Who Dad?!

Fathering

Sitting on a bench behind the tee box on the 6th hole at Skyline Country Club, wondering how to begin this telling. I'm done talking about the birth mother who wanted to be rid of me. And enough has been said about my adoptive mom who was too ill to care for me. So, yeah, I was one who searched for something in women to complete me. Eventually, and without even realizing it, I became a random mom to others. (I guess we all give what we most desire.)

The hardest words for me to say were, "I belong" and so I became someone who connected to others through their pain, not mine.

For many years one might find me sidling up to some bar offering a friendly ear, watching another's tears fall into beers, and unwittingly getting caught up in their sticky aftermath. I had learned about bars and bar behavior from the father who raised me, but must have missed some essential lesson. I somewhat kiddingly called myself a Sticky Karma Barstool Mama.

Here was the dilemma: every meaningful, life-changing event unfolded from saying yes to something previously unseen, materializing right in the way of where I thought I was headed. Surprise and jubilation often came from such intertwining connections with others, but I also lost myself in taking care of people or of things that should not have been solely my responsibility.

My original solution was simply to move on when things got too sticky. Once I became a father myself, the accumulation of other people's problems (from staying in one place) eventually revealed to me my self-destructive patterns. I had to choose which of my fathers' paths to follow. Disappear like the sperm-giver, or choose to be like the visible one, the one who stayed and tried to learn how to love.

And, so here I am on this bench looking up at the front range of the Santa Catalina Mountains and then down at Tucson below. Yes, it still surprises me, and others, that someone like me would be a member at a country club. (Certainly, the bar for applicants has been significantly lowered.) But, stranger still, is my own willingness to belong. I wish the father who raised me had lived long enough to join me here. He would have loved it.

As it is, my 31 year old son, Ryan, often does meet me here. He is a tennis coach by day; EDM (electronic dance music) DJ by night. We enjoy each other's company and for that I am truly grateful.

Today, looking around, and with notebook instead of golf clubs, I am in touch with something familiar: the need for sanctuary and a place for visioning, but a more comfortable, older man's version.

When this body was younger, tougher, more agile and flexible, the mountain ranges of the Southwest were my gymnasiums, playgrounds, and sacred retreat locations. I'd travel light. Often with just a canteen strapped to my back — plus an orange and a Swiss army knife in the pockets of army green fatigues — I'd pick routes that appealed to my eye, rather than follow any marked trail. I'd test myself on rock, climbing and scrambling my way to peaks and vistas.

The challenge, focus, and exertion liberated something, allowing me to be more present, think more clearly.

From high above, not only possible return paths would be revealed, but also a parallel perspective on how to navigate current situations in my life.

Almost always done alone, back in the day before cell phones, there was an added danger. Since I never knew where I'd be, no one else did either. One misstep could have been fatal. Certainly, there were times when I thought I was a goner. And many cold nights when I'd bury myself in sand and leaves to stay warm because I had misjudged sunset.

Once I had made a difficult climb knowing that, without equipment, I would need to find a different way down. Instead, I wound up on a dead end ledge. I sat there quite a long time contemplating options and wondering if I had a death wish. I remember singing something, but not exactly what. Might have laughed at myself, too, to keep the fear at bay.

Finally, I made the insane choice of jumping backwards down into a Saguaro. The desert velcro of cactus needles, kept me from tumbling to a rocky death.

Painfully grateful and wounded, I stumbled the rest of the way back to the known. However, I was also reanimated from feeling so directly the intense passion and desire to live.

These days, I don't need anything quite that violent to stir myself awake. Death is close enough. It has already taken many of my peers. Perhaps that is why I am drawn to the company of others my age and older. We share this vigil. Whether we speak of it or not.

I can be overwhelmed by only a handful of unanswered emails, yet crestfallen when there are none. I can regret a plan seconds after making it, crave empty space on the calendar, then be restless within it.

Even as I write these words I ask myself what I want. I note a hunger, disguised by my stomach, a taste for something still unknown to me.

Dare I let go of all that fills a day, venture forth into the ever-emerging ever-receding moment, naked of desire, to meet anything/everything/nothing with welcoming attention, acceptance, appreciation?

As a young child I was a bit shy and introverted. I liked inventing and playing my own games and keeping to myself.

Two things saved me from getting lost there: my adoptive father was an extrovert, and, I was good at sports. Always getting picked early for whatever team turned naturally into a kind of popularity. And, since my dad modeled a way to be in the spotlight, I knew how to act when there. Still, I didn't seek it, nor did I go out of my way to join anything, including any organized sports.

However, in Chicago in the Fifties and Sixties, street gangs ruled. If you weren't in one, you really couldn't go anywhere. Somehow, before I was even in high school, I found myself in a "club" called the Spartans.

We wore black and gold jackets that said "Spartans". Each member bought his from a previous Spartan. Where it all started, I have no idea. But, we were the last of the Spartans.

As the influence of rock and roll, and marijuana, made its way into the neighborhoods, guys started getting high rather than drunk. As a result, on the north-side of the city, the gangs faded out. Instead of rumbles, with bats and chains — never guns! — we'd meet in the parks with the gals and do silly things like (honest to God) play Red Rover! Laughter instead of anger and pain. Imagine that. Being funny, rather than being tough, became what was cool.

I am almost as grateful for that sea change as for not having my number called in the draft for Vietnam.

Fifty-some years later, just recently at the club, I again donned a uniform and joined a group doing battle. Red vs. Blue, a la the Ryder Cup. Sixteen on each side, playing both partnered and singles matches. It was a lot of golf.

As each group finished on Sunday, they'd join the others waiting around the 18th green. Only the overall team scores were displayed. Cheering and back slapping for the winners, but also hand-shaking, respect, and compliments all around.

Afterwards at lunch, red and blue at the same tables, telling tales, buying each other drinks, I missed my father more than ever. He was the reason a guy like me was invited to and included in such an event. Underneath my blue Skyline Cup shirt, I wore his t-shirt commemorating his World War II bomber squadron. He was proud to belong. I'm still learning how to belong.