I was spoiled rotten until about the age of eight. My mom only appeared here and there in my life, so my dad made up for that by conveying the awesomeness of ten parents! We were best buddies; we hiked a lot, went to museums, talked about life. I remember having serious conversations as young as five with him, covering topics like God and the afterlife.
I was super religious when I was five, and my dad had nothing to do with that oddly enough. There was no adult influence, we didn't go to church together. I just really liked the teachings of the bible. I enjoyed the topics Christian services covered.
His only contribution to this, that I can recall, came when I asked him a serious question one day. "Dad, is there a God?" I asked, and he looked at me for some time before answering. There was a smile in his eyes as he chose his words, "What do you think, Tiger?" he replied.
We talked for a time after that, and he went on to tell me that he had a personal way of connecting to what he understood as God. That he preferred to pray alone. Looking back, I don't think I knew much about my father's spirituality that I could verbalize, until I was much older.
He let me make my own choices, I'm not sure that he would do it again if he could, though! I made many interesting selections in life, and a good deal of them got me in trouble. Church of course, wasn't one of those. I enjoyed going alone until I was about 10, and then I stopped. That is an entirely different story. I bring up my religious nature, because it's important in this next bit.
My father loves to tell an embarrassing story about me. We were visiting my grandmother in California around my 5th birthday, and she brought us to her Sunday service to meet her congregation. It was an outdoor service, and there was also some kind of festival going on, so a massive crowd consumed us.
The preacher spoke on a stage with everyone gathered around, using a microphone to reach each ear. As he concluded his sermon, he invited folks to testify. My dad tried to catch me; he really did. I sprinted full speed to the stage impervious to his attempts, however. He was left at its edge, breathless and unable to intervene now.
A few hundred people listened to me talk about God that day, although I have no recollection of what I said. I guess I've always been like that. I'm incredibly shy until passion strikes me, then fear is no longer real. My poor father. He once told me that he thinks the only reason I'm still alive is that I have some fears, otherwise I'd find my death pretty swiftly.
My dad always did his best to give me a fantastic holiday season each winter; being so young, I only vaguely remember it all though. One Christmas does stand out in my memory, however. I was so excited to open gifts, someone had brought me a giant present, and I had been eyeing it all night.
When the time came, and I began to tear the paper from the highlight of my evening, my heart sank. It was a beautiful dollhouse. What was my problem? Well, I had this same dollhouse at home already. I wish I could go back in time, and laugh at myself as I cried about that.
How incredibly privileged and awful of me! I had no idea that a dollhouse was an expensive and extremely thoughtful gift, let alone a pain in the rear to wrap! I just thought about me. I was pulled aside and given a talk about gratitude, reminded that people were more important than things.
My dad rarely yelled, and when he did it was the most terrifying thing in the universe to me. On this occasion, like most others, he just talked to me. I always had this idea that our talks were a tactical opportunity for me to get out of trouble. It sometimes felt like a cordial battle of words. I'm sure he was aware, and fed into the notion; what a great way to get a kid to really listen!
He read the works of Tolkien to me as a child. When characters like Tom Bombadil appeared, he had a special voice. The songs of Ents were belted out in a deep and remorseful tone, he captured the timeless tiredness of a species that knows things flesh and blood will never understand so perfectly... His words were sharp for elves, and gruff for dwarves.
I always knew I could ask anything, and ask I did! I was very concerned with the balance of good and evil, maybe because I was already a massive dork. He gave me space to air out my ideas, and tried to help me along without setting parameters for me. There was just one thing he often asked of me.
This was such a theme in my upbringing, that it came up again recently. I asked my father to give me a writing prompt, and what he gave me surprised me a bit.
You see, I've spent my fair share of days being trouble. I did a lot of positive things, but I also mixed in wild acts as many young people do. At times I was a scoundrel, very much the girl who cried about a dollhouse, all grown up.
I was selfish and reckless, worrying my dad in the worst way possible. I traveled around the country for a few years, and rarely called. What a (any expletive is fine here) I was!
He was proud of the things I was doing, but it hurt him to fret about my wellbeing. I just thought about me though, imagining that I was a hero or something. Gosh, I'm laughing! I didn't lose my cumbersome ego until I was in my late 20's. I thought quite a lot of myself!
So, I took it as a really good sign that I've rectified some of that, when my dad asked me to write a response to this:
I don't feel that I am an authority on that at all, sorry pops! I do know that trying to continually learn has shaped my perspective in a way that is beneficial to my own morals.
Connecting with people who I normally wouldn't is a priority to me. Expanding my world view. This rock we live on is changing rapidly, and I believe that informing yourself is a vital step in having helpful compassion. Gathering enough knowledge to have opinions that weren't handed to you.
Really seeing one another is more important than ever before in the digital age, in my humble opinion. Many entities sow division amongst us, that is no longer a conspiracy theory, it's something you can spend an afternoon reading about on google. Google! Good grief.
It's widely available information that public perspective is manipulated, and the manipulators don't have benevolent intentions. I think Hive is a prime example of people waking up to that and saying, "Er, I think I'll opt out of this." to me, that's (among many things) a moral decision.
In modern times, I think it's key for those who care about the future to fight back. That may be keeping your wealth in non-fiat assets, refusing to participate in the growing surveillance of people, or just being nice! Kindness is such a bold act of resistance, a firm strike against suppression!
I was given the gift of information without motivation, and the space to do what I wanted with it. I can't think of many things we could use in the world more than that. Except maybe for more willingness to accept that the perspective we have, is just one piece of the larger picture.
I can't tell anyone how to be a moral person in these odd times,
but I can say that in my experience, magic springs forth when you open your mind.
The best gifts I ever received were the seed of curiosity, and the sunshine of acceptance.
I feel my thoughts on that are the best answer to both my father's questions,
and The Ink Well's prompt for this week, gift.
