My father was born eighty-two years ago today. He died almost thirteen years ago, still so young and vibrant that I have trouble imagining him as an eighty-two year old man.
I’ve just finished writing the ‘fairytale’ of my life, the culminating project of my two-year Spiritual Guidance course and my dad features prominently in it. He appears as a potter who lives in the spirit realm who both formed my own spirit and also watches over me as I go through a dark night of the soul.
He was a potter in real life and my first spiritual teacher, although I didn’t recognize him as such at the time. Very early on, shortly after the birth of my first child, he began initiating conversations about parenthood, our relationship, and about life. Existential conversations. Conversations that examined the whys of decisions made in my childhood and how those decisions affected my life. We probed and questioned. He showed me how to take a step above the ego to look without judgement. We apologized and forgave each other when we found wounds.
I learned and experienced transcending forgiveness for the first time.
I feel him in my life everyday. Even now, as I type these words honouring his existence, his energy swirls around me. He is my teacher, still.