through my studies in homeopathy. Vega, my instructor often brought his 2 daughters to class. As I watched him parent them, I felt reparented myself. I started to understand what "honor thy father and thy mother" meant. I grew in appreciation for the way I was raised and the pitfalls I avoided because of the way I was raised. It was one of those classes that inspired my classmate and I to swap family stories as we drove down the mountain. That helped me remember the good times in addition to the tough times.
I had made great progress but even as late as January of this year I struggled with what to want for my Dad. His quality of life was absent from my perspective. I didn't know whether to pray for his release or his life. My homeopath suggested that was a theorethical thing and that I find a way to realize how I was connected to Dad.
After much sighing, I opened a space to find that father-daughter connection.
Dad was in the hospital, seeing dead people. I set about reflecting. This is when I made the lists of things he did that I felt good about, things that he did that were good for me but that I didn't like, and things I faulted him for. I saw the good far outweighed the bad but my little girl emotional fear still outweighed the all the good. I wrote him a letter recalling good times and bad times, asking forgiveness for anything I might have done that hurt him, and giving him permission to go if it was time. My sister read it to him. He didn't remember. I read it to him again when I got there.
It was my sister who had the fantasy of a family reunion while he was still alive. She had that idea from an episode of "Little House on the Prairie". I got on the computer and helped it happen. I went a few days early to help it flow. It was a surprize. It was amazing. The last time all siblings were together was 1994.
This brings me to this last trip to help plan the funeral and celebration of his life. Now I am a genuinely loving and apprecitive daughter. Somewhere in there we healed and my heart is opening.
Why do I love my life so much?
posted by Patricia @ 1:27 PM
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