The Soundtrack of My Dad
The Story Behind the Story
The Holy Wisdom Monastery is a retreat center and sacred space near Madison, Wisconsin. Less than a mile from Lake Mendota and adjacent to a wildlife preservation area, it is a place where those seeking solitude can tuck in for a few days, whether on their own or as part of other organized gatherings. I was there at the beginning of March in 2018 to participate in a three-day meditation retreat led by Karen Maezen Miller, my first such experience.
I’d registered for the retreat months earlier, and kept looking at the small block of dates as a time to drop in and be still after a whirlwind year that involved a cross-country move, my fiftieth birthday, and a trip to India. In between all that, something else happened: I received a Christmas card from my dad. It was the first time I’d heard from him in twelve years.
The arrival of that glittery Christmas card came after I’d reached out to my dad a few times via snail mail, all attempts to reconnect with him after we’d severed ties in 2006. It started with a letter, followed by a few cards, and then, not long after we got settled into our new home in Wisconsin, I sent my dad one more letter. It was written by hand on a snowy afternoon, and it was essentially a goodbye. Not a “screw you” kind of goodbye but a surrender. After my repeated efforts to make contact with him were not reciprocated, I could only surmise that my dad did not want to reconnect. Although this was a disappointing outcome, I still felt at peace. What I thought was to be my last letter to him was simply an acknowledgment of my acceptance that our relationship was complete. It was also a way for me to say, one more time, in my own handwriting, that I loved him. When I put that letter in my mailbox, I believed that was it. Chapter closed. Story over.
After the initial shock of seeing my dad’s handwriting on an envelope addressed to me less than a month later, I didn’t actually know what to think about the Christmas card. There was no letter or specific invitation to talk. The only clue as to my dad’s mindset was a note at the bottom of the card: Don’t lose hope. I let the potential those three words contained hover lightly in my mind like dewdrops on a spider’s web. There was a certain kind of substance and form—and beauty—to it, but it wasn’t something I could grasp in any forceful way. I had to release expectations and sit with the uncertainty. So I slid the card into my desk drawer and I let those three words be enough.
The Story, as told in a journal entry from March 3, 2018, written at the Holy Wisdom Monastery:
What would the soundtrack of my dad be? 1970s folk music—The Kingston Trio, Judy Collins, Gordon Lightfoot; “If I Had a Hammer”, “Tom Dooley”, the song about being 500 miles away from home.
Here I am at a Zen meditation retreat, where there is much discussion about life, death, old age, and sickness. In between our seated meditations, Maezen talks about things like this. About releasing thoughts, releasing the past, releasing everything we know, except love.
Today, on my way to lunch, I start to wonder where the main chapel of the monastery is. I walk beyond the stairs that lead me up to the second floor dining area, thinking maybe it is around the corner. But all I find is another hallway leading to a meeting room. So I go back the way I came and head up the stairs. As I take each step I begin to hear voices, which is strange since this is a silent retreat.
As I reach the top, both the mysteries are solved. The voices belong to a small group of people preparing for a memorial service, and the chapel has actually been here all along. It is at 10:00 as I face the dining room, but I’ve walked right past it every time I’ve had a meal. The doors have been closed, so it was easy to miss, but now I see it is a spacious room with white walls and lots of bright, natural light.
I see photo collages set up on nearby tables and flowers being taken into the chapel. Life, death, old age, and sickness. Right here in front of me.
I begin to fill my plate with the day’s offerings for lunch—baked potatoes, salad, and sauteed vegetables. As I make my way to a table I hear music coming through the overhead speakers. It is music I know, music from my childhood. A few minutes later, I hear voices:
“Can you help me with this?”
“Testing, testing.”
Everything is muffled, as if in a dream, but it is apparent I am hearing snippets of the arrangements being made for the memorial service. Whoever is speaking is unaware they are being broadcast all over the entire floor. The volume is low, but clear enough that whenever music is played there is no mistaking what I am listening to—it is the soundtrack of my dad, and it is all I can do not to burst into tears in the middle of my lunch.
After the first couple of songs, I have one searing thought: If they play ‘Where Have All the Flowers Gone?’ I might faint.
As if on cue, it begins.
My initial urge to cry becomes a compulsion to laugh—a full belly, howling laugh—because how can this be?
If I wanted to read into this, to look toward God and ask What does this mean?, I’d say it was about not losing sight of our impermanence, of the fact that our time together on earth, in this existence, is quickly draining; that there was once a time when my dad and I lived under the same roof and tried to love each other as best as we could; that my dad’s heart couldn’t have been totally armored, because how could someone like that love The Kingston Trio?
I think of happy afternoons when my mom and dad played records while our German Shepherd Charlie napped in the sun. I am reminded that the letters and cards I’ve sent to my dad over the last few years are not without purpose, and this would be true even if my dad hadn’t ever responded; when I felt an opening in my heart to reach out to him, I reached out. I see that his eventual response was actually beside the point—that reaching out in love is imperative for its own sake. It is its own universe, its own narrative, with a perfect beginning, middle, and end.
Today’s experience could have had me mired in guilt and regret for actions not taken and love withheld. But instead, it offered an affirmation that when I feel called to love, all I need to do is LOVE. Again and again and again.