[The night before our Cottage Grove The Nature of Gratitude program on April 28, I realized that Dad had been gone five years this month. Between 2 and 4 a.m. I roamed the dark reaches of my brain condensing and stitching together snippets of old writing with new material to honor Dad’s presence in the world. Most of the day was spent at the computer converting thoughts into bytes and phosphors. By 5 p.m. I was reading the piece to Kim. She said present tense was confusing. Trust is a remarkable thing—I spent another 45 minutes revising the writing into the past. We ate dinner and headed south for the program.
I look forward to your writings and always read them with great enjoyment. But this one affected me more broadly and deeply than any to date. I regret not being present when you read it to the accompaniment of Don Latarski, and that there is no recording of it.
Thank you for stopping in, Bill. I wish you could have been there, but I'm hoping Don and I can do more things together in the future. I also need to start posting upcoming events here so that interested folks can have an idea of what's going on without missing out because of the vagaries of the Facebook algorithm.
I enjoyed your writing very much, moved me in places. I also like the title..."Words on the Nature of Life." I'm also a writer and I love hearing others share what's internal. That's why I'd love to meet with a few other folks to listen and share....I don't know what "Also share to Notes" below means. Also I don't know where "Post" will take my reply....I've heard of Substack, but no idea how to use it....Congratulations for mastering it !
I have no idea how you made it through, even with Don playing accompaniment. As I read this, I choke back sobs that stick in my throat.
Every line of this brings up a line of my own. My Dad died in April, choosing to end his life on his own terms. That line "I ditched my scoop and carried you against the skin of my hands, just to feel your rough palms one more time" makes me happy for you. You felt him one last time. My mom let Dad's brother take his ashes to his hunting cabin and scatter them. We were not invited to join him. The last time I saw Dad, he was standing in the living room, watching me leave with Mom to go who knows where. All I remember about the evening was me reaching the door and him saying, "Aren't you going to say goodbye to your old dad?" He was only fifty-three.
This is what happens whenever I read your writing. It transports me emotionally through time and space. Thank you.
Thank you, Val. I’m tearing up reading your note. Dad left us over a period of years. I think it was about three years before he died that he began his exit. Every doctor got the same question: “how do you feel about assisted suicide?” But he seemed resigned to ride it out, if only for Mom and the rest of us. I’m grateful to have had that time to begin transitioning to the idea of life without him. So the trauma you just described, especially the lack of closure after your father took his own life, snags in my chest. I trust you have made the best peace with it that you can. That’s all we can hope for-the best peace. Because just like the rest of life, peace isn’t perfect either.
I look forward to your writings and always read them with great enjoyment. But this one affected me more broadly and deeply than any to date. I regret not being present when you read it to the accompaniment of Don Latarski, and that there is no recording of it.
Thank you for stopping in, Bill. I wish you could have been there, but I'm hoping Don and I can do more things together in the future. I also need to start posting upcoming events here so that interested folks can have an idea of what's going on without missing out because of the vagaries of the Facebook algorithm.
Thank you
Perfect. Thank you, Tom. Watching for the big one.
I enjoyed your writing very much, moved me in places. I also like the title..."Words on the Nature of Life." I'm also a writer and I love hearing others share what's internal. That's why I'd love to meet with a few other folks to listen and share....I don't know what "Also share to Notes" below means. Also I don't know where "Post" will take my reply....I've heard of Substack, but no idea how to use it....Congratulations for mastering it !
I have no idea how you made it through, even with Don playing accompaniment. As I read this, I choke back sobs that stick in my throat.
Every line of this brings up a line of my own. My Dad died in April, choosing to end his life on his own terms. That line "I ditched my scoop and carried you against the skin of my hands, just to feel your rough palms one more time" makes me happy for you. You felt him one last time. My mom let Dad's brother take his ashes to his hunting cabin and scatter them. We were not invited to join him. The last time I saw Dad, he was standing in the living room, watching me leave with Mom to go who knows where. All I remember about the evening was me reaching the door and him saying, "Aren't you going to say goodbye to your old dad?" He was only fifty-three.
This is what happens whenever I read your writing. It transports me emotionally through time and space. Thank you.
Thank you, Val. I’m tearing up reading your note. Dad left us over a period of years. I think it was about three years before he died that he began his exit. Every doctor got the same question: “how do you feel about assisted suicide?” But he seemed resigned to ride it out, if only for Mom and the rest of us. I’m grateful to have had that time to begin transitioning to the idea of life without him. So the trauma you just described, especially the lack of closure after your father took his own life, snags in my chest. I trust you have made the best peace with it that you can. That’s all we can hope for-the best peace. Because just like the rest of life, peace isn’t perfect either.