November 16 was the 108th birthday of Pam’s mother, Polly, who passed twenty years ago. My father, Paul, who also passed twenty years ago, would be ninety-eight. That twenty years seems inconceivable. I feel them both so clearly. Not all of the time, but often and intensely. Pam’s mother was a beautiful, artful, elegant woman. My father was also beautiful and elegant. They were both also difficult, cold at times, remote and cruel. That is not what I remember. I remember Polly’s grace, her dignity, her expansiveness, and her fine attention to detail. I remember her beauty. With my father, I remember his humor, which was often corny, his enthusiasm and sweetness.
When my father was dying, he said that there were things he could not forgive himself for. In the ten months of his dying, I had forgiven everything. I did not want to spend a single moment in regret or blame. I wanted a perfection of love. I wanted to pour that into him. I told him that there was nothing that I was holding. That all of whatever that was, was past, and that now was the time to cherish now. I don’t know if that comforted him. I like to think that it did. What I do know is that I became a better person for loving him so fiercely, so completely. That was his gift to me, and mine to him.
In yesterday’s meditation with Deepak Chopra, the centering thought was “I am free.” I could feel that in fact I am not in so many ways. I could also feel, sitting quietly, that the freedom I seek is not a destination, but a realized perfection that comes on each exhale in each moment. Remembering that, I am free.
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