“The nature of impending fatherhood is that you are doing something that you’re unqualified to do, and then you become qualified while doing it.”—John Green

Greetings Dear Ones!

I’ve spent the crisp dawn hours this morning cuddled in a blanket on the porch, holding a warm mug of tea, and snuggling a small, hairy mammal of the doggish variety. I say “doggish” because our relationship is complicated (and he’s reading this over my shoulder). For twelve years, he’s been hell bent on convincing me he is not a dog (and therefore should not be expected to dine on anything but “people food” or sleep anywhere but smack in the center of a king-sized bed). He’s more of a pocket-sized Zen master with the breath of rotting snails. In our current charade, he plays the cheesy “spiritual” guide surreptitiously keeping his eye on the profit margin while I’m the naïve and wealthy client he manipulates for his own interests. He knows I have fully bought in to the cult of Him—No vet bill is too high; No treats too indulgent. He is happy to tolerate my lifestyle choices and ridiculous “hooey-pooey” rituals as long as all of his needs are met, which they are, of course they are. Avidly, he watches the clock so that mealtimes are strictly observed. Guardian, companion, supervisor—he’s in the shop, the garden, the barn—never lifting a paw to help but making things just a little sweeter by his Presence and his selfish demands reminding us both that we are Alive—physical beings who need touch, affection, exercise, fresh water, treats, and potty breaks.

“I’m not here for a long time; I’m here for a Good Time,” warns this guru in fur pajamas, hopping and begging for his meat-flavoured heart medication tablets which cost forty dollars a month.

“You have NO idea how good you have it,” I whisper into the fur on his neck. “I will love and serve you all of your days.” He stares back at me with silver cataract eyes that look like twin moons.

“I See You,” he says returning my blind adoration.

What could possibly feel more like Love than that?

I will do anything for Love, though the price is often way steeper than a mere forty dollars a month.

Currently I am facing the immanent loss of a dear friend who is home on hospice care, in a hospital bed in what was once a front parlor. (I skipped last week’s blog to stay overnight with her and help shear her sheep.) I have been co-supporting other friends in this deep crisis that Grace and Grief brings us. Sometimes, what Love asks of us is to Let Go of those we love and the ideas we have about how we should love them. This feels unacceptable. This feels like the opposite of Love—like we will be plunged into a world of UN-seeing all that is so dear to us. We are visually specific and tactile creatures. We want THIS fur, we want THAT smile. We are unwilling to trade. Anything else feels cheap and treasonous.

I tell my dying friend (who has been a little frustrated with those of us trying to help her) that she will have to settle for Imperfect Love from me. I’m not good at letting go. And it’s abundantly clear that I’m not always going to say or do the things she wants me to do.

“I truly believe we all have come from Perfect Love and no doubt shall return to it, but being Perfect while we’re here doesn’t seem to be part of The Plan,” I tell her.

“You’ve got that right!” pipes in Prudence, the Critical Inner Voice, torn between acknowledging my truth and accusing me of simply copping out. My dear friend sighs in pain-filled agreement.

“You’re going to have to accept our Love, as it is, in all its optimistic brokenness , with all it’s rough edges and sharp places, in all its well-meaning Failure. We simply can’t do any better, though we certainly wish we could. But, honestly, I’m not sure we are meant to. I think this pain is here to teach us all a little humility, to lend us the opportunities for Grace and forgiveness. The shattered cracks are where the light comes in, where the humor defies and defiles the fear and makes it ridiculous.”

She nods. Her face softens. We both take a much needed and precious breath. I have spent two days designing and constructing a new form of seamless shirt that she can put over her head and tie around her waist so that she will not have to put excruciating limbs riddled with bone tumor into sleeves. Everyone is delighted with the plan, especially her boobs, which insist on sneaking sideways into a gap, coming out to join the bedside party. They refuse to stay where they are supposed to. My deeply modest friend is mortified. We all feel vexation and shame, though for different reasons. She resents feeling exposed. I resent not being able to fix things perfectly for her.

“I think Anger gets a seat at this table and can be welcomed into this process. We are all grieving in our own ways and Anger is an important stage. It’s actually a Good Thing that fuses get short, that nerves get shot. It means we are Human and Human is what we came here to be. Somehow, we must make space for this,” I say.

Defeat leads to Acceptance. Eventually, we are both able to toss two day’s worth of wasted work on the floor and laugh. I am no better than a field mouse with my “best laid plans” against disobedient boobs. Impatient, inconvenient, incomplete, incompetent, “Gang a-gley” Love for the Win.

