New wrinkles

Quote of the day:

The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware. Henry Miller (from Never Neutral)

Ronni has a new blog out. She had me learning, thinking and sharing at TGB.  I can't wait to see what happens to me from A Sense of Place.

While reading Ronni's blogs this morning for some reason I remember my father.

[From left to right: My father and me as a baby. In Africa, I am 18 and soon leave for Israel. I sewed that dress I'm wearing]

My father was 55 when I was born. He always seemed like a kind, gentle and charming grandfather to me as I grew up. Even though he and my mother were divorced by the time I was four or five, he saw me every other weekend, took me on short vacations and when I moved to Israel at age 19 he corresponded with me every single week until he became too ill to write in 1980. He died in June 1981.

I cannot believe that I never kept a single letter of his. In fact, the only pieces of his writing I have are short inscriptions, for example in a French-English dictionary he gave me when I was 13: "To Darling Tamar - with love, Dad" and this one at the back of the photograph below:

A few days ago I looked into the mirror and noticed wrinkles had formed on both sides of my lower lips going down to my chin. At first I gasped and thought, "I have just been way too sad lately."

But then I looked at some photos of my father when he was young and when he was older (probably his late seventies), and I noticed similar wrinkles.

Last summer I was at the airport in Israel having coffee with my son, and Trimurthi as I waited for the plane back to the United States.  Trimurthi looked at me across the table and said, "You know, I think you look a lot like your father lately." I was pleased he had noticed as I had been wondering about that too.

Every six months or so I have a recurring dream. Come to think of it, I had it a few days ago. In fact, it was the night before I noticed the wrinkles. In my dream my father comes to visit me. He sits in a chair in the corner of my room and asks me how I am doing. We talk together awhile. The dream is vivid, intense, short. When I awake I feel sadness, a longing.

I like to think that I am looking more like my father as I get older. I say to my newly acquired wrinkles: "Welcome."

Comments

[Jean]

What a nice face. Not sad, thoughtful, and with a very direct gaze - like you. Tamar, my Dad was 52 when I was born. He died when I was 21 in 1975. I feel to some extent that I'd not yet become me then - I matured very slowly! - so I never really knew him. I feel a strange bond with you because of this, although our relationship was very different (and not as positive) as the one you describe. Recently, when I was clearing out old papers, I found a writing case with a label where he had written my name and address in his beautiful, old-fashioned handwriting - pristine, not at all faded. It was a strange feeling.

[Tamar]

Jean, I am grateful to read that your father was 52 when you were born. It certainly partly explains the strange bond I feel with you too. Thanks for sharing that here. I did not *allow* myself to outwardly show love for my father because my mother and step-father made fun of him and spoke badly of him when I was growing up. I was unable to cry at his funeral. After many years of therapy I gave myself permission to really mourn and love him openly. Tricky stuff eh?

[Richard Lawrence Cohen]

Those wrinkles are the road map of your journey, Tamar. Lines of life. Here's to lots more.

My maternal grandfather -- the grandfather I knew in life -- is the family member I dream about most often, and welcome most. He died when I was 22. I was his favorite, his first grandson. (A little bit of sexism there, old-fashioned patriarchal European.) He brings me encouragement.

Parental Alienation Syndrome is a rotten thing -- one parent alienating the child from the other parent. I was subjected to it too.

[franchini]

I was thinking yopu looked like your father, particularly the photo on the right, just before I got to the comment by Trimurthi. Family relationships are so complicated.

[Ronni Bennett]

"I say to my newly acquired wrinkles: "Welcome."

Tamar - I've been waiting for someone else to say something like this since I started TGB more than a year ago.

Hurray and thank you.

[Tamar]

Ronni,
Awareness is the key! Sometimes it takes awhile to awaken people.

franchini, it is starting to be so obvious that I look like him, isn't it? Thanks for noticing.

Richard, It's comforting to realize how much you and I seem to have in common. Yes, "lines of life" - wonderful!

[Julie]

This is a wonderful story, Tamar. I am enjoying reading this sort of post more and more. The illustrations are so very apt, too.

Taa

[Tamar]

Thanks Julie. Yeah, I love pulling up my blog and seeing my father staring out at me like that! It's a wonderful feeling.

[adrianabliss]

What a beautiful, touching post - your father did have a very kind face - it is a blessing to see the familiar in a mirror.

[Tamar]

Thanks Adriana.