I have been blogging long enough that I face the threat of inadvertantly repeating myself. (I confess, I felt a little thrill of pride the first time I experimented with RSS feeds and Internet Explorer warned me, â€œThis feed is updated very frequently.â€ Someone once asked me about my writing goals, and I said: â€œI want my obituary to include the word â€œprolific.â€)
Today I thought, â€œGee, I really ought to write something about Fatherâ€™s Day,â€ and rumbled along with some of my thoughts about the celebration of fatherhood. But then I stopped: â€œWait a minute . . . .what did I write last Fatherâ€™s Day?â€ Â So I dig waaay back and . . . sure enough, I had written much of the same stuff a year ago. Which also pleased me: itâ€™s nice to read stuff that youâ€™ve completely forgotten about ever writing, and then read it again and say, â€œGee, that was pretty good.â€ That is, Iâ€™m told, the only way to directly experience whether your writing is any good.
But now Iâ€™m without an easy topic. Darn.
The glaring exception, as all the Freudians in the audience will point out, is that I havenâ€™t written about my own father. A basic part of psychological and spiritual work is that you unpack your relationships with your parents. Were I feeling braver tonight, I might go there. But itâ€™s not going to happen . . . ok? You got a problem with that? Fine.
Ok, ok, whatever. I wonâ€™t wimp out. Put it this way: I always really identified with Robert Haydenâ€™s poem â€œThose Winter Sundays.â€ (Iâ€™m sure itâ€™s getting a lot of hits today.) If you subtract out 100% of the anger in that poem (because my father is an exceedingly self-controlled and gentle man) you would have the tone of my relationship with my father. I sense a good, kind, responsible, hard-working, very admirable person, standing on the other side of a wide abyss of unknowing. That I love my father has always been without question. I just wish I knew him better.