The cold bones of winter  …
Winter’s cold arms embrace us all – from the snowbound silence of the South to wild rhythms of wind and rain up North.
We seek what warmth we may  find,  inside, with each other. We endure  -  find  resilience and prevail.  We know  in our bones
it will pass, spring will come and all will be well. Winter  is such a good  teacher  in  the human story.
My father died 2 weeks ago, I held him as he took his last breath and then let the silence after enfold me, it felt like winter.
Cold, profound yet offering  resilience and hope, we will prevail. Although he was 91 and as  they say,  “had a good  innings”,  I
am now  fatherless,  the  irony of which  is not  lost on me  – considering my passion  to help  fatherless boys.  It’s  funny how  loss can clarify  the mind but  the  loss of my birth  father has brought  into sharp  relief my  “other”  fathers, older men whose abiding care, attention and interest in me could only reasonably be called fathering.   Some are gone and some are living but I
remember them well and love them all.
It explained why the loss was, while profound, not devastating. It deepened my
appreciation of the importance of father figures in a growing boy’s life, in a growing man’s life. Resilience is in many ways
an  inner  journey but  the people who care  for us,  in  the myriad of ways caring happens, are  the ones  that  feed  that knowing in our bones, that all will be well in time. The knowing the sun will shine warm again and the world, as always, awaits our enthusiastic participation.
Within weeks of my father’s death I welcomed the birth of a friend’s daughter’s baby, attended two 21st celebrations and
am looking forward to the birth of my second grandchild this month.   Life carries on in all its ragged, less than perfect
hopeful glory.
My father was a showbiz man and we did his funeral full show biz in a theatre, singing, banjos, jokes, laughter, tears,
ending with a standing ovation.  After everyone had gone my granddaughter (3) got up on stage and started dancing. She
couldn’t help herself, after all  that’s what stages are  for. My brothers and  I  taught her how  to  take a bow  in  the  full  theatrical style of my father. She bowed – we clapped – over and over again. A little bit of spring wrapped it arms around us  all was well in the world.

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