The Bluebird’s Gift

Today hasn't been a great day so far. Come to think of it, yesterday wasn't exactly a banner day either.

Grief and loneliness are funny things. Neither of them is ever expected. And I don't expect that they will leave upon request. I was surprised to learn that I would grieve my father. As his health worsened, Lisa often asked me what I was feeling and how I thought I would feel upon his passing. I honestly answered that I didn't feel much other than weariness - a response I expect from all caregivers who stand on call throughout a long illness.

Of course, this was the reasoned and logical answer - given the long tug-of-war battle that had endured between us. As a young boy, my father towered above me both physically and cosmically. He was "Mr. Jim" - the master of his domain and the owner of Gamble's FoodTown - a neighborhood grocery. I marveled at how he exercised fiat control over the daily goings on at the store.

I began working as a bagger and stock boy even before this - as he worked for other grocer's before becoming an owner. I desperately wanted his attention and his approval - and it was rarely, if ever, offered. I once had a therapist that talked about the gold coin every parent possesses that they are to pass on to their children. That coin is essential and important in the child's journey into adulthood. That coin - so precious - is the unconditional acceptance and approval of the child by the parent.

In my understanding of the process, I think there is some sort of cosmic slot in every boy's heart that is yearning for the clink of the coin as it falls deep into his soul. Once deposited, the unseen machinery of manhood begins to churn and turn and - mysteriously - the he grows from a silly boy into a man. The sad part of the story is that the slot is not forever open. I am sure the duration of its openness varies person to person. For me, unnaturally immature and naive, my slot likely remained open longer than others.

I know that my slot seemed at least partially open well into my thirties. I suppose the realities of young parenthood and the late-blooming humility it engenders might have even reopened a previously scarred-over and closed wound. I remember attending countless UT football games and initiating a untold number of conversations about the topic when really I cared little about football. But I cared greatly about a genuine relationship with a man I admired.

Suffice it to say my efforts never really yielded much in the way of tangible benefits for me - as I suspect I was asking for something from my father that he was utterly unable to provide. From what I know of his parents and his childhood, it was not exactly nurturing. Raised in a small town during the depression by parents who created what is now called a "blended family". They both lost their first spouses to what was then called "consumption" - due to the weight loss and widespread impact on the body before death. You would know it better as tuberculosis.

My grandfather, John William Gamble, might have loved my grandmother - Matilda. I would hope so. But, I also expect that as a widower with two young children, he also felt compelled to marry and find a mother for them while he worked long hours as a farmer. As my father was the youngest of that second marriage, my grandparents were quite old when I became aware of them. And, looking back, I never saw much warmth and love expressed between them. So, I can only imagine how my father might have been raised as the youngest of four children during the depression in the rural and poor South.

So, logically, I can understand and forgive the lack of love and approval. And much later in life, my father did write me a letter to tell me how proud he was of me. Like my father-in-law, my father was of the generation where praise of a child was likely seen as dangerous - less you spoil them and make the too soft in a too hard world.

Lisa and I have shared stories of hearing of the praise our fathers heaped on us to others - but never to us. And both of us have logically accepted that this was their world and not ours.

For me, I had made my peace with this - mostly - except for one thing I have never been able to forgive. Late in life, after a long and difficult marriage, my wife and I divorced. It was nasty and bitter - and the fact that my now ex-wife told awful lies about me and was ruthless in her attempts to keep me from my children made the wounds so much deeper.

I was forced to live with my parents and return to my childhood bedroom - which was not a happy option. But even this was bearable - at least with the help of as many coping mechanisms as I could muster.

But what came next was unbearable. Through it all, my father took sides with my ex-wife and brought back all those childhood memories of approval withheld and judgment rendered. Our relationship never really recovered.

So, you can imagine that I did not expect to grieve his passing and was wholly unprepared for the intensity of it. For any of you who know, grief and/or depression is not so much an emotion as an infection. It hollows out your belly and leaves your heart aching like a toothache.

On top of it all, the love of my life has left for a 9 day trip to Europe, and I am left at home with freezing temperatures and a geriatric dog. Thank god for a well-stocked liquor cabinet.

So, today, as day 7 of this episode, I sat at home and looked out the kitchen window into the dreary morning. Outside, we have a bird feeder that I religiously replenish - even when raided mercilessly by the Hell's Angels of the bird kingdom - the European Starling. But, as I heavy-heartedly looked out, I saw several Eastern Bluebirds alight and begin to feed.

As I watched them through my monocular, I was captured by the delicate nature of their plumage. The interplay between the pale blues and soft orange feathers reminded me of a pastel painting more than an actual bird. If you've not watched birds, it is a wonderfully contemplative exercise. Possibly only suited to the older version of me than the younger. But I am not complaining.

And in that watching, quiet and patient, I saw these birds alight and eat. Their dedication and skill in cracking open sunflower seeds with only bill and tongue is really quite amazing. They ate and avoided the starlings. The left and returned, as needed.

For a moment I wished I could paint with watercolors the amazing variation that exists among the many bluebirds that came, ate, and flew away. It made me momentarily sad that I couldn't.

But then, I returned to my watching. And I noticed that the pang in my heart subsided somewhat. I realized that I would likely never possess the skill to render the beauty of the bluebird. But, I am seeing them, and it's okay. The beauty of the bluebird - and the gift of resting in this moment is enough. It's actually more than enough. It's exactly what I needed. And I am grateful.

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