My father dreamed of walking me down the aisle, slowly, grandly, to
the hum of Mozart or Bach, in a black tuxedo, satin-trimmed, with his
upright athletic walk, his graying hair, his authoritative eye, and me in
cream-colored lace, pearl-trimmed, radiant with hope, my arm resting on
his, lightly.
My father dreamed of walking me down the aisle, slowly, grandly,
surrounded by his loving friends and mine, hundreds of faces turned
toward us, eyes wide with love, a few wet with tears.
My father dreamed of walking me down the aisle, slowly, grandly,
until we reached an altar of flowers, high and full of the colors of
spring. My father dreamed of that moment when he would lift my arm and
place it on another, lightly, stepping back then, to leave me, his
daughter, standing in the next moment as a wife.
My father occasionally stopped at hotels in his travels looking for
the ideal wedding site, imagining the aisle walk in every grand hotel
lobby, hearing the sounds of music fill the air like flocks of white
birds.
My father imagined evening dinners with long tables full of food,
hot and fresh, the colors of autumn. His children and his children's
children would be laughing and teasing one another, and food would be
disappearing amid the raucous sounds of play, the intimate noise of
family life.
Family life--an elusive dream just out of reach. Like the butterfly
to the young girl's hands, it sits a moment in the angle of vision, then
disappears to visit another's imagination.
Family life--to my father, an unrequited love whom he has wooed and
cherished, battered and bloodied, always in an effort to shape it to his
own idiosyncratic needs, those nooks and crannies that were formed in his
soul during a childhood of drought, an era of absence and longing, shame
and thirst.
Family life--to me, the unlived life. As wife, mother, grandmother,
it's been taken from me, a stolen plum.
And so it's been taken from him, my boisterous, charming,
warm-hearted, lovable father, who looks at me now and sees an unmarried
childless woman, who looks at me now and sees the end of his line... and
wonders what he did wrong.
My first memory of my father is taking a shower with him in a
blue-tiled stall. I must have been only six or seven years old. I
remember the feeling of his tall, strong body next to me, standing by
this great presence under the water, feeling no fear, only safety.
And I remember a special birthday when he alone took me out to
dinner. I was in a pink organza dress and we went to a steak restaurant
for prime rib and candlelight. I felt like I was his girl, his special
date. It seemed to me then that he knew so much about everything. I could
ask him any question and, inevitably, he always had lots of
answers.
While I attended college in Berkeley, the foundation of my father's
opinions began to rattle. As I explored my own sexuality, altered my
awareness, and engaged in radical politics, his kingdom was overturned.
On the day I called to tell him to stop sending me tuition money, my
mutiny was complete.
Archetypally, my father had become the enemy. Even though I knew
that he was personally kind and generous to the core, I came to believe
that his commitment to the material world and his support of the
political status quo were flawed and that they were, in the long run,
dangerous to the common good.
I rejected his values wholesale, his reverence for family, his
striving for financial security, his faith in the democratic process. I
joined ranks with the shadow-heroes of the day.
Following many heartbreaks, I gave up on the dream of political
solutions. I turned another corner, this time toward an inner life and a
spiritual solution.
When I went to live in a spiritual community, my father commented,
"I don't know why you need that teacher. You already have a father." It
took me 15 years to see the wisdom in his insight.
My spiritual teacher was a shadow-father, representing for me the
opposite values of my Dad: the material world is fleeting and holds no
permanent value; attachment to it and to the people in it is fatal;
desire and sexuality impede the growth of consciousness, which is the
only worthy goal.
Without realizing the full implications of my choices, I had become
a nun, a lover of God, a lover of humanity, unable to love individual
human beings. My own fear of intimacy was reinforced by a credo that
trivialized human love. And while other women my age were finding mates,
I was burning with holy longing.
When, after several years, I left this community and reentered the
social world, my father welcomed me. For as long as I can remember, he
lights up when I walk into the room. Even today, after this long and
bumpy journey, he just beams and opens his arms for a hug.
Today, my Dad and I understand that we have been caught in a web of
love, that the fibers which connect us have been too tightly wrapped. We
have come to see that, even while living many miles apart, even while
making very different choices, our love has shaped and molded our
souls.
And so we have tried to let each other go, giving up any illusions
of one another and letting other loves come first. We find it difficult
to care deeply for each other in a way that does not bind. And so our
relationship becomes like a spiritual practice: loving and letting
go.
Tags:
aisle,
childless,
children,
daughter,
drought,
elusive dream,
evening dinners,
family,
father,
flocks,
grand hotel,
grandmother,
graying hair,
hotel lobby,
lace,
longing,
loving friends,
nooks and crannies,
satin,
sounds of music,
spirituality,
unrequited love,
white birds,
young girl
