My fondest memory of my dad occurred when I was seven.
Because he had taken 15 years of
piano lessons in his youth, I grew up with a full-size grand
piano in the living room. One evening, my dad played Chopin’s Revolutionary
Etude, an extremely difficult piece of music, without sheet music, for some neighbors who dropped by. That is to say, he played the entire piece from
memory.
As his fingers flew over the keys in a blur, my
father’s brilliance was undeniable, and I was so proud to be his son at that
moment. His genius made me feel like anything was possible in my future,
because I was his son.
His three sons often fell asleep at night to
the sound of him playing. Sometimes I
laid on the floor under the piano while he played, listening to it RING!
When I was older, my dad built a rowboat, from scratch,
without instructions, guided only by creative instincts, his knowledge of
carpentry, and his prodigious problem-solving skills.
He handmade a set of life-size hollow wooden building blocks that hopefully his great grandkids' grandkids will get to enjoy.
He also taught me everything about
gardening.
I’m convinced my dad could build anything,
given enough time to plan it out.
I had a good relationship with him until I
became a teenager, when our relationship grew less close, which is typical of many
fathers and sons. I wanted a better
connection with him, though; especially later, when I became a father myself.
I yearned for meaningful conversations about what
matters most in life, but this made him uncomfortable, and so our relationship remained
stuck, at arms length, until his death.
Like any two human beings, my father and I shared
certain beliefs, and we disagreed on others. Whenever I pushed for deeper resolutions to
family conflicts that arose, he would express disappointment in my tendency to “analyze
things too much.”
Understanding what
makes people tick has always interested me, but like many of his generation, my
dad was not fond of introspection, or of psychoanalysis, in any form. Whatsoever.
Ever.
And so, he and I viewed the world, and the people
in it, differently, but we also shared a tendency to assign an importance level
to stuff that happens. All humans share this tendency. If kids are playing and
one of them throws sand in the air, the others will inevitably decide, in a
split second, whether the behavior is an act of aggression, or just harmless
fun.
Categorizing stuff that happens as “good” or “bad”
enables us to decide how best to go forward -- whether to go punch the sand-thrower,
or to offer him another chance to play nice. But since everyone does this math differently, conflicts
happen.
We humans often interpret identical events
differently, so we end up with different beliefs, which prompt us to align
ourselves with different political or religious groups, which reflect the
importance we assign to perceived patterns of behavior.
Anyway, because my first marriage ended in divorce,
I re-examined beliefs that probably contributed to it. I then prodded my dad to take a closer look
at some of his beliefs, too, but he resisted, firmly.
After a while, I stopped asking him to take a look
at anything. There was never going to be
ANY re-examination of anything. No
learnings. Whatsoever. EVER.
I believe my dad loved me, but the net result of HIS
beliefs was that our relationship remained at arms length.
Now he’s gone, and I must decide what importance to
assign to this thing that happened – this choice he made. What beliefs about it should I accept? Was his choice a “good” or a “bad” thing?
Did he want something else more than he wanted
meaningful conversations with me? If so,
what was it that he valued MORE?
Was
there something I was doing that made him not want a deeper connection? Was he right – that I analyze things too much?? Or, was my father just not comfortable
letting his guard down? Around
anyone whatsoever. Ever.
As I weed out suspicions generated by “the little
voice in my head” as best I can, I know that whatever beliefs I hold about my
dad’s choice will affect the way I connect with my own children, and for that
matter, with anyone.
One belief I hold is
that you can never REALLY know what another person thinks, so a decision about what
to believe often comes down to how much faith you have in yourself.
By definition, faith requires a “leap in
logic” that involves risk. And risk is scary.
Being scared doesn’t feel good, so in order to feel
more “in control”, I tend to give assumptions that feel good more weight. But I also understand that “feel good” (ego-preserving)
beliefs are the root cause of every conflict in the world.
The downside of living inside a moat of assumptions that keep out any
“feel bad” news is that your creativity becomes crippled by the fear of validating an opposing
viewpoint. You become unwilling or unable to afford making a mistake.
Opportunities
for intimacy are too risky. Arrogance and fear drive most decisions. Absolute
power corrupts, absolutely. Eventually your mind becomes a fortress, with
circles of defensive logic protecting core beliefs inside more circles of
defense, until the center becomes, ironically, no longer worth defending; it is
essentially a prison – not free.
Humans are constantly driven by fear on some level,
but the good news is we’re simultaneously pulled by life-affirming desires, if
we allow our "self" to notice them.
Every human interaction is a test: Am I safe being myself with you?
The secret to happiness, therefore, is to strive to
be cognizant of actual danger while also allowing yourself to be pulled by deeper
intentions. Dwell as often as you can in
spaces where you’re awake (aware of risks) but also allowing positive possibilities
a chance at bat. Real love is not
possible without vulnerability.
I miss my father. He was a brilliant,
well-intentioned, decent human being, who was able to teach himself many
things. He gave me confidence in my own ability
to analyze and solve the problems life throws at me, and I will never regret
trying to have a more meaningful relationship with him.
