Remembering

My father told me he took the Georgia Bar Exam with a fountain pen.  He said he did so because he thought it would be “cool,” and because he simply could not imagine using a pencil for such a momentous occasion.  He passed the bar in December 1964.  I was born the following March.  In a span of three months, a very young, and I imagine, an idealistic, twenty-three year old became both a lawyer and a father.

My father was a beloved man, and no less so than by his children.  Many knew him as a great champion of justice.  And, while he was indeed that, for four of us, he was just known as our dad. 

My father touched many lives and left great reminders of his time here on earth.   As his children, we were very proud of his accomplishments, and glad that he found a vocation for which he had such great passion.  But, truthfully, it didn’t really matter to us what he did for a living, who he was in the community, or how many wrongs he righted.  What matter to us was one simple thing – his presence – his presence in our lives. 

When I remember my father, I think of purple tricycles, tulips, and Jonathan Livingston Seagull.  I think of weekends and holidays, and awakening to a house filled with music and dancing.  I think of picnics and birthday dinners, playing the basketball game of HORSE, and its faster sister game of PIG.  I think of dining out, homemade omelets, and gourmet Chef Boyardee pizzas.  I think of Niagara Falls and Disneyland, cameras and photos of women’s butts.  I think of fall leaves, hammocks and swings, lofts and fire escape ladders, suitcases and pullout beds, Saturday night TV, and fireplaces and lazy chairs.

I see my father in each of his children – in the genuineness of Allison’s laugh, in the slow steady stride of Michael’s walk, in the affable attraction of Zachary’s personality, and in the ease at which I cry both in sadness and in joy. 

Grief over the loss of a parent is such an extraordinary process – it transports you to places in time you believed long forgotten.  It makes you sad and it makes you angry.  It makes you mourn for the person that’s no longer here, for the person that never was, and for the person that never will be.  Yet, time is a strong healer.  And with time comes the gift of gratitude and appreciation.

I am grateful to have called Fred Orr my father.  He was a kind and gentle man that loved us so deeply, that he sometimes found it difficult to be fully present in our lives.  Yet, when he was, it was, as my sister says, magic.

I miss his hug.  I miss his smile.  I miss his voice and the way he called me Sweetheart. 

Yet, two years after his passing from this physical experience, I feel his spirit remains with me.  While revered and adored by so many, I celebrate the man he was, not as a romanticized fictional character, but as a human being, in his totality of depth and complexity, strengths and weaknesses – in all his amazing spirit and glorious flaws.

Another “Fred” of my childhood, Mister Rogers, said, “It’s really easy to fall into the trap of believing that what we do is more important than what we are.  Of course, it’s the opposite that’s true.  What we are, ultimately determines what we do.”  At a very early age, my father naturally took on the role of protector and advocate.  He spent his life helping others in his own personal campaign to save the world.  In his last months, as he allowed others to help him, he found his own peace, healing from what he termed a lifetime of pressure and the illusion of conflict. 

My father was an optimist.  Daddy loved this thing called life, and believed that there were many opportunities to live it.  So, I end with a quote from one of my favorite authors, Marianne Williamson, who writes in her book, The Age of Miracles, of the passing of her profoundly charismatic father, and how in the “purity of spirit,” she felt that he truly could see her for the first time.  “My father’s dying didn’t end our relationship; we’ve simply entered the next phase of it.” 

Grief

I find grief to be like an old acquaintance that shows up at the most unexpected times. You know, one of those characters from a movie – the old college roommate that never quite grew up – a disheveled vagabond that travels the world, living off others’ generosities. The guy you rarely hear from that suddenly knocks on your door, unannounced, in the middle of night, disrupting the entire household.

You let him. You always do. Not because you enjoy his company or because there is any obligation to do so. No, you let him in because you don’t know how not to – and because, no matter how much he may irritate you, there is something familiar and comfortable about him.

He settles in. You never know for how long – an hour, a few days, or for an extended visit. He turns your world upside down – messes up your house, turns your day into night and night into day, interferes with your relationships, and, in his all consuming need for attention, completely drains you of your energy. He entices you with his tells of dark adventure; and for a while, you find yourselves strange bedfellows.

