When I was in my early 20s and in the throes of hippiedom—my hair down to the middle of my back and dressed in hip clothes, a rock and roll drummer, a college dropout earnestly seeking the meaning of my life—my dad confronted me in our living room: “What the hell are you doing with your life? You’re just eating and sleeping and shitting.”
I was abashed. I had no ready answer, but I feebly tried: “I, uh, don’t know yet,” I said. “I’m still trying to figure it out.” I felt ashamed that I didn’t really have an answer to his challenge.
But really, I didn’t have a clue. I’d never been any good at setting goals or imagining a future, but I somehow believed that there would come a flash of inspiration in which my purpose in life would present itself. Meanwhile, I was satisfied playing drums, reading about gurus and spirituality, hanging out with others who were seeking answers to the great mysteries of life. It seemed enough at the time.
Then, some months later, in a rare moment of vulnerability, Daddy told me, “You know, I should have stayed in school. I was studying to become a chemical engineer. I might have created something that made a difference, that made the world a better place.” He grew up in Penns Grove, New Jersey, about a mile from Trenton where Dow Chemical had a giant facility that made much of New Jersey a company town.
I was shocked. Daddy was a brilliant pianist and entertainer, beloved by the audiences for whom he played—everything from high society gatherings in grand ballrooms to people gathered around piano bars in nightclubs. He was a natural. As a teenager he played organ in the church where his family attended every Sunday until he became disenchanted with their piety and hypocrisy. He, too, quit college, eventually graduated from a music conservatory in Kansas City, and began a music career that had continued up to the day he expressed this regret. I didn’t want to hear the pain in his voice. I tried to argue with him. “What are you talking about?” I said. “You’ve played for so many people, made them feel happy. Isn’t that something good?”
He just shook his head and left the room. Less than two years later, he was gone, felled by a severe case of pancreatitis undoubtedly brought on by decades of alcoholism.
I eventually came to understand that, like many fathers, he hoped his son would make better decisions than they did, find better opportunities and achieve something they were unable to achieve in their lifetime. They are hoping to see spiritual evolution. Physical evolution happens over millennia, and we can be forgiven if we don’t notice it happening. But somehow, we expect, or at least hope, to see the spiritual evolution of our children within our lifetime. We want them to overcome the challenges with which we have burdened them, unconsciously, or with our more fevered expectations. To “make something of themselves.”
When, in my thirties, I finally discovered my calling—becoming a writer—it occurred to me that Daddy would likely have been proud of me. More importantly, it also occurred to me that perhaps I was always trying to find something to do or be that would make him proud of me, to help alleviate the anguish he suffered in his own life.
We inherit more from our parents than genes. Like Daddy, something in me always wanted to do or invent something great that would benefit the world, make a difference. But I now think it is more subtle than this. Our real life’s work is to evolve, to learn from the mistakes and heartbreaks, the love we’ve shared and lost, the people we’ve touched, and even to resolve the challenges our parents never quite met.
We make a difference by simply realizing who we are, our most authentic self, the person we came into this world as. There is the work, of course, but that is all about finding our way from the mind to the heart, the true hero’s journey.
I am privileged to have heard from enough people I have known over my long lifetime who have shared with me words like, “You have no idea how much you influenced my life … that thing you said while we were …” “your kindness…” and so on. At the time, I had no idea, otherwise I may have gotten puffed up and obnoxious.
I offer my best wishes for you, dear reader, to undertake your life’s path with courage and self-reflection.
Happy trails!