None of my own experiences combined with what I know of my father's life make me think any less of a person who chooses suicide. In this week of unhappy reflection, I've found myself repeating that phrase a lot. Who are any of us to understand what pain another is going through, or to what depths?
My parents would have parties in our basement and the old records from South America would be pulled out. My father, with a brown bottle of beer in his hand and the always-present 1960′s fixture of a cigarette hanging from his lower lip, would slide his feet back and forth.
There are poses beside the limo. In the limo. On top of the limo. There are solo poses. Group poses. Date poses. And then a nice mixture of all the aforementioned. There are poses by ponds with ducks. Poses with duck faces. This picture extravaganza is not just limited to prom night.
I am a father of six children, not a child psychologist. So what I am about to say comes from experience not academia. But still I think it's valid. And it refers to a question that somebody asked me that went like this.
Friendships help clear our paths. Paths that were made dangerous long before that friend arrived on the scene. Friends can walk beside, share our burdens, and penetrate the gray bubble of shame and fear. No small feat.
Yes, this winter has been a really long one for you and for me. But for our kids, this will likely be the winter that settles right into that sacred spot of their hearts reserved for only the most special of times.
What early memories seem to serve is a way of understanding what life is like or about. In other words, the remembrances are purposeful and suggest that life is a place of support, caution, curiosity, or other ways of being.
Just recently -- 48 years later -- I bought myself a brand new bike. And you know what? I sing on this bike. I let my voice rise in wonder and love. My heart cries from my throat with joy and laughter, with awe and gratitude. I let it rip and roar as I pedal and explore this city that I call home.
For us, Santa has many faces and comes in many guises. And, Megyn, if you need yours to be a white, 'Twas-the-night-before-Christmas Santa, fine. That's what you need. He's that way for you. Others of us see him other ways. They all work.
We had just arrived in Johannesburg, South Africa from snowy New York City. It was suddenly the middle of summer, the garden was lush and green, and there was a sparkling pool outside our window beckoning us. All year we had dreamed of our new life in Africa.