Then, as quickly, and as unannounced, as he came, he leaves. One morning, you sleep late and awaken to find him gone. You pull yourself out of the funk, take a shower, straighten up your house, and begin to reach out to those you have ignored. The air feels lighter, the energy more vibrant, and there is space to breathe once again. In your newly obtained freedom, you possess a stronger appreciation for the subtle joys of your day and a new awareness of the abundance that surrounds you. You return to the sync of life…

…until his next visit.

Boredom

I am bored. Not because I have nothing to do, but because I am not excited about what I am doing, or about doing something else, or about something someone else is doing.

I reference my favorite source – the dictionary on my computer. Bored – “feeling weary because one is unoccupied or lacks interest in one's current activity.” Hmmm. Weary? Again, I reference my favorite source. Weary – “feeling or showing tiredness, especially as a result of excessive exertion or lack of sleep.” Hmmm. Could it be that the term BORED is an oxymoron – a contradiction within itself? So, while I arose this morning after a good nine hours of sleep, and spent my day sitting at my desk typing (certainly, not what I would call an overly exerting activity), I am indeed tired.

Meanwhile, down the road, my father completes six weeks of radiation and poisonous chemicals pummeling his body. The doctors are pleased with their assault on the spot of my father’s brain. The growth is smaller and the inflammation reduced. Yet, today my father finds it difficult to remain awake for longer than a few minutes, much less the exertion to walk from his lazy chair to the bathroom. For almost two months, my father remains fully occupied with his healing process. And, while certainly not bored, he is indeed tired.

My father is given a month reprieve from treatment. I pray that his energy will return soon, as the doctors predict, so that he may enjoy a few days on the beach. And I take a few minutes to find the humor in my own contradictions and practice gratitude for a little boredom.

To the Nourishment of our Bodies

I haven’t eaten in over nine days. Eat – A verb meaning to “put (food) into the mouth and chew and swallow it” (New Oxford American Dictionary). I am on a fast, a voluntary abstention from all food. Instead, I drink a concoction of lemon juice, maple syrup, cayenne and water that I diligently assemble six to eight times a day.

Eat – A verb that also means “consume, devour, ingest, partake of; gobble up/down, bolt down, wolf down; swallow, chew, munch, chomp; informal guzzle, nosh, put away, chow down on, tuck into, demolish, dispose of, polish off, pig out on, scarf down”…. as well as to “corrode, wear away/down/through, burn through, consume, dissolve, disintegrate, crumble, decay; damage, destroy, erode” – as in “acidic water can eat away at pipes (Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus).

According to the creator of the fast, while I am not eating, I am receiving nourishment. Nourishment – a noun meaning “the substances necessary for growth, health, and good condition” from the Latin word nutrire meaning ‘feed, cherish’ (Again, New Oxford). And, who am I to argue? In many ways, I’ve never felt better. I feel lighter, more energetic, and, yes, healthier each day as I cleanse all the toxins and crap (literally) out of my body.

But, I miss food. I’m not hungry; I just miss food. Food is such a huge part of our American society. We “do” breakfast and lunch meetings, take our coffee/snack breaks from our computers, commune with our loved ones as we cook and devour our evening meal. True to the meaning, we gobble up more than our share, more than is necessary, and we wear away at the earth and decay our bodies with overconsumption, processed chemicals and waste.

It’s summer, and my heirloom tomatoes are ripening and filling up the bowl on my counter with colors of orange, yellow, purple, and red. The Saturday morning’s farmers market is filled with the intoxicating sights and smells of freshly picked berries, figs, peaches, okra and basil. These other sensory aspects of these prohibited foods are my solace from shear boredom.

During this fast, I read Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible, a heart-wrenching novel about the deconstruction and reconstruction of a missionary’s family in a war torned and poverty strickened Congo over a course of three decades. I am acutely aware of the luxuries of my life – that I have the indulgence of choosing to refrain from eating, while others refrain without choice. I also understand how little it takes to nourish the body, and how difficult that nourishment is to find for others.

Today, I am beginning my journey back to the world of the eating. I pray that I take this new awareness with me and seek to nourish my body and soul with a new appreciation for the meaning of food. I begin by drinking the freshly made juice of an apple. The most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.