I think I am finding my dad on this trip. I see him in the beauty that is all around me. He is in my thoughts. His energy becomes my energy. Every mile has its own way, its own character, its own details. In that moment that I am riding through this mile, then the next, and the next - it's as if everything that that mile is contains such purpose and significance. It was meant to be as it was for me to experience. I take it in through all of my senses as I am biking through nature's canvas. As an artist, my dad frequently found his inspiration in nature. I remember the fall that he passed away, the foliage was particularly brilliant. We found our comfort in knowing he painted the trees for us that year. It was his way of letting us know that even in loss there is still beauty and memory all around. I'll never forget those fall colors.
My dad suffered from alot of health problems. Over the past couple of days, conversations and memories of him have been shared between Helene, my mom, and me. I remember his intentionality and discipline in trying to eat better and lose weight after his first heart attack. Just yesterday my mom was commenting on how much he was riding his bike right up until his sudden passing. He biked from our home in Oakdale, Minnesota to River Falls, Wisconsin one time. I remember the photo that was taken when we went to pick him up. Much like I am doing on this ride, he had a sign that showed the date, miles, and time it took him. I didn't get into biking until I was 17, a year after he died. I am just realizing the connection that my dad and I shared with our bikes as not only a form of fitness, but as a means of finding, creating, and establishing meaning, purpose, and place. We use our bikes to grow and heal ourselves. Almost 17 years after his passing, I am finally biking with my dad.
Memory:
It's the day of my dad's funeral. As is tradition, our family is the first to arrive at the church. As we step into the vestibule in the front entry way, just beyond the doors, I can see the open casket. What's left of my dad lies there. I remember when I first saw him at the funeral home during the visitation. We walked into the hall where he was. He was all alone in this big room. I wondered how long his casket had been there with no one around to offer him comfort. I remember the days leading up to his death, my dad was scared. When he died, he was home alone. I have often wondered what his final moments were like. Was he scared when it was happening or did it happen so suddenly that it was over just like that? I think for any child, to see parents or caregivers sad or scared is unnerving. These are the people that we depend on. They are our foundations, our rocks - always steady, always sturdy, and always protective. Seeing them reduced to such sadness and fear is scary. As kids, we don't yet always know what to do when our foundations are shaky. While standing at the opposite end of the room, I focused my eyes down to the other end where he was. I was scared, nervous, extremely uncomfortable, and sad, yet refusing to show emotion. My insides twisted and tumbled and wanted to jump out of my body and run away. I made my way to the front of the room with the rest of my family. As I looked at my dad lying there, all I could think was, "this doesn't even look like him." I kept staring waiting for him to open his eyes, sure I had seen his hand twitch or his eye blink. He couldn't be dead. Not my dad. This doesn't happen in my family.
At the church, we walked in. Again, I wondered how long he had been there all by himself without his family by his side. As we took our last looks, my mom said that this was the last time we would see him. I couldn't believe that sort of finality. It just couldn't happen. What do you mean we'll never see him again? I understood but I didn't understand. I didn't want it to be true. We all had some things to leave in the casket with him before it was closed. Of the few small tokens we placed on the pillow beside his head before we entered into the pastor's chambers, I remember most vividly that my sister had brought that little white teddy bear - the same one that he held on to so tightly when he was being wheeled away for heart surgery. As we sat, very cramped, in the pastor's chambers, pastor came in and said a prayer with all of us. I couldn't even concentrate on what was being said. I knew that while we were in there, just a few feet away on the other side of one not-so-sturdy wooden door, my dad's casket was being closed. I really would never see him again.
As the service went on, two of the cousins on my mom's side sang a duet version of How Great Thou Art, one of my dad's favorite hymns. I sat rigid on the hard church pew. I didn't move. I think I barely breathed. I had worked so hard for so long to hold all of my emotions in. Everywhere around me were tears, sadness, devastation. Someone had to be strong and carry this family through. I took it upon myself to be that person just hours after I had found my dad dead in our home. As our cousins sang and their harmonious voices entwined, raw with beautiful emotion, and filled every space in that church, I put my head down and cried. I did this as silently as I could filled with a mixture of feelings of sadness, guilt, embarrassment, and exhaustion. My world was shaken less than a week before when he died. Now, it was crumbling.
Not even 8 months before my dad died, his mom died. My dad gave the eulogy at her funeral. For as long as I can remember, my dad's relationship with his mom was a challenging one. As she moved from an apartment on her own to senior housing, and finally to a nursing home, he visited her weekly. He took care of all her finances, and even though their relationship took alot our of him, he was loyal and faithful to her. During the eulogy I remember listening to my dad talk about his mom - recalling special memories and speaking with such ease and grace. He made it through almost the entire thing, and then, at the end, his voice cracked, and he cried as he finished the last of his words. It was in that moment that I understood, as much as a 16 year old could understand, the love between mother and son, within family, no matter how difficult the circumstances. It was unconditional through and through.
