Lead
by: Mary Oliver
Here is a story
to break your heart.
Are you willing?
This winter
the loons came to our harbor
and died, one by one,
of nothing we could see.
A friend told me
of one on the shore
that lifted its head and opened
the elegant beak and cried out
in the long, sweet savoring of its life
which, if you have heard it,
you know is a sacred thing,
and for which, if you have not heard it,
you had better hurry to where
they still sing.
And, believe me, tell no one
just where that is.
The next morning
this loon, speckled
and iridescent and with a plan
to fly home
to some hidden lake,
was dead on the shore.
I tell you this
to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again
to the rest of the world.
Here is a blog post to break your heart.
I live a few blocks from a small, inland lake. During the summer months, sometimes in the morning but mostly near dusk, I will hear loons singing to the rising or setting sun. If you've never heard the song of a loon, you've missed one of the most beautiful sounds in nature, I think.
A loon call can be both celebration and lament. "Look at the sun!" or "Look at the moon!" or "Winter is coming!" or "Farewell! Farewell!" (Loons also figure prominently in one of my dad's favorite Henry Fonda movies--On Golden Pond--a film that Jane Fonda bought solely for her dad. It won him an Oscar, which would be a pretty cool Father's Day present.) Loons are thought to mate for life, with the male and female building nests together out of reeds and grasses near lakeshores. A loon unleashes its signature tremolo in response to perceived threats or territorial disputes, and as a night concert or duet with its mate.
This Father's Day eve, I'm thinking a lot about my dad for obvious reasons. And I'm thinking about fatherhood, in general. As I've said in previous posts, my relationship with my father was complicated. We were very different people with very different beliefs. Don't misunderstand--I loved my dad, and I know he loved me in his own way. We were not a hugging family. Physical demonstrations of love were reserved for special occasions, like births or weddings or funerals. As a result, I can count on one hand the number of times I remember hearing my father say, "I love you."
After my dad died, I inherited many of his nice hats. My dad was kind of a hoarder. He never threw anything out. Thus, I have some caps and a fedora that are probably 70-years-old. In my mind's eye, I always picture my father wearing some kind of head covering, mostly out of necessity (he was quite bald, something else I inherited from him).
As I sit typing tonight, I am wearing my dad's fedora. It's charcoal gray and has seen its better days. I think it was my dad's fancy hat--the one he wore on special occasions. When it sits on my head, I sometimes think about all the sacrifices my father made to raise and support our family. I have eight siblings (or had--two of my sisters and one brother have died in the last few years). Consequently, my dad worked hard to put food on the table and clothing on our backs. That was his way of showing love for all of us.
My approach to fatherhood is quite different. I tell my kids that I love them. I probably say it way too much, especially to my son who is now 14-years-old and refuses to admit how cool I am. I cry. Hug. Kiss. Tell them how proud I am of their accomplishments. If my father got his parenting style from Clint Eastwood/John Wayne, I got mine from Pa Ingalls/Michael Landon.
My father was the best father he knew how to be. He wasn't perfect, by any means. But he loved us all, fiercely, in his own way.
Saint Marty isn't a perfect father, either, but he is willing to step outside to let his heart break open for the world and everything in it--loons, lakes, my wife and kids, my dad.
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