ONE FOR ME DA
by Andrew Williams

As I make these marks on paper, it has been exactly three years since me,
my brother and some friends laid the physical remains of my father, Louis
L. Williams III, to rest beneath the soil of his parish. I miss him
terribly today. I miss his quiet strength, his curious spirit, his
laughing face, his gentle words. It's monumentally unfair that Mom, by
default, had to play the disciplinarian but that really wasn't his action.
His work was to help me understand my mental and emotional states, to
trace the roots of their arisal and either "by opposing end them" or, if
healthy, promote them. And--for as long as he and I lived--he never
stopped working to help me see what was transpiring in my mind, and why.
Although I saw Dad upset thousands of times--usually in rush-hour
traffic--I only saw him angry a handful of times, usually over something
stupid I'd done or said. That was enough to convince me never to do or say
anything that stupid ever again. I sometimes wonder if he was as afraid of
his capacity for anger as I am of mine. Only recently have I gained a
mesaure of control over that darkest and deepest emotion.
Spider Robinson, incorrigible science-fiction writer, folksinger, sage and
punster, says "anger is fear disguised." Well, I've got a shitload of both
these days. I'm back on the old emotional roller coaster, being pulled
hither and yon by emotional gravity generated by every life-crisis that's
come along. It's at these times that I envy and miss my father's calm
spirit. It was an anodyne during my adolescence and young adulthood, a
balm from Gilead.
I wonder what he'd think if he were watching me sitting here writing this
essay. I know he'd be proud that I'm continuing to come to grips with
life, rather than cowering under a blanket, waiting for death. Earlier
this week, I pictured him and Mom, as I remember them best. They were
smiling at me, love shining in their eyes. Whether I imagined that I was
seeing and talking with them--or not--is unimportant. Even the strongest
individuals have their moments, moments of wondering "Who will care for me
now?" In one sense, I feel surrounded by loving friends. In another, I
feel totally alone, alienated by the stress in my life which, I'm often
convinced, no one can possibly understand. And of course that's untrue.
But sitting alone in the house I grew up in, such thoughts easily slip
inside my mind.
So. Three years elapsed. I am moved to paraphrase the inspiring words of
an anonymous civil rights worker: I ain't where I ought to be, and I ain't
where I want to be. But thank God I ain't where I was! And I do, because
where I was wasn't good. Where I am right now, as stressful and painful as
it is, is better, because I can look my pain in the eye and grok its
dimensions and feel its depths without being overwhelmed to the point of
paralysis. Life, after all, is only a moment in cosmos time, but what
grand things may come in that moment: constellations in a clear night sky,
a man's or woman's mouth in yours, the happy cries of a baby, the
bull-throated roar of a Harley, the mathematically harmonious and
spiritually uplifting compositions of Johann Sebastian Bach. That's the
short version: you and I, dear twisted reader, could extend it until its
length rivals that of Santa's delibvery list.
Put country simple, it is good to be alive. Even when to be alive is
painful, because pain contains within itself the seed of joy just as
depression--properly understood and expressed--holds a seed of happiness.
Looking back, I seem to have struck a balance between memorializing my
father and self-examination. And in so doing, I have come to feel more
like a living, loving, breathing human being and less like a robot
programmed to self-destruct. And that, I firmly insist, is a very good
thing. I wish the same for every being on this planet and every being in
the universe. May love light all your paths, if you so will it.

Copyright 2003 by Andrew Williams. Free to forward with attribution.