For some reason, these current thoughts of Love make me think of Fatherhood and how we attempt to shepherd the souls in our care. Father’s day is tomorrow. My son’s birthday is Today! On this day, twenty four years ago, (which was his own father’s birthday and Father’s Day that year) his father became a father for the second time.

As a seamstress, I get to observe fatherhood up close more than one might think. As Jerry Seinfeld pointed out, “You can tell what was the best year of your father’s life, because they seem to freeze that clothing style and ride it out.” But sometimes they need to make a change. There are all the fathers of brides—sent by wives and daughters or other female “management personnel”—to get their suits tailored. They don’t know how things are supposed to fit. They trust me (merely because I am a woman) to make them look the way their women require them to look for this occasion. They have no other thoughts on the subject. Then there’s the guy who took his daughter shopping in a big city for her dream prom gown only to have the ex-wife bring it into the shop with another three yards of a complimentary fabric. He’d bought a size so far off the mark we had to start over and make a whole new dress from salvaged parts and new fabric. “What do you expect from a guy who thinks this is nine inches?” asks his former bride sarcastically extending her thumb and forefinger to span three. There’s the man who takes his disabled son everywhere in a wheelchair who has me modify winter zippers so his son can use them more easily. There’s the fellow with a soft, wistful light in his eye every time he speaks about his adult son (a mutual friend of ours) living in a far off land. There’s the freshly-minted grandfather pacing in the hall, holding his teenage daughter’s mewling newborn while she gets fitted for a wedding gown. There’s another young man who wears his baby in a carrier on his chest as he tries on pants to get them hemmed. There’s the single father of three who gives his children a snack while they wait patiently for him to get fitted. I notice they are eating homemade bread and carrots that could only have been peeled at home. Grocery stores don’t sell whole, peeled carrots like that. His children sit obediently, silently munching like bunnies, until he exits the dressing room.

I love watching dads being dads. I love them as they surrender, as they modify, as they construct and reconstruct themselves and their roles within the expectations set upon them. They are just different versions of a seamster, trying to use their ingenuity to solve problems to make life fit better for those in their care. Often, they are surprised by the sudden demands put upon them, the failures they fear, and the unexpected waywardness of troublesome boobs.

My own father always says “A father has two jobs—to fund the bliss and take the blame.” Like all great jokes, it’s mostly true. (That man takes a lot of blame!) He’s also funded a lot of bliss—including five college educations and many years of graduate degrees. After he worked his own way through college—by working three jobs, nights and weekends, he made it so that my siblings and I would not have to do the same. He prizes hard work, strong ethics, and education. He generously provided a standard of living he had not known as a child, only to discover he was raising the equivalent of a litter of Jack Russell zen masters who had never known want or poverty, whose ambient level of gratitude was entitled Acceptance. How could we appreciate what he never had when we had always had it? It’s not until we all become fathers ourselves that we begin to understand what our fathers have given us.

Some men fund the bliss better than others; some take more blame than they should. Some fathers do well as Management, others do better as Consultants. Their roles evolve over time. A lot of them are, like any good Mender, just trying to do the best they can with the materials at hand. The modern identity issues are intense. They are supposed to be Stern, yet tender, Disciplined, yet forgiving, Stoic, yet comforting, Manly, yet nurturing… Masculine but feminine. It’s a LOT. And they fail. In EPIC proportions. Every time. As, I believe, we are all supposed to do in our Loving Journeys. Perfection has so little to teach us (though try explaining this to a Jack Russell whose meal is late!) Mending is for those of us who are imperfect but still willing to try our hands at Love—with hearts, threads, and thimbles, with hands, pens, or pincushions, with victoriously peeled carrots or service that winds up on the floor. Let us Mend, amend, and keep Mending.

I celebrate this! I celebrate Love that is never “enough” and yet is the best there is. I love that fathers can be anything from slobs who say “pull my finger” to the dignified guy in a starched collar, leaking a secret tear as he walks you down the aisle, or salutes you as you leave to fight your own battles. They are our champions and our losers, our teachers and our students, our coaches and our teammates, our financial advisors and our debtors. They’ll get a lot of ugly ties, golf shirts, power tools and blame tomorrow. I hope they also get HEAPS of lovely Love—in all its raw, naked, unfinished, resentful, brittle, imperfect, Hopeful Glory.

To all the dads out there—especially my two favorites: the amazing father of my beloved children, and my own dear Old Dad, I See you. THANK YOU. And I love you SEW MUCH!!!!

Yours aye,

Nancy