Q&A With My Dad, on His Birthday, Even Though He's Technically Dead
Father-daughter philosopher's corner
Dear Beautiful, Creative, Open-Minded People,
Today, February 28, is my dad’s first birthday since he left us in December. I decided to do something special for him, for you, for us.
Are you up for some metaphysical play? Open up those minds, it’s a Beauty Q&A with Dad!
First: something you should know about my dad.
Boris Mishel (nee Bistritzky) was innately wise and grounded, something I learned through numerous emergency phone calls to him over the years: confused at University, troubled in New York City; the relationship break-ups, job challenges, existential funks, and full-on meltdowns, he was always there.
His first line, the one that would settle me down so I could listen, was always: “Let’s look at this philosophically.”
“Let’s look at this philosophically.” - Boris Mishel, aka Dad.
Once, many years ago, when I was feeling peeved and confused by a friend’s behavior, he warned me off giving this friend a real piece of my mind. “That’s going to put her on the defensive. You want an open dialogue,” he said. “No one owes you a friendship. It’s voluntary. So ask her questions. You might learn something new about your friend. Questions make life so much more interesting.”
You can live a whole lifetime on that one line.
So, are you ready? Open your minds good humans and let’s have a conversation with the eternal spirit-life of the man I call Dad.
Q&A WIth Boris Mishel, Feb 25, 1925 - Dec 13, 2022
Me: Happy former birthday Dad! How are things where you are?
Dad: Oh, we’re having a marvelous time.
Me: Who, Dad? Where are you? Is Baba there? . . . Is it beautiful?
Dad: [Whistling, something he did compulsively, especially in his later years.}
Me: Dad! Who’s having a marvelous time? What’s it like?
Dad: Sweetheart, it’s good to hear from you. Tell me, how are you doing since I last saw you?
Me: Dad, you know what’s strange? I’m doing great! I don’t miss you as much as I thought I would. We had such a sweet last few years together, it left me filled with love. And when you died, I was so happy for you, so proud of you for moving on. And relieved. It sure took you long enough, though—what was up with that?
Dad: That’s a very good question. I’m not sure, and there will never be any answer. But in my dementia, I had the most extraordinary experience of feeling nothing but life and love. I mean, I couldn’t remember a damn thing from one second to the next, which has its advantages. Each moment just was bursting with awe and surprise. I didn’t want to leave. Plus, my blindness gave me some really spectacular hallucinations. I know my life looked pretty useless to an outsider.
Me: I never thought that. It was hard at first, seeing you blind, zero memory of your life, sitting there day after day. But once I accepted that I had no idea what you were experiencing, it freed me up to be there with you and enjoy you. Crazy, eh?
Dad: That’s why we had such a beautiful time together.
Me: Dad, how would you define beauty?
Dad: It’s life sweetheart, it’s all of life, all of the senses, packed into slivers of moments. It’s everywhere and everything. It’s also a good Mozart opera. And a plate of pasta. Your mother’s smile. It’s in the impossible job, the hard day, the one good note in the middle of a bunch of gobbley-gook. Beauty is life.
Me: Dad, despite all this beauty, I still go through these periods of intense self-doubt, convinced I’m crazy to be banging on about beauty, that it’s the way to find purpose and meaning, and spending days writing and talking about it. Am I crazy? Am I on the right path? WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH MY LIFE DAD?
Dad: Tatyanechka, come now. Do exactly what you’re doing. After all, there’s nothing else. And, there’s nothing to do, other than what you’re doing right now. Oh honeypot. The very idea that there’s something else—something better, more meaningful, more worthwhile—is a bunch of malarky. Human brains make up a lot of nonsense. Don’t complicate things. Thinking about what you should do is absolutely insane. Think about it. When you’re doing it, or wrapped in the creative process, are you thinking about what you should be doing?
Me: Why do humans fret and second-guess themselves when they don’t have to?
Dad: You think it will save your life. It’s mistaken as a sense of responsibility, but it isn’t. Responsibility is over-rated too.
Me: OK, one more for you Dad. What do you say to people who sometimes might feel like they’re not reaching their full potential? Is there any truth to that?
Dad: Well now, let’s look at this philosophically. I used to believe in potential as something to be arrived at, out in the future. Also nonsense. Until you’re experiencing potential in the present moment. It’s not a goal to strive for, especially if you’re making it personal, that it’s going to say something about you if you hit it or not.
For example, if you’re writing a story or starting any project, or even a marriage, and you remain curious about its potential, but not worried about it—that’s fine. When my dementia hit, all I could see in everyone was their lovingness, and a kind of infinite potential, it was so mind-boggling; that might have been why I hung around for so long. That, and to make sure your mother got all settled in.
Me: Her place is great isn’t it?
Dad: It is. It really is. Your mother is quite a woman. Now listen to me, one last thing. Your very particular Tatyana potential—and everyone else’s—is already there, in the present tense. There’s nothing to reach for. When you doubt it and feel like you’re falling short, it’s like having a beautiful plate of penne all'amatriciana right in front of you and saying you don’t know what you’ll have for dinner.
Or, take that glorious cedar tree out your office window—do you ever look at it and wish it would reach its potential? Do you think that perfect tree ever wonders if it’s falling short of its potential? Throw that word out of your vocabulary. You and the tree are the same.
Me: Thanks Dad, you always know what to say.
Dad: Be the tree, sweetheart. Be the tree.
💜💜💜🎶
I like this a lot. I've read your pieces and know you were close to your dad. I am too, and he's still alive. I like the idea of hearing his voice in my head, and hearing his wisdom even if he were gone. I think it's super sweet. And solid work.