“I want you to get into the deep, beautiful melancholy of everything that’s happened.” –Elizabethtown

     I feel like this is exactly what has been forced upon my emotional state of late, and let me tell you, it is not pretty. To be forced to deal with the deluge of pain and change and fear and, frankly, crap, that has been thrown my way is not an easy thing (most especially for a non-confrontational avoider such as yours truly). But the death of a parent is not something that one can easily ignore for long; it somehow seeps into the very marrow of your everyday life, thought, and interaction, even if you do not realize it is happening. I feel like this is especially true even though, or possibly, because, I had a troubled relationship with my father, it makes his death all the more difficult to process, and so much easier to avoid thinking about at all. UNTIL those lovely moments of break down where it all catches up and catches me off-guard. I can’t help but think of that Dane Cook sketch “Crying” where he describes this experience as the world just surprising you by tapping you on the shoulder and all of a sudden “I’m the world and I need to tell you something: you’re gonna C-R-Y."

   

     This is me moment-to-moment lately, and it feels like I have no idea why this is happening, and then I remember, and I have to tell myself: your father just died, this is allowed.

     How do you mourn such a difficult man? A man who antagonized every person he ever met. A man who did whatever he wanted no matter the cost to those around him. A man who never once took on the responsibility or, dare I say it, the blame, for any mistake he made. A man who took the initiative to do the things he was interested in, the things he wanted to do, and lived. A man who studied well, to an obsessive point, and was a wealth of knowledge. A man who helped to bring me into this world. A man, who,despite all his faults, I can say with confidence, loved me. A man who I loved and hated in equal measure. My father, David Albert Hope.

     I have been watching “Elizabethtown” a lot lately. It is a great film that really perfectly (and quirkily) puts into a story a lot of the things one faces at the loss of a parent. The loss, the failure at not really knowing my dad and not patching up what we had between us. Most of all this film forms a sort of perfect  release, as I  have not really found any sort of closure in his death. It all happened so fast. But no services were held. No words were said. Many head-tilts and “I’m so sorry”s and “how are you doing”s were aimed at me, and frankly, these are terrible questions to answer and reactions that leave me feeling racked with guilt for not feeling more sad about the passing of my father.

     If I am honest, the most overwhelming feeling is one of freedom. I no longer have to have an anxiety attack when he calls me, or when I have to visit him. I no longer have to take a deep breath and prepare for the conversation that will no doubt leave me feeling like a deflated, unintelligent failure. But I did love this intelligent and stubborn man. I so deeply wanted healing and to have a “daddy.” But these are wishes that can now never come to pass. This is something I am going to have to come to terms with and as I do, I need to open my hands and let go of these regrets because there is nothing I can do about them now and holding on and playing the “what if” or “if only” game just leads to insanity.

     What I really want is what Orlando Bloom’s character in Elizabethtown  gets—closure via a personal trip with his father, even if it’s a posthumous trip. It is beautiful. I cry every time, such a great moment of catharsis.

      So, here I sit, getting into the deep beautiful melancholy of everything that has happened in my life in the past months. And friends, thank you for your care and questions, please keep them coming, please remind me to reflect and not to avoid, I need you still.

     A dear, darling friend of many years sent me a card this week that really pierced to the heart of all of these things going on in me, and, as she always does, she put it beautifully: 

  “I know the last year and a half have had more than their fair share of questions, and silences, and scrapes, but I was just struck with the image the  way trees are shaped in winter—the way the cold and seemingly barren months  drive the tree’s sap deeper into its center and forms an even stronger core,  stronger roots, so that by the time spring comes around again it finds a  different tree—steadier, harder to blow over, and beautiful.”

    Thank you friend, for these words. I pray and I know that through this season of pain and healing that I am becoming a stronger, steadier, and wiser tree, and I thank God for that.