It’s funny, I was out for a walk and thinking about Odin’s leg. How the one that was broken is longer than the one that didn’t get injured. The doctors told us that is common— the injured leg growing more, maybe because it gets more “attention” and care. They actually told us to expect it, the broken femur growing longer than the one that was never hurt. So interesting. 

I was then thinking about how to ‘even him out’ (even though the difference is very small and not at all a problem). Of course, my mind went right to giving his other leg more attention: maybe a massage? Some special creams? Physical therapy? Maybe just talking to it, like you remember they said in the 1970s groovy hippy movie The Secret Life of Plants that if you talked nice to your plant, it would grow more?

I was thinking about Odin, how he’d think I was ridiculous giving his strong leg a good talking to! But I’ll still probably do something anyway. Hopefully he doesn’t mind.

I was also thinking about people being kind of like Odin’s bones. There are people who grow and change and have huge dramas and catharses. The break, they get patched up. Those who have big problems, and big solutions as they heal themselves right out of their difficult situations. Those folks who cherish growing, maybe because they want to move away from pain or discomfort. Or maybe they just want to shoot up out of the ordinary, so they try hard stuff, and fall hard too sometimes. Maybe these kinds of people DO grow a bit more, than the other kind of folks…

I think about that kind of person too, the kind that everyone else leans on. The kind of person who just keeps going, day after day and keeps the entirety aloft. The kind of person who maybe doesn’t have a big story, or huge breakups, or particularly dramatic phoenix-rising-from-the-ashes narratives. I’m thinking about those who are salt of the earth, not flashy, or the subjects of art-film dramas, but the people who are like Odin’s “good” leg: relied upon, ignored, leaned on and steady. Growing without crisis. No fits and spurts.

I think about people I know. How it is often easy to see where people land in the Odin’s Bones scale of life. And, I’m pretty sure I’m the broken leg. But I can’t even say the injuries were “not my fault” like Odin could. So many times, I made my life harder than it needed to be, took unnecessary risks, tried to be extraordinary or famous, or launched myself falsely to try to become remarkable. These fits and spurts often made for dramatic falls and painful moments. Then I’d land in an infirmary, or get bandaged up by friends and take time to heal again, gimpy from the fall. Then I’d hide a while, embarrassed. 

Funny, now that I’m older, I don’t begrudge any hard knocks, or regret my stupid decisions. I am not embarrassed anymore. I have faced trauma too, but I don’t say it’s bad. It just was, and it made me stronger and pushed my head a little further toward the clouds. Maybe these things even made me grow a little “extra”? Who knows. I’d like to think the injuries, while meaningful, didn’t actually stunt me. I also like to think they didn’t tire out all the care-givers who continually looked out for me. You could speak to that. I hope I didn’t worry you Dad. 

 

I wonder now about those folks that never did fall, or didn’t fall so hard we all had to patch them up again. The leg Odin stood on, and the one with which he could pivot when the broken one couldn’t bear a feather’s bit of pressure. So strong. It seems kind of unfair that that leg is the shorter, doesn’t it? Is that how it is with people? Are they less grown, or is their strength in their ability to hold weight, more than they were meant to, and not crumble?  Maybe that makes them actually a thousand times stronger, like a rock. Maybe it makes them the fulcrum of all pivots, the place other things move around.

Anyway, I thought about the folks I know, and of course, about you. I know you’ve had some hard times in life; friends who betrayed you, parents who didn’t understand you, divorce, depression. I also know you’ve pushed yourself up in your professional life, to be something more than ordinary— to stand above and help others see that larger view too. You’ve done this really well.

I wonder though, how you see yourself, because I couldn’t figure it out. Usually people are soooo clearly one or the other, its a part of their badge of honor. But you’ve been leaned on, so many times by so many, and you’ve patched yourself up too. I hope you know that I admire that balance, the growth and the stalwart strength.  To be healed and leaned on. To keep pushing upward of your own volition, and to use challenges to get you to that place. 

I hope you know that I look to you, I look at your decisions, and I see how you chose what you needed. What you needed to mend the breaks in your faith and your heart, and how you became a person that others could see, and lean on too. The best of all worlds. Equanimity.

I hope you also know how grateful I am that we’ve had so much extra time with you since your cancer diagnosis over 10 years ago. I remember fearing you would pass that summer, and flying out to see you like in a dream, and rubbing your feet. I thought I wouldn’t see you again after that trip, and I still worry with every visit and call that it might be the last one. 

It’s hard to talk about the inevitable. And it’s right to. But I don’t know what to say, I guess, Dad. I want to tell you “I see you.” I want to tell you that Odin is healing. I want to tell you that I’ve strived to become someone people can lean on. I want to tell you that I know you love me, even though you’ve only seen some of me. I want to tell you that you’ve lived a good life, conscientious in your choices and doing things that help make more good in this world. I want to tell you that your grandkids adore you, and I know that is mutual. I want to tell you that I see how you’ve accepted them and know their day-to-day lives in a way that you didn’t when I was little, but that your mundane kindnesses and conversations with them heals me of any old little callouses too.

I want for you to know that whenever you do go, that it’s okay with me. I’ll be terribly sad, with a pit in my gut, but I’ll patch up in time, and you will be free and at peace. I want for you to know that I am not afraid of talking about these things, and you don’t have to be either. I see you sleeping, and know how you feel. I know you don’t stand as tall as before, but your bones are strong, and your abilities to face changes is stronger. You are okay with me, always,  and you are loved.

I hate to leave this message on this odd kind of note. I think it may be “inappropriate.” But I also know that you have always known your spiritual self and it is who you most think yourself to be. I see that. I am glad you stand before me as a father and a person. I am so glad you are my children’s GrandDad. I am so glad I have many of your traits. I’m glad I paid attention.

I hope you have a good day Dad and we’ll talk soon.

Love Elizabeth