For my Dad.

This post isn't about being a Bad Jew. It's about how my dad died. Well. It's not about how he died but more so about that he did die. And about how I am. And about how it's Yom Kippur today.

Yom Kippur always makes me think of being a little kid, sitting next to my dad at synagogue, holding  the fringes of his prayer shawl in my small fingers while he stood and then sat back down for what felt like a billion times on an endless day. And that I didn't really get that this is holiday about forgiveness and reflection. But I've grown up into an adult person who does truly understand that this holiday is about forgiveness and reflection, and has opted out of the traditional synagogue trajectory of sitting and standing a billion times on an endless day and has instead embraced meditative hiking as a means of reflection. And my dad was always so confused and appalled every year by his oldest kid's choice to do this. And on my hike today, all I thought about was him.

Being my dad's kid wasn't easy for me. The package of being my dad's oldest daughter came filled with lots of baggage and subsequent therapy.

There was a lot of protecting myself and keeping my feelings from him. I spent so long trying to keep him out of my life because of the past; to keep him from really knowing me and who I've grown to be. Really putting him into an isolation that I felt, most of the time, he deserved. Which is kinda funny to me now because he's everywhere. I feel him in everything I do and every thought I have. And many of my loving friends and family, even as recently as two days ago, have asked me if I have regrets. To which I've told them, "No. I don't." But the more I reflect on this, the more I realize I was wrong. Or was at least doing a really awesome job of hiding that from myself.

So I guess yeah.

I have regrets. But not the way I've always experienced regret. It's not the kind of regret that's actionable in partnership with another person. I have to make amends with only myself; with him only in my heart and not physically here and able to accept my amends. And I feel capable of that.

As it turns out, I'm still working on my relationship with him. Even now that he's gone. I miss him, even though I never thought I would. And my work for this coming year will be to have compassion for my dad - and for myself - for not being perfect. And for somehow, unrealistically, expecting us both to be.

And it doesn't matter how he died. Or if he was sick, which he was. Or if it was sudden, which it was. What matters is that my siblings and I did right by him. We gave him a peaceful death and an honorable burial. Like any human being deserves. No matter what the landscape of our relationship looked like in the past. At least that's what matters to me.

So. How am I doing?  I'm pretty sure this isn't the right question to ask. Because here's what it's like, this losing a parent, at least for me. It's like sitting on the edge of the deep end of the pool. Everyday. All day. And some parts of the day are spent just dipping my toes in the water. To cool off a little because it's warm. And some parts of the day are spent fully submerged in the water because it's scorching hot. For hours. And I can't breathe.

And after spending so many hours at the pool I feel drained, and waterlogged, and sluggish. And I've had too much exposure. But not to the sun. To the rawness of my own feelings. And then I just need to be alone. Or to watch really bad tv. Or to have a drink. And sleep. Or try to. So I'm pretty sure the right question isn't, "How am I doing" but maybe the right question is, "What can be done, if anything, to help you breathe easier; to feel less burdened"?

So. That's how I am. I'm working on filling myself back up with all of the goodness that exists in the world. I'm giving myself space and time. I'm taking a lot of walks. I'm breathing a lot of fresh air. I'm learning to be patient with myself and how to experience life one moment at a time. Because that's never been easy for me. 

That's how I am.