Absenteeism needs explanation. Sometimes its illness. You can get a note from your doctor for that. Sometimes its a family emergency. You place a call to your confidantes and get on a prayer request chain or an obituary gets printed. Understandable reason for being out of the loop. Sometimes its not an absence but rather a sabbatical. There is a new offer or opportunity that takes you away. And because you’re off doing that award-worthy endeavor, you’re not here.
Then there is incarceration.
The last 18 months encapsulates all of that to varying degrees. My father died a year ago. In a tidy nutshell, we were estranged. Which makes the evolution of grief peculiar. I hustled for my father, strived to please him, appease him, make him proud, get his attention, avoid his inspection, make him laugh. I wanted his approval, his respect, his love. And even in this sixth decade of my life, the moments when I garnered one of those rare moments, the memory is crystalline. But so are those expressions of disappointment. His face. That look. And then there are the years of gaping silence. To be casually set down, walked away from, discarded. On some level, this last year, I sat shiva. My grief and sorrow differs from my sisters. We each had our own relationship with our father and so our wounds are also very different. And through this last year, I have rediscovered the joy and the gentleness. My father was 27 when I was born. When I went to kindergarten, her was 32 and had three kids, a mortgage, two cars and a stay at home wife. I think about what he might have dreamed about. He loved bossa nova. He was curious. He liked puzzles and nature. And I can see, even when I was young, that he felt a bit trapped. He wanted something bigger. More adventure. More discovery. More wandering. I have forgiven him. And I accept his imperfection.
It is harder to find my own joy and gentleness when I am brimming with rage. Caused by insult and disrespect and disregard. It gouges into those old Original Family wounds and opens them up. And the capacity to write, to imagine, to explore, to create is snuffed out by my bitterness and fury. And a year passes without me writing a single sentence. That is what I mean by incarceration. The reality of being trapped stifles the voice, the mind and for a while – the heart. You fall victim to the BOX in which you are locked. You numbly trudge through the day, willing yourself through the motions, eager to be asleep again. You’re too numb to ask why or how. There is no energy to find an escape.
But this is where my faith forces its way through. How can you find a way out of the despair when is lays heavy over you and you are in utter darkness? Except, there is no place in the world (His world) that is completely dark. There is always light. And He designed our eyes to open, like the aperture of a camera, a seek every lumen. Humans may not have evolved to be the most keenly night-sighted, but I think this is part of our existential test. Do we seek The Light. Despite the Darkness and Despair, there is Light. Always. Sometimes it is shocking how bright the night can be. Just sit still. Be patient. Adjust. And suddenly, the LED light on the dishwasher illuminates the entire room. What was once darkness is easily defined.
Stand still. Wait. Be patient. Breathe. Rest. Trust.
Once your eyes adjust, you can see, even in the dark. And once you can see, then you can work on hearing. And listening.