On the Processing of Grief

My father passed away one year ago.  Traditionally, Jews honor a year of mourning; modern secular therapists say the same.  It takes a year. 

Contrary to this traditional framing of the process, I believe my meditation on loss and grief has just commenced. I am only beginning to understand who my father truly was, what role he played in shaping who I am, and his impact upon all who happened upon his journey. 

In the cataloging of all the evidence of his existence, itemizing every drawer, every closet, every box, his story has become so much more muddled than I ever thought possible.  I always thought I knew him well.  We were very close; we spoke often, and mused together deeply.  I felt clear on what traits we shared, which ones I hoped not to carry on through the passing of time, and those I wished I had.  In my middle age and in the time of his death, his story now alternates between being one of amazing perseverance and that of a cautionary tale of the shadowy power of ideals. 

Dad was a philosopher.  As a very small child, I remember him saying to me, with the kindest of instructive tone, "What if everyone did it?"  Only later did I realize he was instilling in me Kant's Categorical Imperative.  He could quote verbatim all sorts of learned texts, but always managed to present his ideals in common man terms.  He believed work was good for our souls, and always encouraged me to find an occupation that was both fulfilling to me and uplifting to others.  Although we differed as to what he thought I should do with my life, I know that part of why I earn my living as I do is because of seeds he planted. 

He was an exquisite violinist, and my childhood was filled with live music.  He practiced endless hours; I had a special chair of my own in his room, where I curled up and read while he played the violin.  Every night, he'd play recordings of his favorite violin concertos or my favorite ballets, petting my head as one would a cat, until I was sleeping, a state I had trouble realizing on my own.  To this day, I cannot hear certain violin concertos without my mind bifurcating in a very odd way: I hear both the music I am listening to in real time and my father playing in my memory, all the while making note of phrasing, emotive, and stylistic differences. 

It has been through music that I have grieved the most obviously.  Certain concertos simply cannot be listened to without tears, both of loss and of appreciation for filling my heart and mind with the beauty of Bach, Mendelssohn, Brahms, and all the rest. 

Dad's sentimentality was monumental.  In clearing out the house in which he had lived for 55 years, I uncovered endless boxes of what mostly appeared to be detritus, when suddenly I'd recognize something.  A piece of charred wood from the first bonfire I had made myself.  The number I wore at the audition where I had won the coveted role of Clara in The Nutcracker.   Stones like those we skipped at the pond on my grandfather's farm.  He kept every letter ever sent to him, the hospital bills for the birth of this children, notes I'd left him as a small child. 

But above all else, Dad was almost child-like in his belief in people.  He had so much compassion he quite often ignored the negative, as if it would simply go away if we just gave it no attention.  He actually would say "we'll not dwell on that" and then expect you to let things go, just like that.  Just like he did.  It was both inspiring and maddening.  He was so powered by wishful thinking he often could not recognize the havoc wreaked by all the wounded creatures he ministered to and dedicated his life to saving.  I both admired his ability to accept and forgive, and raged against his expectation of me to be superhuman like him. 

And expect he did.  I will never understand why his expectations of me were clearly different than that of others in his life.  Perhaps he saw his own face so reflected in mine, he imagined we were also alike inside.  Or maybe he saw me as fulfilling his own dreams, which had been so thwarted by poverty, the Great Depression, World War II, and a difficult family.  

He had a gentle, quiet demeanor, though he was quick to laugh and see the absurdity of things.  He was kind to a fault.  But he was strictly guarded emotionally, and rarely shared personal feelings. He was intensely private.  He never said "I love you"; I have to assume he believed it was unnecessary.  And he expected me to behave just as he did.  He seemed disappointed when I insisted on talking about my feelings. 

But in the end, he left me things to find among all that sentimental detritus that filled in some of those emotional gaps, as if he knew I was right in asking the questions he was uncomfortable answering.  I just wish he had had the courage to talk about such things when he was alive.  He counseled often of the impact of hubris; he was an admirer of Hadrian, an emperor who once said "To be right too soon is to be wrong."  I'm not sure if he saw the impact of his own hubris, or whether he thought time would forgive his choices.  Either way, I'm sure he believed he was implanting those ideas into my thought process for a reason.

I will pass on many of the truths my father taught me.  He was a good man, with a kind heart, and big ideas.  I will share his legacy by telling my daughter how I came to these truths, and what experiences I had that brought me to such conclusions, in the hope that she will really understand who I am before I am gone.  Although I am sure we all keep a part of ourselves hidden from the world, I think it cheapens the value of our experiences, lessens the impact of our story, and keeps us from truly communing with those we love.  We are all fragile creatures, even the ones who seem the strongest. 

I am so grateful for my father's endurance, and only wish he would have shared his inner burdens so I could have understood him more deeply before he was gone.

I will be reflecting on him for as long as I live; I can only hope the feelings of sadness and grief will someday subside. 

I think it takes more than a year, tradition be damned.