Peace Within

I woke up early as usual. It was dark when I crept into bed and tried to go back to sleep. I listened to a collection of Christmas songs but I wasn’t sleepy. Rob is driving to a friend’s house for a little gathering today and I fixed us some fake bacon and real toast.

Once I got past the age of twelve, the magic of Christmas was pretty much over for me. By then I noticed that my father was certain to throw a fit about something. We were all afraid of him. He picked on my brother the most and for no reason. I would usually come between them in an effort to stop what was going on. My brother never resisted, so I did it for him.

We didn’t realize that my father was coming down from a drug high. Whatever the reason, we lived in fear of his words as he grew more and more tense. I could see his lip tighten and would try to appease him. This just made it worse.

I tell this now because it is the story of many dysfunctional families. Perhaps my agoraphobia stemmed from this. My mother was quite neurotic but managed to be a good mother. We always had new books, clothes and toys on Christmas morning. I always got girly things that sparkled and shined.

The Christmas before my father died from an aneurism at the age of sixty, he had a spiritual awakening. As my mother told it, he saw light that gave him inner joy. He asked our forgiveness and I am ashamed to say I did not give it. I had married and moved to Atlanta at the age of 23.

When the day of his funeral came, my family was not able to attend his funeral. We had the Swine Flu and could barely stand up. I had developed a chronic cough and we were all very ill.

My father had given me a wooden music box for Christmas that played “Lara’s Theme” from Doctor Zhivago. Sometime after his death, I woke in the middle of the night and heard the music box playing. I knew you had to wind it up and then open the lid for it to play.

I woke up Bob and told him I heard the music box and I was afraid someone had broken in. So in a few minutes he crept down the hall and into the living room. No one was there. He came back to bed with the music box still playing. The lid was down.

I have told this story before but it is worth retelling. The older I get, the more meaningful it was to me. I did not grieve for my father again. I knew it was him consoling me. Rob had just had tubes put in his ears and we were worried about him. Little did I know that my little Laurie, our only girl, would leave us at the age of seven. Now as I read the words of Lara’s theme, it takes on even more meaning.

“Warm as the wind, soft as the kiss of snow
Till then my sweet
Think of me now and then
God speed my love till you are mine again.”

I loved my family; I loved my father despite all of his faults. He could be generous and funny and quite compassionate. His own mother abandoned the family when he was two years old. At five, his mother said she would meet him on a park bench in town. She never showed. All of his pain began with that first rejection.

We are all playing hurt and the holidays exacerbate this. Our wounds throb now and then as we attempt to enjoy the earthly side of Christmas. I like to think my father’s awakening was genuine. His death came swiftly and he did not have to live to see his granddaughter’s suffering.

I walk the inner path with the certainty that peace and love begin within. Again and again and again. Merry Christmas to all of my dear readers, companions on the path of awakening.

Love,
Vicki