"And if you ever have to go to school
Remember how they messed up this old fool
Don't pick fights with the bullies or the cads
'Cause I'm not much cop at punching other people's Dads"
Remember how they messed up this old fool
Don't pick fights with the bullies or the cads
'Cause I'm not much cop at punching other people's Dads"
A long time ago, reflecting on my relationship with my father, I wrote a piece called "For My Archer". The choice of title was a reference to a passage from The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran in which he referred to children as arrows and parents as bows.
I chose that reference largely because what I was writing was about how different Dad and I were, and yet how in spite of living very different lives and being very different people, I still held a deep love and respect for him, and felt I owed "my archer" a great debt of gratitude. He always encouraged me and he always believed in me, even when the things I was attempting were so completely alien to him. But he was not looking to live vicariously through me. He always wanted what was best for me and a life better than his own.
He gave me that.
Some days he still crosses my mind and I miss him dearly. I often think of some of the lessons I've taken from him, as well as those passed on by my mother. I know I've written considerably more about her over the years than him, but since his passing a few years ago, I find myself thinking of him more often.
Now, many years after writing "For My Archer", I find myself reflecting once again on the wisdom of those words written by Gibran, but from a very different perspective.
I am no longer the arrow; I am the bow.
Now there is a child for whom I am one of the principle directors of her life. But just as Dad's day is now of yesterday and mine today, so too is Olivia still tomorrow. The time in which she lives, the struggles she faces, the challenges she will in time overcome, the happiness she finds, and the sadness... are not for me to say. The experiences of her generation are very different than mine, than my father's, and even of the generations between us. And I am not her.
More and more often I find myself watching her navigate through social, intellectual, and emotional landscapes so vastly different from those I experienced at her age, and I squirm with the ass-puckering tension of someone watching a net-less trapeze act. She lives in a complicated time, and I'm seldom able to be much more than an observer, a provider of cuddles, and a reminder of unconditional love. We do our best to teach her good judgement, and I've zero doubt she's incredibly bright, but the world never seems more frightening or vast than when you contemplate all the things that could go wrong for your child.
She is growing, maturing at an alarming rate, and finding her identity. It is equal parts exhilarating to behold and teeth-clenching to endure. And I know I am in a position of incredible bias to say so, but I nonetheless affirm: Olivia. Is. Truly. Fascinating. More so every day. "The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed. The soul unfolds itself like a lotus of countless petals." (Gibran)
Through it all, the fear and the marvel, I hold true to the simple lesson of which Gibran spoke, and of which my father's example taught me: to want not for her to be tall or short, fat or thin, wealthy or poor... just happy. By whatever path she travels and no matter where she arrives: happy.
I grip tightly the belief my father had for me: that she can have a life even better and happier than mine. And as someone who counts his blessings and considers himself generally a pretty content lad, I know I'm setting her a rather high bar.
(But reflecting, I smile and figure that's largely her own damn fault.)
Now there is a child for whom I am one of the principle directors of her life. But just as Dad's day is now of yesterday and mine today, so too is Olivia still tomorrow. The time in which she lives, the struggles she faces, the challenges she will in time overcome, the happiness she finds, and the sadness... are not for me to say. The experiences of her generation are very different than mine, than my father's, and even of the generations between us. And I am not her.
More and more often I find myself watching her navigate through social, intellectual, and emotional landscapes so vastly different from those I experienced at her age, and I squirm with the ass-puckering tension of someone watching a net-less trapeze act. She lives in a complicated time, and I'm seldom able to be much more than an observer, a provider of cuddles, and a reminder of unconditional love. We do our best to teach her good judgement, and I've zero doubt she's incredibly bright, but the world never seems more frightening or vast than when you contemplate all the things that could go wrong for your child.
She is growing, maturing at an alarming rate, and finding her identity. It is equal parts exhilarating to behold and teeth-clenching to endure. And I know I am in a position of incredible bias to say so, but I nonetheless affirm: Olivia. Is. Truly. Fascinating. More so every day. "The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed. The soul unfolds itself like a lotus of countless petals." (Gibran)
Through it all, the fear and the marvel, I hold true to the simple lesson of which Gibran spoke, and of which my father's example taught me: to want not for her to be tall or short, fat or thin, wealthy or poor... just happy. By whatever path she travels and no matter where she arrives: happy.
I grip tightly the belief my father had for me: that she can have a life even better and happier than mine. And as someone who counts his blessings and considers himself generally a pretty content lad, I know I'm setting her a rather high bar.
(But reflecting, I smile and figure that's largely her own damn fault.)
