Posted in Dharma Talk, Essay, Meditation, memoir, Poets/Writers, Priscilla Galasso

Honoring My Father

George William Heigho II — born July 10, 1933, died March 19, 2010.

Today I want to honor my dad and tell you about how I eventually gave him something in return for all he’d given me.

My dad was the most influential person in my life until I was married.  He was the obvious authority in the family, very strict and powerful.  His power was sometimes expressed in angry outbursts like a deep bellow, more often in calculated punishments encased in logical rationalizations.  I knew he was to be obeyed.  I also knew he could be playful.  He loved to build with wooden blocks or sand.  Elaborate structures would spread across the living room floor or the cottage beach front, and my dad would be lying on his side adding finishing touches long after I’d lost interest.  He taught me verse after verse of silly songs with the most scholarly look on his face.  He took photographs with his Leica and set up slide shows with a projector and tripod screen after dinner when I really begged him.  He often grew frustrated with the mechanics of those contraptions, but I would wait hopefully that the show would go on forever.  It was magic to see myself and my family from my dad’s perspective.  He was such a mystery to me.  I thought he was God for a long time.  He certainly seemed smart enough to be.  He was a very devout Episcopalian, Harvard-educated, a professor and a technical writer for IBM.  He was an introvert, and loved the outdoors.  When he retired, he would go off for long hikes in the California hills by himself.  He also loved fine dining, opera, ballet, and museums.  He took us to fabulously educational places — Jamaica, Cozumel, Hawaii, and the National Parks.  He kept the dining room bookcase stacked with reference works and told us that it was unnecessary to argue in conversation over facts.

Camping in Alaska the summer after his senior year in High School: 1951.

My father was not skilled in communicating about emotions.  He was a very private person.  Raising four daughters through their teenaged years must have driven him somewhat mad.  Tears, insecurities, enthusiasms and the fodder of our adolescent dreams seemed to mystify him.  He would help me with my Trigonometry homework instead.

Playing with my dad, 1971.

I married a man of whom my father absolutely approved.  He walked me down the aisle quite proudly.  He feted my family and our guests at 4 baptisms when his grandchildren were born.  I finally felt that I had succeeded in gaining his blessing and trust.  Gradually, I began to work through the  more difficult aspects of our relationship.  He scared my young children with his style of discipline.  I asked him to refrain and allow me to do it my way.   He disowned my older sister for her choice of religion.  For 20 years, that was a subject delicately opened and re-opened during my visits.  I realized that there was still so much about this central figure in my life that I did not understand at all.

Grandpa George

In 2001, after the World Trade Center towers fell, I felt a great urgency to know my father better.  I walked into a Christian bookstore and picked up a book called Always Daddy’s Girl: Understanding Your Father’s Impact on Who You Are by H. Norman Wright.  One of the chapters contained a Father Interview that listed dozens of questions aimed at bringing out the father’s life history and the meaning he assigned to those events.  I decided to ask my father if he would answer some of these questions for me, by e-mail (since he lived more than 2,000 miles away).   Being a writer, this was not a difficult proposition for him to accept.  He decided how to break up the questions into his own groupings and sometimes re-phrase them completely to be more specific and understandable and dove in, essentially writing his own memoirs.   I was amazed, fascinated, deeply touched and profoundly grateful at the correspondence I received.  I printed each one and kept them.  So did my mother.  When I called on the telephone, each time he mentioned how grateful he was for my suggestion.  He and my mother shared many hours reminiscing and putting together the connections of events and feelings of years and years of his life.   On the phone, his repeated thanks began to be a bit eerie.  Gradually, he developed more symptoms of dementia.  His final years were spent in that wordless country we later identified as Alzheimer’s disease.

I could never have known at the time that the e-mails we exchanged would be the last record of my dad’s memory.  To have it preserved is a gift that is priceless to the entire family.  I finally learned something about the many deep wounds of his childhood, the interior life of his character development, his perception of my sister’s death at the age of 20 and his responsibility in the lives of his children.   My father is no longer “perfect”, “smart”, “strict” or any other concept or adjective that I could assign him.  He is simply the man, my father.  I accept him completely and love and respect him more holistically than I did when I knew him as a child.  That is the gift I want to give everyone.

