All posts by The Writer

This week marks the second anniversary of the passing of my dad. Each day since he died thoughts of him come to me, most of which bring a sense of love. I deeply loved my dad. He wasn’t perfect. No one is. But my dad tried to be the best man he could be with the understanding/perceptions he had while on Earth.

For many years I was bitter and angry with my parents and the way I was raised. My entire family, on both paternal and maternal sides is Mormon, which is now considered a derogatory name for members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Many of my family of origin and extended family still practice their faith, so I don’t want to be dismissive or shaming, and I apologize if my writing comes off that way. I know not everyone’s experiences with religion mirrors mine, and if continuing their membership brings them peace and happiness, who am I to say they’re in the wrong? I know, for me, growing up in a devout LDS home was really damaging to my self-worth. It has been a long, painful struggle to repair or re-frame my value and purpose in life. Maybe in a later post I’ll expand on that topic, but not today. Today, I’ll just say how grateful I am that through my years of therapy and continued work on myself, I was in a frame of mind and heart that I had made peace with my parents before my dad passed, and that I could share my love and acceptance with them.

Some of my favorite things about my dad:

Willingness to Grow

The man who was my dad when I was five was not the same man when I was twenty-five, nor when I was thirty-five. My dad was humble when it came to the feelings of his family members. When our hearts had been broken it truly shook him to the core and made him reevaluate and make subtle changes. By the time my dad left this life he was one of the most gentle humans I have interacted with.

Sense of Humor

Yes, dad jokes are awful. Yes, my dad had plenty of those groan-worthy gags to go around. But dad also loved Stan Freberg’s satire, and Steven Wright‘s dry delivery and absurdist comedy. Dad showed me artists that thought outside of the mainstream, beyond the easy laugh. Dad loved intelligence and humor, which is why–I think partially, at least–I developed a quick wit and sharp tongue. 😉

Music

My dad was a gifted musician and composer. He played over thirty instruments. He wrote a musical. He wrote original hymns and oratory based on LDS scripture. I was always jealous of his big hands. I can barely reach an octave when I play piano, which leaves a lot of repertoire beyond my ability. When my dad showed me a song he wrote as a teenager he used his pinky and pointer finger, kind of like the devil horns fans raise at a rock show, to play the octave harmonic resolution with his left hand. So jealous!

Dad also loved quality musicianship from others. He shared his love of music with us kids. Our own music tastes are quite eclectic, from Puccini to K-Pop, and everything in between. In dad’s later years it was fun to share songs and artists with each other. A few years before dad passed I’d stop by my parent’s house on Wednesday nights to have dinner with them before my group therapy session. Several times dad would share a composition that was special to him. One time it was Lang Lang playing Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto. Another time it was the entire album of Duke Ellington’s Newport set in 1958. When I hear those pieces now I get choked up and feel my dad’s love surround me in the music.

I’m not perfect either. Sometimes bitterness tries to grow back in my mind by planting what if seeds. What if my parents hadn’t been so conservative or restrictive? What if there had been money for my interests? What if I’d known x,y, or z? What if, what if, what if… When I catch those thoughts I do my best to go back to my place of forgiveness and understanding for my dad. Part of the balm that soothes my soul comes from a George Hammerstein lyric from The King & I.

This is a man who thinks with his heart,

His heart is not always wise.

This is a man who stumbles and falls,

But this is a man who tries.

My dad really did try his best.

Love you to pieces, Dad

ox

As a reformed perfectionist, the only way I can do anything, be it playing piano, making pottery, et cetera, is to repeatedly tell myself it’s okay to make crappy things. If I don’t give myself permission to make a less-than-perfect thing it will never happen. So I make bad pottery, and play piano and sing poorly. However, as I develop and refine my skills, the art I make become less craptastic.

So here I am, trying to be a less-crappy writer. I’ve had stories and scenes in my head all my life, but hardly dared write them down. Even now, writing this passage, I’m struggling with my inner critic. To quiet that critic and help me move on, I remember what Lewis Carroll’s Queen of Hearts said, “Sentence first; verdict afterwards.” My hope is that as I practice the writing craft it will become easier to get the thoughts on the page and then edit and refine. It’s difficult if not impossible for me to do both at the same time.

I’m using this website to help me share my inner world, mainly with myself as I continue my healing and mental health journey; but if anything I write resonates with you as well, so much the better. With this website I no longer have excuses to not write, so the blog is also an accountability tool, which means I’ll have to update it regularly…which means I get to create a writing routine for myself.

So right now, I’m going to commit to write a blog post at least once a week. It won’t be perfect. Nothing I do ever will be, but it will be posted, and hopefully be one of many craptastic things I make that show I was here. 🙂