Dad says Hi

I don't know if posting 5 blog postings in 3 days is enough to be self-referential, but what can I say, I'm shameless. In my March 12th blog, I wrote:

"Last night, someone I love very much had a very big breakthrough..."

I now have official permission to name that someone as my Dad. How did I get this permission? Well, with a bit of a lump in my throat, I read the posting to my Dad this evening. And what do you think happened? We laughed our asses off. Seriously, we did.

Most of that blog was about how watching my Dad take on deeper levels of growth can be hard because I've still got all these defensive habits and low expectations from a time when our relationship was not as strong.

My favorite moment came when I read him the confessional lines: "I missed his old way of being. It had been a worthy opponent in my set of personal battles. I could cry about it. I could gossip about it. I could grieve all the pain it had caused me in the past. This way of being in my loved one that left me feeling so frustrated gave me purpose, focus and energy. And now, it was gone."

At that moment, my Dad turned to me with a twinkle in his eye and said, "Don't worry, it'll be back." And we both burst out laughing. I gulped air to say, "I know," as I kept giggling. Then he sent me into fits with, "You don't have to worry, I'm still screwed up."

How lucky am I that of all people, I can laugh with my own father at this cosmic joke of human frailty and reactivity. It took me a long time to get here. It took gently shifting my frustrations with his behavior to a compassionate focus on my own. And that took practice. Lots and lots of practice. Man, it was so hard at first. If I'm really as mean and controlling, as arrogant and needy as I've been told that I am, then why would anyone want to talk with me?

It turns out that if I can admit to being these things, I have a fighting chance at vulnerability and humility. I used to think humility was bowing low to a stadium of people and bellowing that I was nothing more than a speck of dust. But I'm not a speck of dust. And I don't know too many stadiums of people who are so eager to see me do much at all, much less proclaim my smallness. But I have noticed that when I catch myself being bitchy and stop and apologize, it feels better than the fantastical applause of 10 stadiums full of people. Copping to my ego, my arrogance and my judgment before I push someone away gives me a fighting chance at connection. I think my Dad may have spent some time with this notion too.

Grateful for connection tonight. Till soon.