The Paper, the Flashcards, and the Spirit Within

I miss the newspaper.

My childhood memories are sprinkled with sleepy barefoot walks down the driveway. Memories of my nose crinkling as I gingerly picked up the soggy blue plastic that kept the paper crisp despite the morning dew and Florida stickiness. Toddling back into the house, carefully freeing the paper from its confines, and shuffling the ‘life’ section from the rest of it. I’d hand the bulk of the ‘boring stuff’ to my dad, while plopping down in the adjacent seat at the kitchen table with my waffles, the comics, and horoscopes.

These memories dance through my mind as I sit perched in a fake leather chair, HGTV blasting in my right ear in a surgery center waiting anxiously for my dad to toddle out from hip replacement surgery.

Time is such a wild phenomenon.
While it’s constructs are completely manmade, its themes and tempo perpetuate the fragility of it all. Something about its constructs rob us of intentionality to truly marinate in a moment as quiet and routine as leafing through the paper with your father on a sleepy morning before he shuffles you to school. On the mundane car ride he haphazardly flips through your hastily scribbled out flashcards, quizzing confidence into your Spanish-challenged soul before a daunting quiz.

After four years of Spanish do you think I retained a thing?

Nope.

Did I pass every year with As and Bs?

Yep.

How?

The dutiful and lighthearted commitment of my sweet Papa on these drives to school. He was just as foreign language challenged as I was (and still am), so his meanderings through the pronunciation of words made it impossible to fight a smile and helped my perfectionistic soul not take life so seriously.

This surgery is my first, existential reminder of the fragility of my parents. As amorously privileged as this is, my parents have been projected as invincible superhumans within my narrative. What a blessing it is that it took thirty-one years for the realization that my Papa is undeniably as human as I am.

But still, big yikes.

Spirit oozes from my father, the legacy of those before him ebb and flow from his wisdom. Even when faced with debilitating pain, you’d never known the toll. His dedication to fatherhood has been unwavering, yet untraditional. Just as his father danced to the melodies of time without a desire to control it, my father danced to the melodies of raising a daughter. His grip on my will never tightened. His voice never rose. Fear was never a part of enforcing the rules.

Somehow, along the journey of time, my Papa shared the spirit within the tempo of time’s gift. He showed me how to soak into the small moments, lean into gratitude of joys big and small, and to never underestimate the power of a genuine smile.

Today, and so many days before it, he’s tap dancing to the melody of fearlessness. Because at the heart of it all, fear distracts our spirit from the gifts of time.

When we lead with fear, we sidestep the beauty in the journey. The bravery of our growth. We deny ourselves the opportunity to see the beauty in all the unusual places.

So, here’s your reminder to reacquaint yourself with the quiet moments. The subtle ones that fly under the radar due to our own daunting tasks of time. Shake off the tradition of fear and stress to conform to constructs that inevitably wear out our spirits.
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Smile at the silly.
(Like bears!)
Seek out the comics.
Feel it to heal it.
And look for the beauty. It’s out there, I pinky promise.