PAST THE MOUNTAINS

Dear Spike:

Your Aunt Kelly and I had a horrible argument today — the worst I can remember in the 12 years that have passed since we lived together.

The details of the disagreement are inconsequential. I had my say and she had hers. We hurt one another’s feelings. And thus ended an otherwise splendid week-long visit.

It took only a few moments of calmer reflection and a few quick phone messages to patch things up. I love you is a powerful healer, when you use it with sincerity.

But a patch is just a patch. Underneath, what is torn is torn.

What is done is done.

My siblings and I were always different, but we have grown ever more so over the years. And I think, perhaps, that I have grown the most different, or at least the most distant. Some around these parts like to say that it is difficult to see past the mountains when you live in a valley. To my siblings, especially, I think I’ve always lived in a valley, surrounded by mountains of my own making.

Those mountains have grown, over the years. And deep in their shadows, my valley has grown colder. It has grown contemptuous, materialistic and judgmental. It has grown haughty and hubristic.

I told my sister today that she should not apologize for something she was not prepared to change. That’s a lesson we both learned from our father. He often said, “Don’t say ‘sorry,’ just don’t do it.” I imagine you’ll hear that from me, sometimes.

So I can’t, at the moment, apologize for my mountains. I’m not yet ready to break them down. For whatever reason, I still pine for my siblings to be more like me.

And yet, could I choose, I would like you to be more like them.

So, my child, I wish for you my sister’s tenacity, her grace under fire, her spirit and her spunk. I wish for you her ability to live simply and elegantly, to walk small and dream big.

To leave a $20 tip on a $5 bill.

To see the homeless as neighbors.

To undauntedly speak in an English accent to an Englishman.

And I wish for you my brother’s loyalty, his humility and his integrity. I wish for you his willingness to be passionate in an often passionless world.

To sing in the middle of the grocery store.

To listen for the changes in a crackling fire.

To stay up, all night and all day and all night and all day — if that’s what a friend wants to do.

We all build mountains, some greater than others. Some have rising peaks that disappear into the clouds. Others are no more than rolling hills.

Whatever the mountain you build, build a small pass through which your friends can travel.

And for your family, build a tunnel.

Love,
dad