|
 Dreams
of Kindness, Love and Grace
By Carolyn Berry
For
the past six months I’ve been shedding old skin after serving
as my father’s oarsman across the River Styx in November.
Grief has brought me into step with the whirling-dervish legacy
bequeathed me by this man. As I beheld his life’s consummation,
I was unaware that barely beneath my transparent skin bubbled
grueling turmoil. Turmoil catalyzed by the challenge of writing
a truthful yet honoring eulogy for his funeral. I felt marrow-deep
despair at having loved him, when he was one of the most unlovable
people I have ever known. And I have gradually come to see more
clearly that the qualities I like most about myself are a direct
result of characteristics I utterly despised in him.
My
father was serving in Korea when I was born. He returned a fractured
soul, irreversibly affected by post-traumatic stress syndrome(back
then no one knew what it was). In his teens, he had watched his
own father slowly suffocate from chronic lung disease, in the
days before Predizone eased some of the more disgusting manifestations
of deteriorating airways. He faced the unavoidable duty of supporting
his mother and two sisters. Daddy graduated, enlisted, married
my mother and adopted my older brother, and planted my spark of
life in mom’s womb before departing for War.
Omnipresent
anger and an utter disdain for authority were his sum and substance.
Shortly after returning stateside, Daddy walked from our 3-room
apartment headed for work … and kept driving that ribbon
of highway.
I
met him for the first time when I was 10. Arrested by federal
agents in Texas, where he played bass in a dance band and downed
Bacardi 151 three meals a day, he was given a simple choice: #1.
serve time in federal prison for desertion and failure to support,
or #2. go “home,” display “exemplary behavior”
during probation, and assume the role of “loving dad and
faithful husband.” He chose Door Number Two. A 20-year domestic
war resulted.
He
raged. He cursed. He used his fists. He lost eight front teeth,
one by one, in fights with men he once called friends. He drank.
He slammed doors. He made maniacal threats. In 5th grade I watched
him rip the phone off the wall and … in surrealistic slow
motion … hurl it at Mom’s face. The spray of blood from
her broken nose permanently stained both wallpaper and carpet.
Initially
I learned that invisible is a very good thing. I learned to scan
the landscape for clues about safety. In the long-run, a better
strategy evolved. To be perfect (blameless) and entertaining (distracting)
to save my family. I also learned that men are dangerous …
and was attracted to damaging men through my 20s and 30s, with
dark and painful results.
The
peaceful death of this warring man was a paradox. I had never
seen him so sweet as on his deathbed. I cradled him there, wishing
he had been softer, quieter, sweeter in life. I recognized the
bewildering dichotomy of my being his daughter. We could not have
been more opposite.
It
has occurred to me … in an epiphany that continues to expand
in wider circles of recognition and awareness … that I am
who I am NOT in spite of him, but BECAUSE OF HIM. My question
is this: What if, in that eternality and wisdom that held my spirit
before its incarnation, I actually chose this coarse man to be
my father—because of exactly who he was?
His
hatred for all people of color, his bigotry and use of vile prejudicial
language, grew in me a heart for human/civil rights.
His
penchant for creating conflict and dominating through power molded
my career as a peacemaker—a mediator—helping others
find consensus on principles.
His propensity to express through violence nurtured in me an ability
to explain emotional sensations in ways that move people toward
deeper understanding—and deeper emotional connection.
His
need for constant upheaval developed my fierce resilience.
His
God-anger and spiritual unrest propelled me to find the place
of Spirit within myself, to nurture it, to rest in it.
Perfect
father? Not by a long stretch. Kind human being? Well, occasionally
I truly saw glimpses of kindness, but it was not a dominant characteristic.
Key catalyst in shaping of the Spirit who lives in my skin? Clearly,
yes. Gratefully, yes. I am all of who I am because of exactly
who he was. Hard lessons? Oh yes. But there are no accidents.
I am free to choose, free to assess, free to live as I determine.
And I believe I see more clearly … because of him.
Carolyn
Berry serves professionally as a public policy dispute resolution
coordinator throughout Oregon. She is also a writer, a social/environmental
activist, and public speaker. Contact Carolyn at BerryWildrose@aol.com.
Top | eMail Alternatives | Home
|
