The boss of big things
When he answered my knock he had his gardening gloves on and was looking for his floppy hat. He joins me on the small porch. His posture is more rag doll than soldier as he settles into the chair. He is happy to change directions and sit for a while with me, his only daughter. The gardening can wait.
But I am deceiving him. During the chit-chat about weather and flowers I am the one on the porch who knows that the conversation will soon cause a flash of anger. He does not realize that this is a visit choreographed and rehearsed. I need some time alone with him to nudge him towards passing the responsibility of driving onto my mom.
How to begin? How do you tell the authority figure of your growing up years that he is no longer the one with authority? He is angry. Of course he is. “But I have driven my whole life”, he argues. “You are treating me like a baby.” My pleas to consider mom’s anxiety about keeping a watchful eye from the passenger seat leads to accusations that she is the one with the problem, not him. I’m not buying it. I have seen his driving enough to know that it is nothing like what it used to be. I have watched mom take over more and more responsibility while someone else’s hands are on the wheel.
We sit in silence as I give him time to process my request. I am sure the quiet doesn’t match the noise in his head. No matter how calmly and lovingly I frame this conversation, it is one that must make him see me as too bossy, too judgemental, too controlling. I have stepped over that line we used to have that said that he was the one that calls the shots.
“You know”, he states, “I used to be the boss of big things.” My heart crumbles for him. He is right. He was a well respected high school principal. He supervised a large staff and student body. He made difficult decisions daily. He dealt with union negotiations and kept a school going during a teacher’s strike. My dad’s job was a source of both immense pride and irritation during my teenage years. It’s hard being a principal’s kid. They know too much.
And now, in a tragic role-reversal, it is hard for him to be my father. I know too much too. I know that his dementia is taking away his reasoning and judgement. I know that he is slower to react, faster to get confused and sometimes struggles to make sense of the world around him. We sit quietly in the thick fog that a worn down brain creates in a room. I carefully watch his sad eyes and long for the days of watching wonder-eyed as my daddy navigated the world of big things like a boss.
The Time Between Solstices
Winter solstice 2019. A day that's filled with light that seems to pull everything sharply into focus. The irony of this day is that it's light is abundant and it's a shame it has to end so soon. Before long the sun will sink below the horizon giving us the shortest day of the year. When it rises again we will be inching our way towards those long days of summer and a solstice marked by early morning sunrises and late nights filled with light.
The time between these two solstices has been the most challenging I've known. A much loved father-in-law was laid to rest on the summer solstice and a grieving husband was unexpectedly diagnosed with cancer two months later. The sorrow, the panic, the fear, the numbness, the slow acceptance. The medical appointments, the surgery, the complications, the healing. The decisions, the chemo, the waiting, the worry. This time between solstices has at times felt otherworldly as if we are watching it unfold as someone else's story. Surely death and cancer aren't what this season is about in our lives...we have no experience in such things! The weeks and months since the longest day of the year have been filling with a darkness that has threatened to permeate our hours and instinctively we fight to push it away. One thing is certain...we are ready to move towards sunnier days. It is reassuring to know that the calendar is confirming that we are.
Grief is the companion you slowly get used to. Cancer, one of the scariest words we know, sets up shop in your household and life continues to happen around it. Despite being jolted out of the reverie of a life untouched by death and disease, the patterns of our world continue on. Thankfully, we still get up each morning, we follow the routines of our days, we watch our children find their place in the world and our baby grandson grow. And all the while, the days shorten over a period of time until it's time for them to lengthen again. At a rate of approximately 2 minutes/day we are either getting engulfed by darkness or holding the night at bay.
I am finding solace in the solstice. The Northern Hemisphere is moving towards the light now and it seems a good metaphor to believe that we are too. My husband is one of the very lucky ones. His prognosis is good, his chemo is intended to cure. He has about 6 more weeks of treatments. By the time he swallows that last pill and starts down the road to putting this behind him, our days will already be filled with 49 more minutes of light. Just shy of an hour of more light in our days is improvement and so is a chemo regimen that comes to a close. Starting tomorrow, we are moving towards brighter days and I am grateful to find myself embracing the promise of a lighter load.
The Search for Imperfection
I am on the beach and I am looking for the broken shells. On any other shell-seeking search my eyes would be scanning for the perfect spiral, the smooth surface, the symmetrical shape. But not today. I have walked beyond the buildings and umbrellas and chairs to a desolate point of the beach that juts out into the surf. The wind whipped mangrove trees have seen better days but add to the beauty of this landscape.
Amongst them is what I am calling a grassroots, public art collaborative. For the last 2 years I have trekked down the beach to see it. It is ever-changing on account of the wind and weather, but it also changes daily due to the beachcombers who pay homage to it. The medium for this art installation? Dead mangroves and broken shells. The shells are gleaned from the surf and then thoughtfully placed on the branches as if those who visit have placed ornaments on a Christmas tree. And all of a sudden something dead becomes beautiful because of brokenness.
Who was that first person to search for the imperfect shell with a hole with the specific purpose of placing it on the weathered branch? Who started this project? Did it begin organically with a hurricane or purposefully with a beachcomber? When did it turn into a collaborative? How long has it been here? How long will it remain? I don't know the answers to these questions but I do know that, for me, this pop-up art speaks of the promise of the imperfect.
It's such a simple message for those of us conditioned to chase perfection. I've spent years searching for the flawless shells. I have a bowl of them displayed in a sunroom back home. I love the wonder of them and the memories of the solitary, peaceful searches for their perfect completeness.
My quest for perfection has taken me both on and off the beach, but today my trek to this solitary stretch of sand is gently nudging me towards a more forgiving search for what is beautiful in my life. Take something that's no longer perfect or probably never was, pair it with something that's seen better days or is simply struggling to survive. Repeat and repeat and repeat and before you know it, it becomes a new kind of beauty. Beauty from brokenness, thoughtfully paired imperfection. A reminder that beauty takes many forms and what might not, at first glance, be good enough, can become, in the right set of circumstances, just right.