Water Horse Writing Studio

This time of year I am visited by memories of Dad. When it feels life is ending, it really is just the beginning.

Posthumous Poet

Posthumous: Born after the death of the father*

My father did not know me as a poet. I had never spoken to him about poetry, read much poetry or written any poetry before he died. As I reflect now our lives together were full of poetry. My father loved the rituals of the Catholic Church and felt the profound power of words. He was always looking up words in the dictionary and loved prayer. He was a doctor and always prayed for his patients. I feel that it engendered compassion that sustained his work. The dichotomy is that he was a man whom conversation especially with children was very difficult. I felt a great longing to be seen and accepted by him. At a young age I felt the sting of his disappointment in me not being male.  With three daughters and only one son he seemed hungry for male companionship. I tried my best to show that I had values he would admire and that I could keep up with the boys. But he could not see past my gender. I changed tactics and spent enormous amounts of energy contradicting him. My father was an avid sports fan. I rejected his favorite teams by adopting the rival team as my own, just to be seen and to get a reaction.  As an adult I would refuse to pray and go to church. I did not do this to hurt him. I did it to prove I existed. I was different from him but also a part of him. I wanted him to see that.  By becoming his adversary we became distant and I lost touch with my true calling. I wanted to develop my own unique voice and to use language to heal the world.  I wanted to inspire people to love each other and the Earth. The language my father and I used however had no room for the kind of poetry I needed to write. Our language was that of contradictions and mirroring each other’s frustrations. I needed to find a different language in order to be truly seen by him. This language required that I be in tune with his love for me.  I’m unsure if I could have written poetry while he was alive.  I could not see that he loved me while he lived.  It was in his death it became clear that he loved me.  He died of internal bleeding from a fall. My dad was an alcoholic and had heart problems. He suffered horribly through heroic efforts of his collogues that could not accept his death on their watch. The combination of the injury while on blood thinners and the stress of alcohol withdrawal were too much for his body to withstand. In his last days he was able to ask for help, admit his addiction and to be humbled by his need for the love of family. With my brother and sisters I prayed with him. It was, at that late time, the only way love could be communicated. We prayed the Lord’s Prayer or what I have always called the “Our Father”.  It was the first time I had recited it since childhood. 

I remember in my late 20’s he genuinely asked me about my spirituality.  By this time I thought I had figured everything out and told him that the only way to a genuine spiritual life was to kill one’s figurative father, reject all superficial ritual and bliss out on yogic energy.  I felt like I was being brave by my statements.  He sat in the dark of my back deck completely silent. None of that seemed to matter the night he died, I held hands with my brother and sisters and encircling our father we clearly annunciated each word of the prayer. My father radiated with love for us and for the world he was leaving.  It was not a denial of who I was to pray with him, it was the beginning of what I would become.  Now that he is gone, writing poetry is one way I connect to his memory and to keep his spirit alive. His love for ritual and order comes out freely through my pen and I finally feel seen.

*The Merriam-Webster Dictionary