A Eulogy For My Father: On Dad, and Bleeding

A Hemingway quote leapt to mind earlier this morning while sitting quietly in the pre-dawn, wondering how on earth I could possibly eulogize my father. When asked about the rigors of writing, Ernest is said to have replied, “Oh, there is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

  I don’t like bleeding, so that probably explains why I have postponed this necessary moment of quieting the noise and thinking pointedly about my father. It’s hard to be still and purposeful in my remembrance of him because I have so much to say and all of it comes with such varied feeling. He was a complex man and complexity doesn’t sift terribly well.

         As a warm up, I’ll start with the easy stuff first. This past June, in my last Father’s Day card to him, I wrote the following: you taught me to value each of the things that make my life most meaningful: a deep love for music, literature, writing and education; a fierce loyalty to family; an abiding affection for New England and her history; the intrinsic morality in honesty and integrity; the determination to be a woman of my word; and the willingness to be thoughtful, even when I am sure that I am right and everyone else is wrong.

  All easy parenting stuff, right?

  As a man, my father was exacting at the same time that he was forgiving; stubborn even while yielding; and somehow most deeply alive in those moments that ushered in great sadness. If any of you were lucky enough to observe him as he listened to classical music, you will know exactly what I mean. As children during those years when we drove endlessly back and forth from his house in Vermont to our mother’s house in Maine, he would sometimes pull the car over to the side of the road so that he could listen deliberately and …well…feel. He allowed himself to be overwhelmed and, in so doing, he effectively taught me how to feel. Or, in the words of Hemingway, he taught me how to bleed.

  We all bleed with emotion from time to time. Few of us can escape passion altogether which, if we’re fortunate enough to think carefully,  makes each of us very lucky indeed – especially when the feeling hurts.

  In the end, perhaps what my father did best was feel and then think about his feeling. He had deep wells of emotion and deep reservoirs of thought – most of them dignified, others less so. But in his determination to feel and then reflect – whether based on emotions born of his own experiences or of those gleaned from a novel, a beloved painting or a particular composition -  he taught me how to properly feel and then, as I like to do through writing, go think about it.

  One of our shared favorite authors, Flannery O’Conner, once said “I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say.” For me, the exercise of feeling and then thinking about that feeling is an act of reflection – and reflection, when you drill right into it, really underscores an innate desire to do and to be better.

Of the many things my father endeavored to be, top among them was the goal of remaining an open and reflective man. Like anyone would, he stumbled on occasion, but I believe he ultimately succeeded in his endeavor and I hope that I will, too.

So, for having been handed the courage to sit down and bleed, and for having had the opportunity to witness a man who devoted himself to reconsidering each of his conclusions – even when he was quite married to them - I have the most profound debt of gratitude.