Father's Day Without My Father

I should probably add "the first" Father's Day without my father. It is just after two months since my father died, and exactly two months after his funeral. Father's Day was a bit of a battle between us, from my perspective, because I'd always want to take him out, spend money. He, the depression era child awaiting another, would actually get angry at me for the profligacy. So I tended toward avoiding deciding anything about what we'd do until a day or so before, and there'd be a little tension between us, he preferring to cook at home, meaning he'd do the cooking, because that is something I have never been, a cook, and me preferring to go out, both of us missing the point of the day.

Looking back, and it is always easy to look back, I should have simply let him be. But that isn't the way with parents and children, no matter how old the child is. And in this, perhaps, I acted too much the child in my resistance. I'd like to say that if he were here, this Father's Day would have been different, that I would have acquiesced to his wishes without any resentment, but I suspect otherwise,given my prior history. But he isn't here. And so, I slept in, as I always have done on Sundays, went to Church, which he used to do with me. But today I lunched with friends at the same restaurant at which I celebrated my father's 90th (he allowed this spending spree as a love of his New York life was with us), and then went to the cemetery.

I have been talking to him since he died in the free way I wish I could have done in life. I have told folks that it seems to me that since he has pierced the Cloud of Unknowing, he has seen God and in that he knows His plan in a way that none of us can in this life, I have felt his hand in protection of me, now without the fear and anxiety that used to accompany his guidance. I don't know that I had to go to the cemetery to "see him". But that is where what remains of his earthly self is, and it seems that on this day, a close visit, an in person visit, was compelling. My mother is buried at Gate of Heaven cemetery in NY. I have been out here, in California, half my life. I have thus only visited her about three time all tolled. Even when I lived there, I was not driving and a trek to where she was, relatively upstate, was difficult. But this cemetery is an easy drive, close to home. There would be no excuse for me not to visit. Today was my second visit since the interment. The place was packed with families sitting on blankets next to bunches of flowers they had placed on the ground plots. And at the niches, where my father is, flowers were in the little holders on space after space. I have decided now for certain I will get a holder. My father did not have any great interest in flowers, but it is the only way I can leave anything tangible of my presence and sentiment, so I will end up getting one of these.  And a portable chair so I can sit rather than stand or lean against the columbarium. At another niche, daughters of a parent chanted prayer. It echoed in the mausoleum as did the chirping of the birds. Another family chatted by a niche as if they were at a party, and their dad was the guest of honor. I said a prayer or two, perfunctorily. I have never been very good at praying, except maybe in Church. I cried a bit, still feeling a level of disbelief that he isn't here but sure that he is safe and sound in God's hands. I walked about and took in the paradoxical beauty of the place. I find I like cemeteries very much. I came back to dad and said my goodbyes. It wasn't long. I remembered how I'd be impatient in his house to go do something else on a Sunday, prepare for the next day of work, hang in the back yard, doing my own "thing". He'd note that I couldn't sit still. Here I was still doing that too. I came, but then was in a rush to go. But perhaps it only is that this visiting the dead may take some practice. I haven't done a lot of it, when I think about it, counting my mother, three times, a friend, two or three times, and my dad, now two. I am a novice at this visiting and praying at the grave. I am pretty sure I'll be a fair regular seeing my dad. It's an effort I probably should have made more of when he was alive. Although people would say, I would say in my own defense, I saw him quite often, my internal conflicts sometimes kept me at an emotional distance. Now all that seems quite silly and unnecessary.  And yet, in a peculiarly good way, our relationship, at least from my side of it, is stronger, easier. I wonder if that makes sense?

 

What is Important is Invisible to the Eye

The quote comes from "The Little Prince", which is one of my favorite books, in the original French, which I used to be able to read. The line, I had to look it up, in French is "On ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur, l'essentiel est invisible pour les yieux."  It is the moral of the story of the boy who comes to earth from a little planet. On this planet, he resides alone, with only the company of a rose, and three volcanoes, one which is dormant. On his trek he meets a variety of life's mentors. He comes to understand that his search for meaning comes down to this: All this stuff around us that seems important, really is not. We devote our lives to possessions, or ideology, or to ourselves. If we are lucky we come to know that what is important is not what appeals to our eyes, to our bodies, our sensuality, or to our egos, but the intangibles. It is that which cultivates our essence, our transcendental souls. For the Catholic me, it is what appeals to the Will of God, although my own search for  understanding of that particular tenet, continues in struggle and will so continue for the rest of my life.

Where is this coming from? Today was the West Hollywood Gay Pride Parade, a tradition since at least the mid 80s if not earlier, in which the community pours onto Santa Monica Boulevard and its environs to revel in its sexuality. I may be channelling my late father when I say that I am not quite sure why anyone's sexuality, gay or heterosexual, requires a prideful pronouncement of any kind.. It is arguable that the sexual act in its various permutations identifies us most with the beasts of the earth, and is better a matter of shrouded secrecy than a banner. But I am a child of my generation and tolerant of my society's modes of expression.  Thus, I usually object primarily to the fact that the parade snarls the traffic, cuts off access to various boulevards and streets, and  is always held on a Sunday, making it nearly impossible to get to church for the 12:15. Still, over the years, the sheriff's department, has gotten it together, and with a bright sign provided to us for the occasion, the parishsioners can get through the barriers to worship. Not that a lot of people brave the crowds and traffic, because you have to start out about an hour earlier than you would otherwise. I usually have made it, knowing the backdoor route well. 

