Tuesday, January 8, 2019

Readjusting the View

One of the first posts I wrote for this blog was about my father. I titled it "Adjusting the View" to reflect the shifting but ultimately elusive perspectives I had of a man I saw only sporadically in my childhood, a man I barely knew. I later wrote about my mother's struggle with Alzheimer's disease and how her illness changed the dynamics of our relationship. More than a year later, she is still fighting a myriad of ailments, but her decline has grown more pronounced. As one parent continues to slip away, another unexpectedly reappeared in the lives of my brothers and me.

Last summer I saw my biological father for the first time in almost thirty years. There is a strange kismet in the way all of us reconnected, but the details of how it happened don't really matter. The important thing is that my father and I reestablished ties and now have a much stronger relationship and a better understanding of each other.

When my brothers and I met at our dad's house last summer, I was reminded of just how adventurous a life he has led. An avid outdoorsman, he recounted his many trips to Mexico, where he used to spearfish, and weeks-long treks to remote islands in the Gulf of California, ventures he undertook by himself. He told us about Blue Hole, New Mexico, where he taught SCUBA diving.


Growing up, my brothers and I shared much tamer weekend adventures with our dad, camping and fishing at the lakes of the Texas Panhandle and eastern New Mexico, hiking in Palo Duro Canyon, and riding motorcycles along the Canadian River. Those experiences shaped my love of nature, and it was a joy to talk about the dozens of places we have explored—and continue to explore—as adults. I marvel at how similar my dad and I are—in interests, tastes, and sense of humor—despite our limited contact. We talked about our love of northern New Mexico, particularly the mountains near Santa Fe.


We also talked about family history and the paths our lives have taken in the thirty years since we last spoke. Spending a few days at my dad's house, I saw dozens of objects that I had forgotten about, including an old trunk from Germany, carved wooden figures, and a cuckoo clock. This latter item I didn't notice until I heard it chime, but it immediately took me back to the many times I had heard it as child, awakening on Sunday morning, knowing it would soon be time to return to my routine life at home and another week at school.

The older I get, the more I appreciate how precious time is and how quickly it passes. Last May when I told some of my friends about the upcoming reunion, one of them asked if I intended to inquire about what had caused the estrangement, and another thought I should get an apology. I neither expected nor wanted an apology and knew there was nothing to be gained in asking questions about the past; my suspicion is that there are no easy answers about what happened.


The only time that really matters is now—this moment typing away at a keyboard, listening to Debussy in the background, watching the cold January rain hit my window. In this moment I am thinking about the father I once lost, then found, about the last time I saw him, which was less than a week ago, and about the next time I see him, which, no doubt, will be sooner than I can imagine.