I believe that what we become
depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments,
when they aren’t trying to teach us.
We are formed by the little scraps of wisdom.

~ Umberto Eco

The world is hard right now.
Shortening days and winter cold.
I have more questions than answers.

The annual march toward the hibernal solstice grinds on,
the earth closing shop earlier every day.
I am a solar-powered human, waiting for the light to return.

Patience has never been my strong suit.
I do not like to wait.
Maturity is living with ambiguity, my father used to say.

My days are busy now, with too many moving parts.
I worry I’ll drop a ball or miss a cry for help.
Maybe the missing breathing space helps hold my fears at bay.

When there is a break, I fret, I catastrophize,
I spin scenarios in the air.
Who can tell me what’s coming in too fast-approaching new year?

In the quiet comes my father’s calm, measured voice,
reminding me to remain present, quoting Matthew 6:34
sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

No matter what, the world spins on,
our lemon tree more fruit than leaf.
Calling us to harvest, reminding me life always blooms anew.

Beauty endures, despite the pain,
the sorrow is always there,
lurking on the horizon, even on the gentlest days.

I look away, refuse its entrance, you are not welcome here.
I do not intend to suffer any more than I have to,
said my father to my mother during their courting days.

I fear the fire that’s coming, but I feel no urge to run.
Instead, I pull my people close
as we wait for the way to be shown.

We walk, we talk, we ground ourselves,
reminding each other what remains.
Truth and gravity, love and grace can never be destroyed.

I miss my father, yet he is still right here.
Holding me steady, urging me on.
This, too, shall pass, he soothes. This, too.