Memory:
In the weeks, maybe even months, following my dad's funeral, we buried half of my dad's ashes and kept the other half to scatter in some virgin prairies in Southwestern Minnesota. On many of our camping trips my dad could be found sitting out in those prairies painting and sketching the wildflowers, the fields of waving grasses, and the distant landscape beyond. In my parent's bedroom, the chair with his clothes on it stayed untouched for a long time. My mom would walk around the house clutching one of his shirts burying her face in it crying and trying to keep him close by breathing in his scent. I remember evenings at the dinner table where she would sit across from my sister and me. As we all picked at our food, unable to ignore the grief and heaviness in our house, missing dad at the table with us, she held onto the brown plastic box that had the other half of my dad's cremains in it. She sobbed so hard I thought her body was going to break. I don't think either my sister or I knew what to do. We lost one parent and now, the other was falling before us. I thought all of us would be destroyed by our own grief, our collective grief, and our emotional absence in each others' lives in this time of great need.
I left for my trip 17 days ago not knowing at all what I would find on my journey. When I push off each day my mind always asks, "what will we discover today?" Most of the time it races through a million different thoughts. Some are connected, others are not. The thoughts are completely random and rarely do I ever stay on one subject or hold on to a specific memory for very long. But, the other day, the memory of being at the hospital when my dad had heart surgery stayed with me all day. Today while biking, I didn't think at all about anything having to do with my dad. It wasn't until I was journaling tonight that the memory of his funeral popped into my head. After almost 17 years, I thought I had done all my healing and moving on from his untimely death. Clearly there's some stuff still in there.
Tonight I realized that on this trip, through my experiences and what and how they are impacting those who are following along with me through my blogs and Facebook updates, that I am teaching, healing, and inspiring not only myself, but many people around me as well. There have been so many parts of this whole trip that have not been easy - seemed impossible even. I've lost count on how many times I wanted to give up. On the other hand, I have seen great beauty, experienced intense clarity and drive. I've reached a few milestones and felt the wash of victory as it radiated out of me. I've come to some hard realizations, challenged myself to push through, go further, drive harder. I've mourned the many losses I have experienced in my life. I have pep-talked myself through the newer things starting for me. I hold so dear the words that you all have shared with me. They carry me through every day. My hope is that whoever you are, wherever you are, and on whatever journey you are on, that through my words and experiences, you can share in my mantra and believe in yourself - that you can do it. And, in the words of my sister, "push harder because you believe all things are possible." In pushing myself beyond all of my physical, mental, and emotional limitations, I am finding myself and realizing that indeed all things are possible. I'm finding my dad in many ways, the crux of many of the complexities in my life, and connecting with him in ways that we couldn't when he was still alive. I am healing, finding my strength, finding my purpose, and together, my dad and I are riding side by side. I feel you dad. Thank you for a tremendous trip, and now, for leading me home.
Afternoon's like these don't come around too often anymore it seems. Perhaps it's my usual schedule that keeps me away from the house until after the sun has set. Maybe it's winter's slow but impending approach. The silence in the house is hinted with the somber tones of loneliness, yet there is a conviction to it. It's more than silence. Through the jaded facade, it's peacefulness. You just have to let yourself see it. Let yourself feel it. The late afternoon sun is streaming through the southern windows. Everything it touches turns to gold. Where the silence and sunlight meet, there is perfection. A perfect harmonization - union - of two forces that often go unnoticed. Our lives carry us away every second. We operate on auto-pilot for the most part. Too busy to take a minute and notice. Too scared to confront our fears. Too lazy to come in to the present and allow ourselves to just be. Too content in our miserable well-worn paths. Misery is comfort these days. There's too much effort that goes into doing nothing. Allowing ourselves to come into balance is tedious. Perhaps the force of gravity has been tweaked over the years and our whole equilibriums are in a perpetual state of flux and conflict and we could never find our balance anyway. I don't know.
The last year and a half since I started this blog has seen a tremendous amount of change. Change came in the form of new experiences, doubt, fear, realizations, epiphanies, heartache, heartbreak, growth, healing, health, learning, discovering, revitalization, remembering, honoring, emerging, balancing, resolving, conquering. I'm sure the list could go on. The point is, no matter how much I think about what it was like to travel back to my birth country in August 2009, or ride my bike around the largest body of fresh water in the world this past August, out of the moment, they are memories that cannot be captured in rewind. To try and "recap" such life-changing experiences would feel wrong. There is no summary. Instead, I sit in the dimly lit dining room of my house, typing out these last words of this blog, watching the fading afternoon light. Just as my dreams allow me to remember and relive parts of my life with such vividness and clarity, so too shall this blog provide me and whoever else, a glimpse back into the many moments that have allowed me to be born into this one moment of the purest presence and clarity about where I've been, and where I am right now.
