You know that quote that talks about not going where others have but going somewhere else and forging your own path? I used to love that quote, I guess I still do, I don’t know. I used to think it was a quote about bravery – a quote about going your own way and doing so because you weren’t a little coward who blindly followed others. I used to think that the composer of that quote was awfully brave. Awfully strong. Awfully wise.
I’ve often gone my own path. I’ve forged my own way. I’ve pressed ahead where there wasn’t a marked trail, scratched my knees, taken branches in the eyes, climbed fallen trees and slide down muddy slopes to go somewhere all on my own. I’ve figured my own way around difficult barriers. I’ve planned and plotted and found new ways to travel. I’ve stood back and taken a deep breath and then charged ahead again and again into briar patches. All by myself, always by myself, and I’ve always liked it that way.
And all along I thought I was awfully strong. Awfully brave. Awfully wise. Today I disagree. Today I think doing it alone is just plain awful.
The truth is, I never did it alone because I was brave or wise or strong. I never forged my own path because I was adventurous or capable. I never did it by myself because I was independent or self-sufficient. I did it alone because alone was easier. Alone has always been easier.
I don’t know why the author of the quote wanted to forge out on his own. But I know why I have.
My father was in sales. He was really good at it. I can remember going to conventions with him when I was a little girl and I can remember walking the floor of the McCormick center in Chicago with him during shows when I was a teenager. I can remember him talking to vendors and pulling customers into his booth so he could show them the latest product he had available. I can remember him calling me over when a customer was near and whispering “Jen … see that guy … the one with the green plastic bag, see him? Let’s see if we can get him in this booth.” And then he would do something – sometimes something outrageous and sometimes something simple but always he would pull the target into the booth and make a sale. Or at least a contact. He never failed.
At the end of the show, he would give me some product … some samples he had and tell me to go try to barter it for something else. “Just go around and see what you can get,” he would say and then toss my 12 year old self out into the aisle and to the wolves. It wasn’t easy – just walking up to some vendor and asking them if they’d like to trade out for what I had. I was 12 after all. Nothing is easy at 12. But I never came back empty handed. I was always able to trade for something. Shower curtain rings, comic books, candy – the list wasn’t all the impressive but to a 12 year old, I found gold. Once, after negotiating a trade, I rushed back to the booth where my father was waiting to show him what I had. It was unbelievable. It was incredible. It was, by far, the best deal I had ever made – the most perfect, most awesome, most coolest set of darts I’d ever seen. Two colors – red and black. Each set had their own case. The metal gleamed. I glowed. Perhaps I would be a great salesperson too someday.
“DAD! LOOK WHAT I GOT!” I shouted and he did. And he beamed. He asked me all about the negotiation. He congratulated me on my victory and he let me bask in the glory for a whole 10 minutes before he said “Too bad we don’t have a dartboard, huh?”
A dartboard. I probably should have worked that into the deal. “You’ll learn, JenBen, you’ll learn,” was all he said.
But I didn’t learn. I didn’t learn because I didn’t follow in my dad’s steps. I didn’t become a salesman and I didn’t work for a manufacturing company. In fact, I haven’t done anything my dad did. I didn’t major in his major in college. I didn’t marry at the age he did and I didn’t have kids. I haven’t worked for the same company for years like he did and I don’t have the same interests. I don’t live in the same town and I don’t have the same kinds of friends. In many ways, I’ve forged my own path. I’ve done things differently. I have nothing like my father had. Other than personality traits that are frighteningly similar, I’ve shared nothing with my father. No experiences, no careers, no paths.
Until last week. I have my mother’s eyes, my mother’s cheeks, my mother’s hips. And now, my father’s cancer.
This path I’m on I have not chosen. I was picked up from where I was and plopped here on this trail. It is unknown to me. It is foreign. It is unlike other paths I’ve walked in many ways … the greatest of which is this path is well worn. This path is new to me but old to so many that have walked it before me. My father walked this road. Some of these same barriers blocked his way. Fear. Frustration. Loneliness. Confusion. He’s met with these hobgoblins that crowd out the sun and stick their big fat feet in my way. I’m no longer forging my own path – I’m walking my father’s.
And because of that, I profoundly miss my dad. I have never once experience the lonely empty gaping hole in my middle in quite the same way as I do right now. In the 20 years that he’s been gone, I don’t ever once remember wanting my father’s advice. I wanted his presence, his laughter, his outlook – of course – but I don’t remember needing his advice. I can’t tell you what I would give to be able to sit down across a table from my father and ask him questions. Right now. I need his answers right now.
How did it feel?
What did you think?
How did you cope?
What would you do the same?
What would you do differently?
What am I not getting?
Is there something I’m not seeing?
Am I crazy?
Dad, am I crazy?
And I finally realize why it was always so much easier to forge my own path. Because following my father’s – in any way – only emphasized what I already knew. He’s not here.
So.
Here I am. I’m ready to learn what this path will teach me and learn what it taught my father. And hope that each step will not only reinforce what’s missing but illuminate what’s here. I will do the only thing I know how to do - walk this road one long stride at a time.
And pray I find my father’s footsteps.
