During the last year of his life, my dad often expressed his surprise at my family's daily extravaganza of scheduled commitments and extra-curricular activities. However, as long as he was able, he gamely trudged through aquariums, zoos, parks and ice cream parlors pushing strollers and delighting in little smiles as they appeared on the faces of his indulged grandchildren.
But as the effort became too great, we transitioned into quieter activities at home. Who would have guessed that watering the plants and sweeping the terrace could have been such a hit! My dad did not feel the pressure to entertain the little people in his life. Rather, he was content to offer them a place where they could wander freely in his warm, but not excessive company.
What I have since realized is that while my dad goodnaturedly tended to my little ones, the person he was really caring for was me. He knew that there were no words he could find to explain the evergreen gift of quiet contentment. After watching me chase kudos and careers with tireless focus throughout my adult life, he understood that I was having a very difficult time shifting my gears down. As a result, my babies were already accustomed to hurtling through life at high speed.
For him, that pace was no longer an option. And frankly, it never had been. My dad was sent to a fancy boarding school in Switzerland at age seven, never to live under the roof of his parents again. So he was a resourceful and independent soul, unaccustomed to coddling and completely comfortable in his own company. A child of privilege, the world was his oyster. But instead of Park Avenue, he chose a Willy's Jeep in Boulder, Colorado and made the West his permanent home. Never was he happier than floating alone down the Green River, gazing at sandstone canyons and dreaming of happy trails ahead.
During my dad's last months, his memories were colored by the sweet and simple moments, not the highs or the lows of his 62 years. What brought a smile to his eyes were recollections of cannonball contests, sticky fondue pots, plaid Christmas trousers and ice-kissed hockey PeeWees waving their sticks in air. The big stuff was forgotten. The small moments mattered.
Such insight was all the more poignant as there was no looking forward, only glancing back. Finally, I have unearthed the lesson that my gentle father laid in my lap, his parting gift to me, to his grandchildren and to anyone who is inspired to remember that A Moment of Quiet is Nothing to Fear.
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