I started to write a post full of venom about the reasons why I was writing an obituary on September 25th for my father, who died on August 16, 2008. If it isn’t obvious, the answer is that I wasn’t informed in any sort of personal manner, and yes, I was angry about it. I discovered it when I was sorting through office mail that I thought was routine filing, only to find out I had been carbon-copied on a death claim response from mutual fund service department. That is how I was informed of my father’s death. And it made me angry. White-hot angry. Outraged, even.
As I wrote my angry post, I realized how hard I was working to hold the anger. It felt like I was giving control of my emotions and my life to her, giving in to fear and old hurts. It felt like I was letting her win. Anger is such an anchor, a millstone, and it has a way of penetrating other attitudes and areas that matter still. Looking in the mirror for a minute meant asking myself whether I wanted to become as vindictive as she, or just let go.
She doesn’t matter. She hasn’t mattered for thirty years. Other than her recent hoarding of this one piece of knowledge – that my father had died – her hold on us has been long broken. When I forgave him, she became invisible, and she has been ever since.
Make no mistake: I have every right to be angry with her and so does my brother. But like him, I am choosing to surrender it, exchanging my right for the ability to leave her invisible. I am letting go.
Freedom. Just like the bird shaking off the wet sand it was mired in a minute before, the heaviness gone, soaring above the waves in an act of defiance to the weight, in favor of the lightness of flight.
I win.
