I
have this fantasy that my parents are aging hippies with a proclivity
toward all things new age. When they come to visit in my fantasy we
sit around and have deep conversations about stuff like the
universal energy while eating quinoa and veggies. After dinner we
might hang out under the stars drinking wine together in silence. My
dad recently came to visit and reality was much different than
fantasy. You see, my dad is a throwback to a different era, he's a
country Archie Bunker and I am his Gloria. Growing up we were
constantly at odds with each other. So much of what he espouses is
just so wrong and I felt it was my job to open his eyes. It took me
forty years to get it...he is who he is and he ain't changin'. It's
rare for my dad to leave his comfort zone; Texas, Red Lobster,
Cracker Barrel, a Casino. However, he is an awesome Papa (his choice
of moniker, not ours) and for Jayne's graduation he came to
California. I was both excited for him to visit and a little nervous; it's funny how, even as adults, there is some primitive desire to
please our parents.
I
wanted so badly to bond with this man I have so little in common
with, yet love so dearly, that I threw myself on the altar of our
local San Manuel Tribe. I spent three hours in a smoke filled casino
pushing buttons on a poker machine. I am a people watcher and noticed
the other patrons seemed listless with an unhealthy pallor. I
suppose the allure of hitting it big is better than sitting at home
and watching Jerry Springer. Continuing the bonding experience we ate
at Tony's Spunky Steer, dad's choice, he loves their downhome
cookin'. As we chatted over fried chicken I tried to explain that
Jayne's new found pescatarian lifestyle does not include chicken. In
dad's world anyone who doesn't eat red or fried meat is a little
suspect, especially men; men who don't eat meat must be a little
light in the loafers. Like I said, he has a lot of opinions that can
leave one speechless.
My
dad is not in the best of health and I decided one night at the
Spunky Steer was enough so I volunteered to cook dinner at my house
the next night. I chose to make jerk chicken and vegetables grilled
kebob style with rice. I thought this wouldn't offend his
sensibilities too much. As we ate I asked dad what he thought of the
recipe? How foolish of me to assume a positive response was coming
since he had just cleaned his plate. Always true to his Archie Bunker
persona he responded, “Not too good”, then he threw me a bone, “I
guess it was ok.” This is who my dad is, I know this, and my
response was simply, “Well, it's healthy for you dad.” How close
the old me was to the surface though, as it suddenly felt prudent to
move on to a new subject as the possibility was very real that I
might fly across the table while hurling a stream of profanities at
him. Then, a few deep breathes later, and Yoga Lisa was back. I
glanced at my father cooing over my sixteen month old niece and
remembered how he held my daughter in the same way seventeen years
ago, probably my sister, my brother, and myself as well. I could see
in that moment that my father loves his children so quietly, yet so
deeply, and just because it's not how I'm choosing to love doesn't
mean it's not love. Once more my yoga is serving me off my mat as I
embrace who my father is with an equanimity that allows me to love
him just as he is. Now I will end this post with my dad's phone farewell
to me each week, “Later”.
