My Dad, the Horse & a Comet
What should be sad sometimes isn't, and v.v.
Hi beautiful friends,
The other morning I woke up feeling unrested and figured the way to spank some life into this system was to get out into the 32-degree, foggy dark-ish morning. Let’s see what’s out there for us, I cheered to myself. I had no idea . . .
I live in a Seattle suburb, a block from an unusually located, five-acre horse ranch called Funny Farm. As I trod down the path, a sweet white horse was standing by the outer fence, waiting for me.
I picked up my pace and met her at the fence. She took a few steps forward. Her expression was neutral. I couldn’t tell if she would nuzzle or bite me. Nothing. We communed in silence.
When it was time to return home for the salon, I backed away, thanking her for the visit, and also watching to see if she’d show regret at my leaving. Nope! She stood facing me, her head pointed in my direction. The gaze of her long horse face was detached. She looked right through me.
And then, click, just like that, I saw my dad. In the horse’s face. Whoa, what the hell? I backed away slowly, contemplating this bizarre connection. My dear sweet dad, almost 97, lost his sight three years ago and can’t remember anything about his life. He often has the same blank stare as the horse—neutral, inanimate. I continued to contemplate the aloneness of Horse/Dad and felt pricks of sadness. I hadn’t felt sad about my dad in a long time. This sadness felt soft and gentle, like a melancholic tune. “Oh dad,” I sighed.
It sounds sad, to have a dad who can’t see, who occupies a recliner all day and night (he won’t sleep in a bed) at his adult family home, and whose brain is a scramble of god-knows-what, and who is also separated from the wife he loves. However, let me tell you something: my dad is the sweetest living soul as a no-seeing, no-remembering human, just oozing with love and gratitude, free of ego and posturing. When I visit Scottsdale and sit with him, I rub his hands and shoulders, I stroke his head, give him a neck massage. I am affectionate with him in ways I never was previously and it feels fantastic. Freeing!
When I see him, I nuzzle him, I tell him I love him, I tell him what an amazing dad he was/is, what an extraordinary life we’ve had together as a family. I take him through the events of his life, and he is delighted.
Example:
Me: “Dad, do you know you were an opera singer?”
Dad: “Is that so? Well I’ll be . . .”
Me: “Oh yeah, and you lived in Italy and Germany, then came to Seattle to work for Boeing. You had a very exciting life.”
Dad: “Ah yes. We were such . . . fun girls. Such a fan.. tri…scu… Oh Christ what am I trying to say?”
Me: “That you’re excited for dinner tonight with mom, Michael and me!”
Dad: “Oh yes. That is great honey. I can hardly wait! That’s a loving group.”
Me: “Hey Dad, get this: you had TWO wives.”
Dad: “Really? [pause] Well I’ll be goddamn-go-to-hell.”
Every time I say, “I love you, Dad,” there’s a pause, followed by:
“Oh, sweetheart. And I love you. You are the number one, just the best, just … so much I come to . . . love.” For a daughter who always enjoyed (and sought) her dad’s love and approval —let me tell you, THIS IS THE BEST.
(BTW, we were never the family who went around dropping “I love you”s.)
These days, father-daughter time does not center around philosophical discussions, lifting weights, or ordering a second plate of pasta at our favorite restaurant. And yet our time together feels more intimate than ever. It helps that he’s not in pain or discomfort and he’s lived a long, good life. I can settle into his beautiful deterioration, watch the process with fascination, and be there for him.
Sometimes I wonder: Could it be that my dad’s dementia has left him ego-less, so my ego drops too, and we are nothing but a pair of little love containers swirling in the universe together? If so, it’s wild and crazy to think I wouldn’t change my behavior with everyone, stat. (The idea freaks me out).
Back to my dad the horse: The more I studied the white horse with the Dad face, the more a thick sadness, like the fog, settled in. It was as if the horse came out to remind me: He won’t be here forever, the sad horse face was saying. You’ll miss him when he’s gone. Through the horse, I was with my dad and the sadness. It was uncomfortable and perfect.
A few days later I walked with my friend Laurie who happened to know the white horse’s name: Comet. Comet. Hmmm. During the hours of writing this piece, I finally made the connection. In my memoir manuscript, there’s a chapter that captures my dad’s early dementia. Here are the lines:
My father is a comet moving through the sky, almost out of sight. I am the star who will be left behind. When I look into him, I know where I belong.
If you like the idea of exploring—and expanding—beauty in everyday life, join our salon! Spring registration is open for Beauty at Work - What if the purpose of work is to love the world? We’ll also consider the phrase “beauty at work in the world.”
Email me with questions - tatyana @ everydaycreative (dot) net
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