Dancing with Dad

My father is over 90-years-old and today, I accompanied him to another funeral. These occasions are becoming more frequent and emotionally harder for him. Most of his friends are a decade, if not more, younger than him, as was the friend who died this week.

I know all my dad's mates. They are the youthful men of my childhood; their now middle-aged children were my playmates. Funerals are some of the only times I see them. We turn up knowing the formula: the apologies among the living for not catching up more often, the sea of dark clothes that ripples as the attendees move and join in the rituals of goodbye. The inevitable question: how to sum up a life in a few minute's eulogy?

Dad's hands shake as he holds the service booklet. His friend's face smiles from the cover. On the back, his friend is pictured as a sombre young man. The few sheets of paper in between try to hold together the story of the years that connect the two images. 

Dad leans to me. "I saw him a little while ago. He didn’t look well.' His voice cracks as he goes on. 'He said to me, Friend, I think they're coming for me.' He turned away, gulping back tears.

We don't always know when death will come but at Dad's age, it's closer than most. I have no idea of what it feels like for him to attend a funeral. I can only imagine the thoughts and emotions that engulf him. Overly protective, I flounder trying to work out how to ease his distress. All I can do is rest a hand on his shoulder. It feels inadequate.

In the seat ahead of us, a young mother wrangles a toddler. He looks to be about 13-months-old and he's just found his feet. He explores the world, gurgling happily, while those around him mourn. Suddenly he notices Dad and stretches his arms towards him.

Dad reaches to pick him up.

The bub's mother whispers, 'He's too heavy.'

Dad shakes his head and mouths it's okay then collects him in his arms.

The toddler explores my father's face with his hands, trying to lift off Dad's glasses, using a language all of his own. Dad offers the child his thumb, which the toddler readily grabs and they press their cheeks together, pretending to dance. The toddler laughs. Dad's face glows as he smiles.

Just as suddenly, the bub turns back his mum and leans toward her. As his mother cuddles him, he smiles broadly and watches Dad over her shoulder.  

In that small space of time, Dad's tears ease.

It reminded me of something a friend told me years ago—that babies bring their own love to the world. I wonder if that bub sensed a need in Dad, who was a stranger to him.

I'd like to think that my friend's theory about babies' love was right; that somehow the love had stretched across the nearly ninety years between this baby and my father, and given Dad a few moments' comfort.

As the mourners surged out of the church, the toddler and his mum were swallowed into the crowd. We didn't see them again.

Maybe we'll see them at the next funeral.

I hope he and Dad will dance.

Waste not, want not

As the New Year gets underway I'm thinking about the things I plan to do in 2013. I don't make resolutions; they are usually enthusiastic but unrealistic. Invariably I fail which causes me to be hard on myself. The danger is then that I stop trying because, well…what’s the point? Not a great question to ruminate upon if you want to stay motivated. So, this year as well as making my annual Treasure Map (visual goal setting map), I've been focusing on the idiom waste not, want not which came to mind after spending a few weeks with my visiting aunt who had traveled from Italy to spend Christmas with the family. One of the things I observed in our time together was how frugal she was. Not in a miserly way but she is from the generation that recycled, made or made-do and lived by wasting not, primarily out of necessity. They didn’t call it ‘recycling’ or ‘artisan crafted’, they simply did what was economically and ecologically sound.She did it in small ways but she was consisted and committed to not wasting anything.

It occurred to me that the idea of wasting not could apply to other things as well as general recycling, leftover food, managing money or those items of no longer required clothing. It could also apply to concepts. So this year I'm planning to waste not, want not on key areas: energy, time, creativity and peace.

Energy: personal drama hits us all from time-to-time. I'm will aim to keep it contained, do what I can about the elements over which I have control and not get involved if it’s not my business. If I don’t waste energy it will be available to for the things that are important such as my writing, my family and  friends.

Time: do I really need to watch this TV show? That might be an extra half hour of time I can spend in ways that fit with my waste not, want not approach. I will allocate my time in manageable chunks for my writing; a word, a sentence, a paragraph and a page at a time.  

Creativity: while I primarily create through words, I will also employ my other creative skills, such as drawing and painting, which help me to think differently and feed my word output. I will try to harness those elements.

Peace: it’s easy to get caught up in the chaos of the everyday and start to worry about every little thing that is going on in my life and in that of others around me. Again I will focus on what I can act on and let go of what I can’t.  

I'm aware that the above will mean myriad decisions made in the face of every event. But that’s okay. One decision at a time, one day at a time, I can conserve the things I value most and have them available for what is fundamental to my life. I've come to realise that it’s the small things we waste that accumulate into the biggest wanting.

That’s sure to get my wise aunt’s approval.

Small moments of everything

This afternoon I took advantage of the sun in my back garden. I'm trying to be more in the moment and doing that requires me to stop the clamour of musts, have-tos, shoulds and shouldn’ts in my head. Since I've been keeping my creative anxiety awareness journal I've realised that those racing thoughts are like rubbish strewn across the road. My thoughts can't travel straight and they collide with one another, tripping me over my own thinking. Instead, I choose to sit with a faint sting of heat on my arms and despite dark sunnies, my eyes narrowing slightly against the sun’s intensity. The water I sip is tart with a generous squeeze of lemon juice. It only takes a few minutes for a pleasant drowsiness to come over me. I want to lean back against the outdoor chair and enter into the relaxation—the thing that goes missing most often in this frantic thought world. I sense the tension draining away from my neck and shoulders. In a dreamlike state, the warmth soaks though my flesh and bone until the even the anxious thoughts in my head melt away. 

In the stillness I become aware of sounds: a distant broom scraping a neighbour’s concrete driveway; the grunt of trucks straining against the speed limit and the spirited debate of birds. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can hear the rhythm of the ocean waves just a few blocks away from home. A hint of fresh paint glides past with the breeze; there’s the scent of the local burger joint and freshly cut grass from the adjacent school oval. My drift into that safe zone continues; into the place where I'm not asleep yet far from awake. Time becomes shapeless.

There is nowhere else I need to be in this moment. In this moment, there is everything I need. It's full of thoughts of my family and friends and stories I want to write. That’s what matters to me. Even an indignant car horn and the high-pitched shouts of children leaving the school grounds across the way, don’t break my calm. I remain in the stillness until my body, alerted by the breeze stroking my forehead, says it’s time to move. The peace of the moment accompanies me as I enter the dull light of the house. The remnants of the outside brightness blur my vision but I can see where I'm going. I'm taking those moments to my desk. To the empty page that’s been waiting to be fed.