Finding Compassion Unexpectedly

           None of us had perfect childhoods--we all have a story to tell.   It is good, however, when we can learn from that pain.

           My father joined the Navy when I was 6 months old.  He wanted to fight the Germans, fight the Japanese—Dad always needed a reason to fight.   His absence during his years of service was perhaps why he and I never really bonded.

            Before he was discharged, someone bought me a little sailor suit that matched my dad's.  The pictures of me sitting on his lap were very special throughout childhood.  Yet, when you look closely and observe the body language between the man and the curly headed little tike on his lap you see little real connection.

            In my wild fantasies I was Daddy’s little girl--his princess.  But even as a young child, I knew my father was no prince charming.  Why did I upset him so often?--I asked that question over and over.

            Entering puberty our relationship only worsened.  Yet, at the little girl level--that place of deepest hurt--I still begged him to love me.  Why couldn’t he?  Was I too fat?  Was I too ugly?  Was I too stupid?  All these questions collided in the most private parts of my psyche as I struggled during those teenage years.

I continued to try to please him--after my parents were divorced, I'd often cook, do his washing; even made a sail for the boat he built. 

            Later, I married, had children, and still yearned for his love--sent him letters, and Father’s Day, birthday and Christmas presents.  On rare occasions, when I heard from him, he most often signed his letters Paul—not Dad, or what would have thrilled me, Daddy.
  
            Life went on, but always the void was apparent.  I finally decided to make some choices for change--counseling.  Two years.  Two years of hard work--tears--journaling--more tears.   I made progress.  After some time, good memories surfaced--little occurrences from childhood when I saw a smile on Dad’s face.  At those times, I knew the black, thick cloud of pain that had lived with me all my life had started to subside.

            Twenty-six years from the last time I’d seen him, a cousin sent me a picture.  I didn’t know this man.  He looked ancient!  Dad had definitely not aged well!

  
             I had to see him.  I flew to Texas.  When I arrived, Dad and his wife came out to greet me.  I looked at him--how in the hell did this little man ever frighten me?  At that moment I realized his power was gone.

             I spent a day at their home.  It was a good visit--mostly talking about his years in service and old buddies long dead.  Dementia was doing its work.

              The following afternoon as I drove away, tears ran down my cheeks.  But these were not the tears of my childhood.  They were not for me.  They were for my dad--for the choices he’d made--for all he'd lost.  He had two great kids (yes, I am one of them!) that he didn’t know.  He hadn't followed our lives, never connected to who we were. 

             I was clearly the winner in this game of life.  An enormous shower of compassion for my father swept over me.  Clearly, compassion is much easier to carry than pain and grief. 

                        Only the development of compassion and understanding for others 

                      can bring us the tranquility and happiness we all seek. 
                                                                        ---Dalai Lama