I was a little sad though today that the crowd was so sparse, because there was a nun, a quite elderly nun, the only non-Chinese member of a community of nuns, who came from China to raise money for the work of their mission. Her name had been Gloria Watts. For the last 50 years, it has been Sister Mary Paul. She had been a Methodist in her childhood. And after converting to Catholicism, in the late 1950's, she began her soujourn as nun and nurse and model of God's Love in China. With photographs of the before and after of the miracle, she told of a one year old who had come to the mission dying, and after a death bed baptism, recovered with little medicine and great care, to go home with her astonished parents. Yes, it was schmaltzy. It made me squirm a little for my comfortable life, knowing that this woman has been around Communism, pestilence and poverty her whole adult life and managed to praise God with her work and words. 

On the way back down the street after Church, getting back to the area of the barriers,  merriment. rhythmic whistles and the music, I noticed a Channel 2 video van, putting together the story that will probably run on the 11 o'clock news about the festivities at the parade.

I thought that what needs to be on the news tonight, as well, maybe, I say with a certain amount of political incorrectness, instead, is the story of this nun. She has given her life to a part of the world we barely think about here in sunny, abundant Los Angeles, satiated with our rights and food and fairs. But it won't be. It isn't "if it bleeds, it leads".  It isn't a feel good thing for reporter patter.

But that's what it means I guess about being in the world, and not of it. Such as she are invisible. The truly important is invisible to the eye.

 

Tags: what is important is invisible to the eye

Sadness Descends at Ralph's

 

I used to grocery shop a lot, by myself, and with my father, when he was alive. When I think about it, it was only a few months ago that this was true.

But since he died, I DO shop--when you have cats, shopping is a sine qua non--gotta do it. But not like I did before. I suppose from one perspective it is a good thing for I am spending a tad less than I was accustomed to doing on luxury grocery items.

But I think I realized today why I have revved it down.

I went to what a friend of mine once called, and I now call, the "Rock and Roll" Ralphs on Sunset in Hollywood, on my way back to the westside from downtown and work. There were about three places my father and I went pretty regularly for big food shopping, big for me, not so big for him. Two were Ralph's and one was his particular favorite (other than the 99 Cents Store) Jon's on La Brea, a favorite of the Russian community.  In the last year or two, the Sunset Ralph's had been our Sunday regular, convenient to his house, my house and after Church.

As I left my parking space, one I seemed to remember I had settled in on one of the many trips there with Dad, I stood on the concrete separator from one space to another. It seemed it was one, the one, my Dad nearly tripped on. He was still walking fairly well the last six months, but with less certainty and could occasionally not see such barriers.

Take a wagon. It used to be he took one, I did. Now it was just me. I did not do what was usual for both of us, go to the cat food aisle. I wandered about picking up other items, passed the hot food counter where he'd sometimes get a styrofoam carton for a couple of nights dinner. The meat counters, where he'd compare weight and prices. We did not actually shop together. I'd do my thing, and I'd run across him doing his. We'd meet at the check out when we both had what we needed. He'd get his apple pie, and the Sara Lee hot dog rolls that were just the right size for the best of the hot dogs, Hebrew National.

He hated that the fruit and vegetables cost so much at Ralph's, but he'd look anyway, and sometimes he'd find a deal.

He was everywhere tonight at Ralphs. While it was good to have him close in memory, it hurt I could not grasp him, here, in life, as before. It was kind of like when you have a dream, you know? You wake up, and it's clear, and then in the moments afterward, what happened in it starts to fade, and you try to hold it, hold it, perfectly and you know you can't. That is what hurts. That tangibility is gone. I look for signs of his still being around me. I feel that he is, but sometimes, when it isn't the same as it was, it just feels wrong, off. Not as it should be. But as it is.

 

 

 

(Not) Just a Bird on the Sill

Some small moments are truly precious. These are moments that cannot be captured in words, although I am compelled here to try. It was an uneventful day at work. I was even in a pretty good mood, something which too frequently eludes me, and for which, given my father's recent demise, I may have felt a little guilty.

It was about 4:30. And there I saw through the slats of my blinds that a small bird had landed on the ledge of my window. This is the part that gets hard to articulate, the wonder of a bird, I could not tell what it was, just being there, of a sudden. Not a sparrow, although about sparrow size, and color, but with a beak that was more like that of a parrot or lorikeet, kind of rounded and pressing on the feathered face. I thought, if I get close, move the slats, he'll fly off. But he didn't. He cocked his head, blinked his period of an eye, and chirped. I move things to hold the slat back. And he looked like he actually wanted to come in. I couldn't believe my luck at being so close to him, though the glass separated us. I called my secretary. I needed confirmation of what to me was an extraordinary moment. I mean, I am in the heart of the city. Birds fly around all the time, but they never get close to the building. I am on the 8th floor and there is not a single tree up that high. And he is right in front of me. My secretary loved his face. If I could have taken some kind of implement, and realistically, cut a square in the window so I could touch him. Silly. Then I worried. Was he sick? Why would he even be here, now, this moment, unless there was something wrong. He slid like a tightwalker on the narrow ledge. He must fly I thought. Otherwise how COULD he be here, pausing before me?

And as I began to worry, and kill the moment, he flew off, demonstrating that it had been natural magic to savor, not fear. It made me smile for hours. I am still smiling.

Does it mean something? Does it have to? It just makes me breath out, and in, and out again, with profound gratefulness.