Today the loss of my father now gone five years slammed into me. It’s the insult of an unexpected burn or a pinched finger in the door. I’m left empty and angry at the pain.
As I age, I find there is less and less that moves me to highs or lows. Offenses that once brought immediate reaction and judgment have little effect. I absorb their assault as being more about someone else or something else outside of me. And the highs from a good movie, a get together, a beautiful gift that one day not so long ago overwhelmed my senses are warmly appraised but are processed in a more shallow, less complex place.
Deaths and births, small individual actions and the beauty of nature however pull strongly at me, shocking me as they evoke immediate and unexpected response. Responses that I cannot control. I cry with abandon at small flower or a child skipping and I am at the mercy of whatever it is inside of me that I seem not to own.
Next month a new grandchild will pull me into the unique beauty of a birth. Every birth is a fingerprint—never to be copied or confused with any other birth. I will wonder at this beginning as if I have never experienced another child entering this world. I know he’s coming, I will probably there as he takes his first breath yet the volcano of emotion will again slam into my heart. Caught up in the purest connection of all life as one—my father to me, me to my son and now my grandson—I will stop breathing as I wait for his first breath and then tears will flow that belong less to me than to the world of joy and suffering.