My
Dad was my hero. I loved him dearly, but he was never around. I think that
might have made me long for him more, but nevertheless he taught me much about
what was most important. He taught me by his example of how to walk in
integrity. He also taught me by his mistakes. I learned by his disappointment
at the end of his life that maybe he didn’t have it quite right. Dad strived to
be a man of values and strong morals, but he was always chasing the pot of gold
at the end of the rainbow. When he reached the dusk of his life, he realized
that the pot was empty, and he was very sad. Dad ended his life with regrets
and a lack of contentment. Although he never voiced them out loud, I knew.
My
Dad thought that having money was what was most important in life. A good-sized
bank account meant yearly and sometimes extravagant, vacations and never having
to do without. Yet there was a huge price tag. He hardly knew me. Dad was what
folks call a “workaholic.” He was at his retail clothing store at least 65
hours each week. Sometimes more. He never heard me sing in a choir performance.
He never watched me march in the band during football games. He often missed my
birthday. It didn’t really bother me, because I knew that he was working to
provide a better life for his family—and we did have truly nice vacations.
What
Dad missed, though was that the end of the rainbow did not hold a pot full of
treasures. Instead, life’s journey is about stopping along the way to gather
the gold dust and small nuggets on the path. A life of contentment is not
something to reach. It is not a someday event. Contentment comes from finding
joy in each of the little things along the way. Watching a sunset, hearing a
baby laugh, sharing a meal with family and friends, bringing to the table the first
ripe tomato from the garden—these little nuggets of gold are what fill the pot
at the end of life’s rainbow.
My
Dad missed the joy. He missed the laughs and the simple pleasures. He missed them
because his focus was beyond the present. He never knew how to be in the
moment. My Dad didn’t know how to just be still and listen to the rain on the
windows. He didn’t know the exhilaration of sledding down the hill in our own
backyard. He didn’t know the sensual, almost orgasmic thrill of the first bite
of s’mores fixed over the burning leaf pile—or even the sense of gratification
in finding just the right stick to roast the marshmallows. He missed all of
that because, bottom-line, he was more concerned about his bank account. When
he got to the end of his life, he knew it. He knew what he had missed and he
knew there were no do-overs. My Dad ended his life a sad man who knew the truth
about the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
I
am grateful for my Dad in so many ways. He taught me much about life and about
caring about people. He taught me about integrity and how nothing was more
important than being honest and taking responsibility. He taught me to believe
in myself (although the lesson didn’t stick too well with all of the other
baggage blocking his frequent lessons). My Dad also taught me by his opposite
example, to gather the gold dust along the way. His sadness at the twilight of
his life was the loudest message that I received from him and his greatest gift
to me.
There
is no pot of gold waiting for us at the end of life’s journey. What there is ,
however, is an empty pot that can be filled with each grain of gold dust found
along the way. I have learned to be still and to be in the present. I have
learned to marvel at the smallest of things. I have learned to gather each
nugget along the path so that when I reach my destiny, my pot will be
overflowing. The pot at the end of life’s rainbow is not a destiny, it is the
end of a journey of a life well-lived. Thank you, Dad. I love you and miss you
every day.
