Doing Hard Things That Don't Involve Running - Part 3
“Do you ever think about what your life could have been?”
Our coastal live oak stretches skyward, reaching out over half the length of the house. One of the main branches demanded a cutaway in the roof to give it room to breathe. Layer upon layer of intertwined limbs, crossing fingers of leaves, block the sunlight in perforated sheets of green. The tree is old, weathered, and in need of intervention. A system of cables are pulled taut to anchor the ponderous branches to the trunk. Steel girders act as crutches supporting the base of the heaviest branches, relieving tension at critical junctions to the trunk. Despite the need for external support, the tree stands tall, erect, and expansive, still drawing awe from all who take in its presence.
On the edge of the forest, in the secret subterranean world of our oak and its neighboring siblings, the mighty trees have formed a mycorrhizal network, feeding, caring for, and providing for each other. High above the ground, our oak tree extends its embrace, sheltering us with its renewable leafy blanket. Day after day, season after season, shedding and growing, shedding and growing with subtle, silent beauty, it holds true to its essence, its being, resilient to the fickleness of weather, it thrives in harmony with its place in nature.
The tree says, “I will shade you. I will shelter you.” Under the stoic gaze of the sturdy oak, my daughter and I continue our pandemic heart to heart.
“Do you ever regret how your life has turned out, unable to live out your dreams?” she asks.
I take a moment as memories of ill-fated decisions led to a series of personal hardship and pain. But regret?
“Regret? No. I’ve learned a lot and I’m very grateful for where I am now.”
“Hmmm.”
As a spiritual director, it’s almost second nature for me now to notice body language, as well as spoken, and I watch her sit further back in her outdoor chair, looking off to the side as if she is watching a conjured scene unfold in imagined reality.
“Do you ever think about what your life could have been?”
Now it’s my turn to turn my gaze to the side. I don’t look upward imagining what could have been in another reality, no, instead my gaze is downward remembering, remembering. I think about a time 12 years ago when I had made the decision to put myself through an emotional and physical repeat of what I had endured, what she had endured 20 years previously. I went through the heart-wrenching explosion of divorce with a second wife and with her half sister, 13 years her younger.
My older daughter, at five years old, had been forced to endure a tragic time with her parents. Then as a young adult, watching me face a second divorce, she sent me a card reassuring me of her continued love, her continued support. Inside the card was a quote attributed to Winston Churchill that would become my mantra throughout the ordeal.
“If you’re going through hell, keep going.”
I lean back in my chair, I look through the oak canopy, not at an unknown maybe, but here in the present. I answered her question. “No, not really. There was definitely tragedy but I can’t imagine being someone else.”
She nods knowingly, but looks away almost in disappointment. We’re both looking upward into the green screen of the oak, watching the gentle swaying of branches, limbs, the slightest fluttering of leaves.
“Dad, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I don’t want to end up like you.”
Sometimes in startling moments, within fractions of a second, you can feel the welling of different emotions and it’s as if your mind has to pick one to land on. Unconsciously, I choose curious anticipation.
“What do you mean?” I laugh.
“You did the right thing. You didn’t have the chance to choose your dreams. You had commitments you chose to honor instead.”
I nod, acknowledging the story already written.
“I want to go back to school and get an MFA. I’m still young enough, I have no kids, I have no commitments, I can do this.”
I look at her and her six-figure-success. She’s already accomplished so much more than I did when I was her age. She had wanted to go to college at a private university back East, the tuition alone was way above my pay grade, so she figured out the financial aid she needed and made it happen.
After graduation, she enrolled in a program to plant trees in Portugal for a couple of months. Room, board and a small stipend were included. While in Portugal, the program proved to be a bit of a scam and did not live up to the promises made. You’re in a foreign country, don’t speak the language, you have no job, no resources, and you still make it happen. She was able to make fast friends, they pooled their time and efforts, found seasonal part time jobs and toured Europe for several months. All without asking for help from home.
My daughter’s survival instincts rival, if not surpass, my own. Doing hard things involves making hard decisions and knowing how to adapt them to the situation at hand. She knows how to chase down dreams.
The sun begins to drop lower on the horizon and there is now a golden haze glowing around the oak tree. We shift our chairs around with our backs to the sun, facing the trunk of the tree.
“You may never have the opportunity to do this again. This is a perfect time.”
“I know!” She’s giddy with excitement and anticipation. Her eyes widen with that look you get when what you see is something more than you could have ever imagined.
Last year, my wife and I attended her graduation from Bennington College where she earned her Masters in Fine Arts in Writing. Her specialty is creative nonfiction and her work has been published in literature reviews and more recently the Los Angeles Times.
Now I sit underneath the oak tree, looking up at the weave of branches and limbs, trying to see the sky through the cloak of leaves. More than 45 years ago a college professor of mine, a New York Times Bestseller author, told me she was impressed with my writing and that maybe I should pursue getting more serious about it. Reality and the need for security were far more serious than that pursuit.
I can see the sky peeking through the leaves and I consider the arc of my life. Sometimes we make hard choices and sometimes hard choices choose us.
This is so beautiful, Steve. So many images— that tree! And that unspoken apple right next to it. Congratulations to your child- I am so happy for her, and you! I love the way your writing takes its time- you never rush us through and we really feel the meaning bloom and grow as we go. I can tell why you are a great runner- you know quite a bit about pacing and I learn so much reading your work.
Well done!! Your life experience reflects a lot of wisdom within your very beautiful story-telling! And, you raised a great daughter- congratulations!