Paths Taken

The Universe sometimes delivers lessons (opportunities) with all the subtlety of a tidal wave the day after Christmas; or, like in a game of catch between father and son on a quiet summer evening, with a stunning blow to the head.


This is no coincidence that on the repaired doorstep of my new home, on the verge of a new life, I should be examining so closely and celebrating so lovingly my parents at the end of theirs. Their story book marriage sets a standard that, as next of kin, seems only too natural to want to repeat, especially when they made it all look so easy.

Having grown aware of a tendency towards compulsive behaviors, my latest form of addiction seems to be monitoring constantly the hits on this blog, yearning for comments. Feeling so satisfied, proud and bolstered by the evidence that my words have touched others in an emotional way, your words are like opium to my aching need for approval. Equally, I admit to suffering envy to read that another site enjoys 1500 hits a day, judging those words must be that much more profound than mine.

Addictions, compulsivity, yearning for outside approval, and envy; these are all aspects of deep-seated insecurities psychologists tell us. In our Families of origins, we were somehow deprived of the love we needed, and live our later years struggling to heal from the loss. We have to work hard to overcome the behaviors that we developed to compensate. If we are lucky, we learn compassion for others in the same struggle, especially for our own parents, understanding that given their own losses suffered, they were only doing the best they could. As were their parents, and so on and so on and so on.

Without blame or rancor, I too trace my need for approval directly to the amount of love, praise and encouragement washed over me by my mother in my early and developing years. Given the wonderful childhood that is described, however, how dare I then complain of suffering damage from too much love? How can one blessed with such a creative, stimulating, incredible childhood still cry “foul”?!

My mother never made me more special than any other child should be to their own mother (like tommy Smothers, my sisters’ will sometimes disagree), but there is no doubt that she made me feel very special. In fact, to claim that perhaps I was loved too much just proves a parent's plaintiff complaint to be true: there's just no winning.

Approval and encouragement was lavished upon us with such joy and abundance, it was easy for me to believe I could do no wrong. No matter that a picnic on the side of the NJ turnpike in March was blustery, noisy and miserable, the sky was blue, she reminded us, as if we could see something not visible to the other families scurrying for shelter and burgers inside. She allowed moments of disappointment and frustration to daunt us momentarily, but quickly cheered us up and onwards (she was captain, after all) to rewrite the ending, resubmit the text, and refocus our attention (can you tell I received a short story rejection today?).

Failure” was not a word in her vocabulary.

It takes an effort, therefore, standing on my new steps, to look over at my former home with the For Sale sign in the yard, and consider the sad feelings, regrets and insecurities that I “could have/should have” done better. No matter how hard we try, paths once blending in joy seem to be diverging, overcome by hurt, anger and frustration. So proud of my parents, I have to recognize that some of my own children are greatly disappointed in the choices and decisions I have made. Even having done this all once before, and learning otherwise, I fear this "failure" would be unacceptable to my mother.

The truth lies somewhere between the assessment of my own self-judgment and the reality of my parents’ lives held so high in my regard. Although my perception describes a failure to measure up to their fine example, in reality, they loved each other humanly as well, sharing a life full of good days and bad.


In truth, they love me all the same, forgive me my foibles, and long to see me stroll on a more picturesque path. And whatever my issues, my children mostly want to see their father hold his head high, resting quietly with them on the side of that path from time to time, eyes soaking in the beautiful surroundings of their own imprefect lives, sharing in the joys and sorrows of their moments; a man brave and confident, humble and joyful, making his way, loving strongly, and hurting no one on purpose.

Doing, in short, the best he can.

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