Part of me doesn’t even wanna write today. Part of me is a little girl today, mad and accusatory and judgmental. “They don’t deserve to know about my dad,” she whispers. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
I’ve said a lot in these pages, the posts on this blog, close to 50,000 words. I said a lot in the book I wrote which less than fifteen people have read. I’ve said a lot for the last two and a half years on facebook. But the secrets so many want, those I have kept. Those I could not and will not give away for free. The secrets my dad and I uncovered. I’ll use them to change the world, but I don’t feel obligated to tell anyone exactly how that’s done. What reason have I been given to trust? Not enough.
I’m petulant today.
It has not been easy to watch people who have not walked the walk, get credit for being able to talk the talk. Hey, guess what, a tape recorder can do that and all it needs is a couple double A’s to keep it running. It has not been easy to watch people take credit, accolades and an extra piece or ten of pie for nothing more than seduction and glamour, the tools of vampires. It has not been easy to watch people fall for the same old ruse time and time again. It has not been easy to watch people demand signs and symbols and miracles instead of being the sign and symbol and miracle. It has not been easy to watch people who call themselves spiritual, enlightened, alchemists apply self-serving principals to those who are not getting their basic needs met. Lost in the programmatic hall of mirrors thinking you found the magic key. I asked my dad, from beyond the veil what he wanted to say, and there it is.
From my father I learned duality. I learned heaven and hell. I learned love and hate. He had those words tattooed on his knuckles, love on one hand, hate on the other. I also learned unconditional love. His were and may end up being the only eyes capable of looking at me that way. Looking, seeing, knowing the truth that lies in my soul, without fear or agenda or jealousy. Unconditional love. That’s a hard, bitter pill to swallow. My dad was a monster. He did unspeakable things. Atrocious. Vile. Violent. Over thirty years he spent this way, drunk, angry, mean enough to spend a season with the devil after he left this realm, smart enough to play a game of cards from that prison and concoct a plan to get the devil on my side.
When I was little, every birthday wish, every shooting star, every first star, every fluff of dandelion was spent on my father, on getting my daddy back. Thirty odd years, oppressed by his heritage, drunken Indian the script, he did the unexpected and God answered bigly. He surrendered. From living on the streets, from being left to die, outcast, condemned, the phone call signaling his death that we all tried not to wait for, it didn’t come. Around the same time that my oldest son was conceived, my dad uttered the prayer from his previously atheistic heart that changed literally everything. He offered what was left of his life to be of service to God, “kill me or use me, if you are real, do something, because my will is gone and I give up.” He said this prayer from a curb. The streets were his home and absolutely everyone had given up on him. My dad knew that without a smidgen of will in his bones, there would be no end to the misery he could wreak. “Maybe I am an alcoholic,” he thought. “If the wages of sin are death, why aren’t I dead yet,” he thought.
The same month my son was conceived, my dad started the journey back from hell, from alcoholism, from rage, from hatred. He was rescued. Our prayers were answered. A stranger got him a bed at the Christ Center, the homeless shelter with a program for recovering addicts. The doctor gave him the surprising news that his body was in perfect health. And for the next ten years, I had my daddy back. God gave him two directives, read the Bible and give. He didn’t tell him to go to church, he didn’t tell him to quit swearing, he told him to read and give and be the walking proof that he was.
I didn’t much care for the Bible prior to that. I had grown up with faith being fed to me, went to a Lutheran grade school, spent holidays at church, but my mom had spiritual gifts, so she never fully bought the dogma where it parted from innate (experiential) truth. I was free to be my weird little mystical self in a household where dreams gave you warnings and the spirits of your ancestors were present, ghosts and angels normalized even if understood in secret or private from a world asleep to the unseen realms.
I loved God, had many magical encounters with PEACE that words cannot convey. I always had a hold of that hand, my ears always tuned to that voice, but I did not care for the bible and I was more jealous and perhaps angry at the thought of Jesus having a closer relationship with God than me, than anything else. I was taught directly, what need did I have of the bible. Welp, as it turns out and after a couple years of redeveloping a relationship with my dad, I’d get my weekly or biweekly themes and lessons directly from God, tell my dad what I had been experiencing from my mystical perch and sure as shit, he’d have been reading about the exact same stuff in that book God told him to read.
I’ve been blessed hugely. My life has been extraordinary beyond words. I am petulant because I still don’t know how to convey or share the wisdom of these blessings, of the experiences I’ve had. But I suppose, one day at a time will have to do. The sharing will unfold and I will remain grateful that I was taught the multi-dimensional languages and I will use that gratitude to keep on praying that someday you will see yourselves and when you finally do, you will finally then, also see me.
Namaste. Happy Father’s Day.