I will close with this photo, taken in the summer of 2008 when my youngest daughter and I visited my father at the nursing home.  I had been widowed 6 months, had not yet met Steve, and was anticipating my father’s imminent passing.  My frozen smile and averted eyes are fascinating to me.  That I feel I must face a camera and record an image is somehow rational and irrational at the same time.  To honor life honestly is a difficult assignment.  I press on.

© 2014, essay and photographs, Priscilla Galasso, All rights reserved

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004PRISCILLA GALASSO ~ started her blog at scillagrace.com to mark the beginning of her fiftieth year. Born to summer and given a name that means ‘ancient’, her travel through seasons of time and landscape has inspired her to create visual and verbal souvenirs of her journey. Currently living in Wisconsin, she considers herself a lifelong learner and educator. She gives private voice lessons, is employed by two different museums and runs a business (Scholar & Poet Books, via eBay and ABE Books) with her partner, Steve.

Posted in Art, Corina L. Ravenscraft, Environment/Deep Ecology/Climate Change, poem, Poems/Poetry, poetry

~ Planet MoM ~

"Planet MoM" © Corina L. Ravenscraft 2014
“Planet MoM” © Corina L. Ravenscraft 2014

M is for the multitudes She nurtures.
O is for the only world we have.
T is terrestrial preservation – Hers.
H is for the home we have to save!
E is ecosystems, all connected.
R is for respect that She is due.

E is for environments, protected.
A is for awakened points of view.
R is for the rescue of our parent.
T is teaching all to love Her, too.
H is the Heaven or Hell they will inherit.

For all She gives us, it’s the least that we can do.

 

~ © Corina L. Ravenscraft 2014 ~

effecd1bf289d498b5944e37d8f4ee6fAbout dragonkatet Regarding the blog name, Dragon’s Dreams ~ The name comes from my love-affairs with both Dragons and Dreams (capital Ds). It’s another extension of who I am, a facet for expression; a place and way to reach other like-minded, creative individuals. I post a lot of poetry and images that fascinate or move me, because that’s my favorite way to view the world. I post about things important to me and the world in which we live, try to champion extra important political, societal and environmental issues, etc. Sometimes I wax philosophical, because it’s also a place where I always seem to learn about myself, too, by interacting with some of the brightest minds, souls and hearts out there. It’s all about ‘connection(s)’ and I don’t mean “net-working” with people for personal gain, but rather, the expansion of the 4 L’s: Light, Love, Laughter, Learning.

Posted in Jamie Dedes, Poems/Poetry

A MEMORIAL FOR OUR FRIEND …

“We’re all just walking each other home.” Ram Dass

For Trekker …

Ann, Rob, and I attend his memorial today.

·

WALKING HOME

by

Jamie Dedes

·

his leathered skin a shroud, crinkled

furrowed from his wild mind and dry

explorations under our California sun

where he wondered with his students

·

and friends, the outdoorsmen stand

by him as he rests dying by an oak

table, a jelly glass, childhood fave

sits with his preferred gin, taking it

·

by the spoonful from the kind hand of

a hospice nurse until he rests, sleeps

then walks on, in the doleful blue of

of our tears: a soft fairwell dear friend

·

© 2012 poem, Jamie Dedes All rights reserved

Photo credit ~ Vera Kratochvil, Public Domain Pictures.net

Posted in Guest Writer, Poems/Poetry

COMPASSION

Gayle Rose a.k.a. Bodhirose, Poet Blogger

Bodhirose (Bodhirose’s Blog) has been blogging about family life, things of the spirit, and her ashram-life experiences since August of 2010. In this short time, her sincerity and authenticity has earned her a loyal following. We so appreciate the ideals expressed in her most recent poem, that we asked permission to share it with readers here. J.D.

NO BLAME

by

Bodhirose

Brown or white we won’t demean

Orientation will all be seen

Your beliefs different than mine

That’s okay we’ll be just fine

Call to prayer five times a day

Or none at all, we still can play

The dress you wear is not my same

Makes no difference, there is no blame

Language, culture, a variety

Makes for interesting diversity

Sexual preference, I don’t care

Love of all is my sacred prayer

Discrimination against our own

Is a hateful trait to be de-throned

Release all intolerable distinctions

Of racial, gender, religious institutions

Open mind, open heart

May compassion be our mark

Photograph and poem courtesy of Gayle Walters Rose and Bodhirose’s Blog. All rights reserved, 2011.