I spoke to an old friend the other day. We’re linked by loved ones who’ve passed. What a sweet and caring woman she’s always been. Four years after her husband passed away, she has changed her work situation, traveled, built a new relationship and home, repaired other relationships, and finally now feels content. Her husband passed 4 days after Mom. Dad and I went to the viewing. The line wound through the funeral home and out the door. A shuttle gave people rides from the parking lot. We saw her often after that. Dad had a crush on her. He gave her a watch for Christmas one year. And now when I see her, that’s what I think of. Because, although she has moved on and built a life, I have not yet. At least not fully.

I’ve been saying that for a long time, it seems. I’ll get there. At the pace of a slow crawl. I haven’t found my ground to stand on. This is not home. And yet it is. My old home. I still long for the family home I don’t have any more. It’s time to let it go. I need to build my own, whatever that means. Whatever that takes.

Mom and Dad moved ‘back’ to the assisted living facility they had lived in. The dining room was a long walk from their apartment. Mom made it pretty far, but then started to lose her balance. Dad kept on going. She made a suggestion about her care. I said then we’d have to have _____ come 24/7…a caregiver who was coming once in a while. I was worried about money after having someone 24/7 for Dad. Of course, that’s what we did in real life. It didn’t make sense in the dream.

Then Mom announced that she’d decided she was ‘leaving’ Dad and moving to a nursing home. It was odd to me that she said she was leaving him, since what she really meant was moving somewhere else. And I couldn’t understand why she would choose to live in a nursing home. That’s all I remember.

Perhaps I was warning myself about the dangers of passivity. Mom’s dream attitude was pretty much the same in real life. And there was Dad, in the background, moving forward without anyone really noticing. Two parts of myself. And I seem to be resisting the one that has been strongest most of my life. The nursing home is comparable to this apartment. I need to continue on to the dining room. And fill up on what nourishes me.

It’s amazing how much time can be spent trying to figure out the root of personal evils when it’s often tagging along right behind you all the time. I recently spent a week with family, paying close attention to things I’ve uncovered that I want to change. Why I just stop talking when interrupted or challenged. Why I’ve always resisted standing up for my beliefs and opinions. I have a fairly new understanding of my strength, yet I’ve often used it only when the path was clear. An underlying feeling that no one will believe me or take my thoughts seriously. Why I’ve always stuck around, putting up with insensitive behavior.

With ponderings over the past few years, I seemed to have figured it out. But in the last week, I saw it unfold right in front of me. At least the part that still preys on me day to day. I learned that from the time I was small, I gave in to arguments because the only other option was to argue nonstop, as the other party insists they are always right. No matter the evidence to the contrary. And when the evidence presents itself, it’s hidden. I never had the opportunity to even learn that I was right.

As the youngest, my thoughts were giggled at, teased. How could her ideas be valid, she’s just the baby. Now I know they are. Even more than valid…insightful. I know when I’m right. And I recognize the evidence. Yet the struggle continues.

I also seem to be in direct line with my mother and grandmother. As the generations have passed, confidence has grown a bit stronger. I know that Gram wanted more. She worked at Princeton University Library as a single woman before she became a farmer’s wife and her life turned into plucking chickens and boiling water on the stove for the children’s baths. I don’t know the details of her longings, but she had the air of a stately and graceful woman. Not the type to haul and plant and gather eggs.

I believe Mom loved her life as a mother. She took pride in her home and had the support of Dad who would do all of the wallpapering and home decorating that she desired. We lived in nature where she watched her wildflowers grow and peeked at the groundhogs, deer, and periodic egret through the binoculars. But she also had a strong creative urge that was never satisfied. With the perfectionist strain that ran in the family, or perhaps was passed from parent to child through the generations, the creative endeavors she attempted were never good enough and she let them go. Although she always encouraged them in her children… every week-long beach vacation included paint-by-numbers, stained glass, or a homemade craft project like decorating Dad’s old tobacco tins with burlap contact paper and creatures made of small shells.

I’ve thought many times, maybe I can be the one to break some of these patterns. I know that chances are slim I’ll be able to change the innate characteristics of certain people, but maybe in changing myself I can show what’s possible. Especially to myself. Can I break out of the mindset that I need to follow rather than lead? Do things that fulfill me, rather than what I’m supposed to? Can I find a way to relate to people who will always be in my life so that I can still speak my mind without having to fight for the right?

Much of what holds me feels like a shell that needs to be busted…break it large, not a little at a time. I peck away at the smaller things, hoping eventually they will create a weakness in my shell that I can burst through.

Another Father’s Day down. It’s been a year and a half since Dad died. You have no way of knowing what it will really be like when he’s gone. We never really made a huge deal about Father’s Day. It wasn’t a day we spent grilling with the family. We’d do a card, maybe a little gift, say Happy Father’s Day, and that would be it. And when I lived far away, it was just a phone call. But it seems those little things were big enough to say “I love you, Dad. And today I thought of you, individually, apart from Mom or anyone else.”

It was a Saturday trip to Herb’s Hobby Shop with Dad when I discovered the Jaguar XKE. It was one of those days that he was going on errands and asked me if I wanted to go. We ended up at the hobby shop looking at model cars. It’s been my top car ever since.

Dad taught me which way to turn a screwdriver to tighten and loosen a screw. He was fixing the doorknob on the linen closet door. I don’t remember if it was one of the times he asked for an extra pair of hands, or if I was just watching. But I always remembered which way to turn.

I was blessed to have the last years with Dad. It was like we had our own Father’s Day, just the two of us, every day. I miss you, Dad. TTFN