This is what I plan to read, next week, at my father’s memorial:

Dad June 2007

A few years ago, a number of weblogging colleagues and I began a practice of maintaining, and updating once a year or so, the obituary for ourselves we hoped would be able to be read truthfully once we’d died. The purpose of the exercise was and is to focus us periodically on our intentions, on the things we hope to accomplish but have not yet done. I would recommend this exercise to you, because, as Goethe once said, there is power in intention.

It occurred to me as I wrote these words that if my father had written his own annual ‘intentional obituary’ he would never have had to change a word from year to year. He always knew what he was intended to do, set his expectations low, worked hard, and achieved, quite early in life, almost everything he wanted to accomplish. Having done so, he was free to pursue his insatiable passion for learning.

For most of his life this passion for learning was his principal hobby, beyond enjoying music and the arts, and gardening, and he pursued it with a tireless curiosity and critical thinking mind, with the objective of understanding how the world really worked. His learning imbued in him a very progressive worldview, one that was out of sync with that of many of his friends and family, but which made him, for me, a mentor, an example of how to live thoughtfully, courageously, authentically and responsibly, and a sounding board for my own radical ideas. He gave me the courage to be different, to be myself, and he introduced me to the poem by e e cummings that suggested a way of being and doing that he exemplified and that I have tried all my life to emulate:

Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know,
but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because
whenever you think or you believe or you know,
you’re a lot of other people:
but the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself.

To be nobody-but-yourself — in a world which is doing its best, night and day,
to make you everybody else — means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight;
and never stop fighting.

My father lived modestly, in every sense of the word, and abhorred conspicuous consumption. He was interested in politics but cared about action, not rhetoric. He measured himself and others on what they did, and what they did not do, rather on what they said or professed. He believed in conserving, in listening and understanding, in helping others, in seeking consensus, and in striving for peace.

He told me once that the true measure of what we do in the workplace is not the physical or procedural or financial outcomes achieved in the short run, since these are always transient. The true measure is what we have demonstrated personally, one-on-one, to others we work with and for, that changes forever what they know, that gives them capacities and competencies and understanding that will last their whole lives and which they in turn will pass on to others, and so on, for generations. That wisdom has guided me in my dealings with work colleagues all my life, and with my children and grandchildren as well, and its intangible product is his lasting legacy, and that of everyone he has touched.

Through his actions and his example I learned how to be empathetic, how to listen appreciatively, the importance of honesty and generosity, and of thinking before you speak, that showing is more effective than telling, that we need to slow down and look and really see what is happening. I learned from him the importance of home, the value of writing and imagination and curiosity and critical thinking, and, in his final months, I learned from him how to let go.

He was, in short, an extraordinary father, in a world where so many fathers are dictatorial, intolerant, impatient, demanding, abusive, ignorant, tactless, lacking in self-knowledge, or simply absent. I will do my best to exemplify the qualities that he did, to be as good a role model as he was, all his life, in everything he did.

There’s a poem by the Canadian poet Oriah, called The Invitation, that’s about being authentic and which reminds me a lot of my father’s advice, so I’d like to conclude by reading it:

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love, for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon…
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shriveled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own
without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied. I want to know what sustains you
from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.

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17 Responses to Memorial

  1. nancy white says:

    Dave, lots of beams to you and your family.

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  3. Oh, this is so beautiful, both your own words, and the poem. Thanks, Dave, really.

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  5. Janene says:

    Lovely Dave…. simply lovely :-)


  6. vera says:

    So many endings for you, Dave, this past year. Your father… peace unto his soul…

  7. Dave–
    This has been such a year of transitions for you. What a bookend the loss of your father must be.

    In my hospice life I’ve heard and given many memorials. This is one of the most profound ones I’ve encountered. Thank you for honoring your father this way.

    It feels like the process of memorializing our beloveds helps us take them in side our hearts ever deeper, so that they truly do live through our hands, our hearts, see the world through our eyes, and then we in turn pass on the radically changed ‘us’ to the next generation.

    Thank you, Dave. Peace to you, your father and your entire extended family.

  8. Peace be with him, and you. Thank you for sharing.

  9. Sue says:

    This is really touching and very beautiful. Your dad seems as though he must have been a truly exceptional person. You are very fortunate to have had such a wonderful role model. Blessings and peace to you and your family.

  10. Jon Husband says:

    Thanks, Dave, for this beautiful memorial. Your conversations with me about our respective fathers have been helpful to me.

  11. Ed says:

    Condolences …

    This chapter is closed now…

  12. Beth says:

    It sounds as though your father were the type of man who improved the lives of all that knew him. (((Hugs)))

  13. robin andrea says:

    I have been a lurker for a long time, but this post brings me out to send my condolences to you and your family. When my father died many, many years ago a friend gave me this poem by Mary Oliver that I now send to you.

    Poem For My Father’s Ghost

    Now is my father
    A traveler, like all the bold men
    He talked of, endlessly
    And with boundless admiration,
    Over the supper table,
    Or gazing up from his white pillow —
    Book on his lap always, until
    Even that grew too heavy to hold.

    Now is my father free of all binding fevers
    Now is my father
    Travelling where there is no road
    Finally, he could not lift a hand
    To cover his eyes.
    Now he climbs to the eye of the river,
    He strides through the Dakotas,
    He disappears into the mountains, And though he looks
    Cold and hungry as any man
    At the end of a questing season,

    He is one of them now:
    He cannot be stopped.

    Now is my father
    Walking the wind,
    Sniffing the deep Pacific
    That begins at the end of the world.

    Vanished from us utterly,
    Now is my father circling the deepest forest —
    Then turning in to the last red campfire burning
    In the final hills,

    Where chieftains, warriors and heroes
    Rise and make him welcome,
    Recognizing, under the shambles of his body,
    A brother who has walked his thousand miles.

  14. Fergus Mclean says:

    You’re a lucky guy Dave. All my best.

  15. M Wms says:

    My father is dying now — I just returned from a week with him, almost certainly the last time that I will ever spend with him. Your words resonate and the Oriah poem may be one that I will read when we memorialise my dad. Thanks, Dave.

  16. Kevin Carson says:

    I don’t check in on my feeds as often as I should, but I’m really sorry for your loss. Everything you described about your dad sounds like exactly the kind of person I like. He sounds a bit like my dad, who I still miss after thirty years.

  17. Jay Cross says:

    Dave, condolences. I lost my mother last year, my father the year before. It’s tough. But the lessons your father passed on are so marvelous. You are the perfect exemplar of his values. All the best. Jay

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