The Importance of Place
- 10
- 09
- 09
I have so many things to tell you. So many. About New York’s greatest face-lift and a seven hundred foot ribbon and dinner at the People’s Castle. About my book which continues to grow and change every day in ways I could never have imagined. About the mild fever I can’t shake and my sinister fears of swine flu. About our new home which continues to take shape.
But there is one thing I must tell you. I must tell you about my morning.
Early this morning, Husband, Mom, sundry sisters, nephews and I piled into the car and drove to the Hastings Center in Garrison, New York to attend a dedication ceremony in honor of Dad. Dad spent a good chunk of his professional career working at the Center, a preeminent bioethics research institute. It was a very important place to him. He spent many good days and good years there thinking big thoughts and butting heads with beloved colleagues and scholars. He spent many good days and years pacing a certain lawn that overlooks the Hudson.
And today, that very lawn was dedicated to Dad, named for him. It is now the Donnelley Lawn. Today the rain was ruthless. But still. Still, the lawn was picturesque and proud. Rich with invisible shards of thought and conversation. Blanketed in faded footsteps of fearlessly big thinkers. The picture above was taken many years ago. Dad is on the left. His hand rests on his left hip as it often did when he was in a thicket of deep thought. He stands with a visiting scholar. I don’t know what they were talking about. But I’m sure it was something meaningful. Something that mattered.
Many years later, the lawn looks quite the same. That tree is still there, standing tall. Now there is now a bench under that tree. One of Dad’s colleagues told me that Dad used to sit there, on that bench, flanked by our labs, look out at the water, and think. Dad loved to think.
Grieving is a tricky process. I’m not sure I am very good at it. Or whether it is something to be good at. I do remember that when Dad first died I said to myself, I hoped, that one day the sadness wouldn’t be quite as sharp or severe or strangling. I said to myself, I hoped, that one day remembering him would feel like a celebration. I said to myself, I hoped, that one day remembering him would involve more laughs than tears.
Maybe, just maybe, that day has come. Maybe ‘some day’ is today.
This morning was a celebration. A tribute to the importance of person and the importance of place. A collective realization that big things, magical things, can happen when a certain person commingles with a certain place. This morning, this rain-soaked morning, was stuffed to the gills with poetic words and rich memories and true laughter.
We might not have him. But we have that lawn he loved. We have that tree he revered. We have that bench he sat on. And we have this morning.
A big thank you to Tom Murray and Harold Edgar and Bruce Jennings and David Gordon for this morning’s wonderful program. For remembering Dad in this meaningful way. A big thank you to those friends and colleagues who came from near and far to celebrate a cosmic thinker. A big thank you to the rain for reminding us all that Mother Nature has her own plans and we are always at the mercy of something bigger and badder and more true.
Everyone struggles and...
Beautiful – I’m so glad you are healing & celebrating. Sounds like a perfect tribute to your dad.
My dad died almost 17 years ago. He was 45 and I was a 23 year old newlywed. The dying hurt worse than the death followed by lots of sadness. But in time the pain packs up and leaves and lets you remember all the wonderful. Every day that you live and love you honor your father and his life and memory.
good god almighty aidan… your dad most definitely left his mark, and in more ways than one. i wish i could have just had the opportunity to shake his hand and say, “you have a magnificent spirit in this one… this aidan…”
i LOVE how you bring nature into this piece of your writing. whether it’s with the lawn dedication, the water in the image, the death itself… nature running its course and doing it’s job is an overwhelming theme to me in this piece.
i’m in love with your sweet dad and never met him. i cannot imagine your loss and i am sorry for that.
I lost my mom suddenly when I was 25, and she was just 51. It’s so difficult to be one of the first in your age group to lose a parent. I’m glad you could find some light in the darkness of grief.
The hurt it is so big. A place where tears and laughter join. Like they do nowhere else. I wish we had a lawn for our father. Or a tree. Or a twig. But none of it would be quite him, I suppose. Instead we have horses, law books, and grandchildren. Two of whom have inherited his red hair. None of whom will ever see his smile. Or hear his jokes. Or face his wisdom. Yeah, it hurts.
I should (and do) count my blessings. I’ve lost one grandparent in my life and that’s all. So the kind of grief you’ve experienced – deep, gut-wrenching, drag-you-down-in-the-dirt stuff – is still conceptual to me.
Your dad was clearly passionate. About his family, and nature, and ideas. All things that I admire. And I admire you for honoring him here. Perhaps a blog wouldn’t have quite been his “thing” but I’m sure he’s proud of what you’re doing here – connecting with new people, tackling life’s tough topics, and taking time to appreciate little thing along the way.
Thanks for sharing a little bit of him with us.
As a quick follow-up: I discovered Heather Spohr’s wonderful blog through your friend Nic’s blog. Their story is heart-breaking and Heather has explored grief from every possible angle. Her father posted on her blog yesterday and left these thoughts about grief:
http://thespohrsaremultiplying.com/2009/10/from-bampa/
Perhaps with thoughts of your dad on your mind you will find them timely.
The hurt never goes away. I suppose it gets a little less sharp, and then sometimes the sharpness comes back and hurts more than it did the first time. I’m happy for you that you have a place that was special to you and is special to him. I have photos and ideas and books and the music that he liked and the sound of him coming up the stairs at night, the change in his pockets jingling, his not-so-old knees creaking. I can hear it anytime and still sometimes think that maybe it will be him on the other side of the door.