Devil sticks. Juggling. Kite flying. Pumpkin carving. Puppet shows and petting zoos.
These are all things I used to do with my dad, and when I talk about them, people assume I’m talking about my childhood. Because these are childhood activities, right?
Nope. Not in my world.
Dad picked up juggling with balls and devil sticks when I was in my late teens. When I was in my twenties, he designed and built styrofoam kites that spun in the air. After I was married, we went to see The Velveteen Rabbit as a puppet show at the library, and the last time I saw him, in my early thirties, we went to a petting zoo together, where we ate ice cream and fed the goats.
These are such great memories. And the best part? I was old enough when they happened that I still remember them.
Yeah, my dad could be childish. I’ve written about this before. He could be childish, and he could be selfish, and he could be very, very hard on me. I’ve written about just how much I hated him sometimes. I’ve also written about rediscovering my compassion for him after unearthing a trove of his notes, and learning his side of the story.
For the last two and a half years, I’ve been writing about a fictional version of me and my dad. My friends know these as the Aldous and Athena stories, and some of them have been published. About ten years ago, every mental health professional in my life cautioned me against writing about my dad, because they thought it would just bring me down. But I finally set that advice aside and started writing in earnest. Not just the odd blog post here and there, but a real exploration. This has let me learn to love my dad again for all his good points, while not letting him off the hook for any of his assholery. Maybe the Bill Bayley I love is part fiction now, but that’s okay. The point of all this writing is love, compassion, and forgiveness. Isn’t that the point of life, too?
I think the best part of me is also the best part of my dad: our capacity for remembering what it was like to look at things through the eyes of a child. Our ability to feel wonder at the smallest things. I don’t think this is childish; rather, it is childlike.
I’d wish this ability on anyone.