legacies, lyrics, and living in the now

I wanna have friends that I can trust, that love me for the man I’ve become not the man I was.
I wanna have friends that will let me be all alone when being alone is all that I need.
I wanna fit in to the perfect space, feel natural and safe in a volatile place.
And I wanna grow old without the pain, give my body back to the earth and not complain.

 - From the Avett Brothers' "The Perfect Space"

Every time I hear this song, I think of my father. 

About his journey to be loved for the man he's become, not the man that he was.

I know, that in so many ways, the story is my father's to tell.

About who he was. About what he endured. About who he's become.

But it is also ours - the story belongs to our family.

Before. During. After.

Most of what I remember from Before relies upon flickering memories of childhood, photos, and the narrations we've pieced together over time. 

Provider. Adventurer. Creator. Innovator. Father.

And then, 

there was the playful afternoon he chased my sister into the living room, 

jumping up to kick her gently in the bum.

{Crack. Shudder. Thud. Silence. Moan}

There was blood.

Plaster was missing - down to the metal frame.

Evening shadows played across the front window.

The year that followed was tough.  

{Who am I kidding?!?} 

 The years that followed were tough --- they continue to be tough.

So much was the same...but different.

Time away from work. Doctors' appointments. Sleeping - always sleeping. Early retirement. Massage school. Motorcycles.  Charts and graphs. Pain. Impulse buys. House renovations. High school graduations. College drop-offs. Weddings. Innovations and Ideas. Diagnoses. Re-diagnoses.

Emotional Disconnect.

During.

And then, an "official" diagnosis: Traumatic Brain Injury.

Too late. Anger. Frustration. Sleeping - always sleeping. Pain. Massage and more massage. Journals and writing. Charts and graphs. Doctors appointments and aversions. Esalen. House renovations. High school graduations. College graduations. Funerals. Innovations and Ideas and Calculations.

Emotional Disconnect.

After.

We each have our experience, our impressions, our hopes and disappointments. 

Our resentments. 

I spent the first years of my marriage, writing letters and demanding my father take responsibility for the myriad ways our family was messed up.  The list was long.

 But it was not {all} his fault. 

It is our family.  Our story.  Our in-elasticity.  Our triggers.  Our dysfunction...together.

I stopped writing my angry letters long ago.  Probably not soon enough to leave some things unsaid.

But I stopped writing as I began to internalize four truths:

one:

 Every family is messed up - even the bright, shiny "perfect" ones

two:

Holding someone accountable for things beyond his control is like trying to hold water in your cupped hand - it always dribbles out to nothing substantial

three:

Living in the present and creating space for people to be be who they are {in the moment} feels better

four:

Our family still has a "together."  We continue to seek each other out and we continue to try.

In fact, last week we all expended concerted and intentional effort to spend time in the same space as one another.

We traveled hundreds and thousands of miles to reunite, recreate, and relax...together.

And one of those nights, while playing cards, I thought:

How lucky we are - to have one another.  

To have a father {and mother} who have imprinted such a legacy on us:

Grace {however guarded}, Perseverance, Self-reflection, Loyalty, and Courage 

to find our voice(s) and  keep coming back to what is and what will be.

"...to feel natural and safe in a volatile place."