Sixty-Six

My father would have celebrated his 66th birthday today, but I wonder how many people still remember. Every year, the seven days surrounding the anniversaries of my father's birth (Jan 5), death (Jan 8), and burial (Jan 12) have become Days of Remembrance - almost religious in their personal significance. This year is especially meaningful because it is also the twentieth anniversary of his passing. 

No matter the time and distance, my sadness always returns to visit during these seven days, like an old, faithful friend. The sadness is not nearly so heavy as before, but it always returns. 

This year my thoughts also turn to my Uncle Richard's family. I've had twenty years to adjust to a world without my father, but my cousins are just beginning that road. Every holiday, birthday, and anniversary will bring a strange mix of sadness, confusion, memory, and love. Nothing makes that path any easier, except perhaps to know that others help carry the weight of grief. 

Early in my own grief process, I would have given anything to banish the darkness and pain from my mind. Sometimes it seemed too much to bear, and certainly many well meaning friends also encouraged me to pick up the pieces and move on, but sadness always returned. I've come to realize that we live in a culture that is immensely uncomfortable with darkness and grief - either in oneself or in others. What is more, I saw myself as a spiritual person dedicated to light and growth, so even I wondered how it was possible for the darkness to cling so persistently to my spirit.   

If they would have given me a pill to cure my sadness, I would have gladly accepted. Actually, at one time, I did take pills with names like Paxil, Wellbutrin, Celexa, and Effexor, but they did nothing to alleviate my distress.

Time doesn't really cure all wounds, but it does make them bearable. Now I have enough distance to view the grief from a different perspective, and this year, I intend to approach this week with a new-found acceptance of both light and darkness. 

My friend Tim recently loaned me the book Owning our own shadow: Understanding the dark side of the psyche by Robert A. Johnson. This book essentially says that the darkness within us never really goes away, but it can get buried. If we don't find ways to honor the shadow, it comes out sideways with difficult and unpredictable results. Johnson (1991) wrote, "To refuse the dark side of one’s nature is to store up or accumulate the darkness; this is later expressed as a black mood, psychosomatic illness, or unconsciously inspired accidents" (p. 26). 

Honoring the shadow seems counter-intuitive. We spend much of our lives trying to banish, avoid, overcome, resist, minimize, or ignore the shadow, yet even Jesus reminded us: "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted" (Matthew 5:4). After all my dark nights of grief, the sun has become all the more brilliant and the blooming flowers of spring sing more sweetly than before. Was any of this possible without first passing through darkness?       

Johnson wrote, "To own one's own shadow is to reach a holy place - an inner center - not attainable in any other way. To fail this is to fail one's own sainthood and to miss the purpose of life" (p. 17).  He also said, "I have to honor my shadow, for it is an integral part of me" (p. 22). 

I've heard it said that compassion literally means to "suffer with," so this year will be different. Beginning this week of remembrance, I will honor both sadness and joy because they have given me the greatest gift of all: love.

The dry stalks of stinging nettle. 

The sun setting near the Little Spokane River. 

The sun was reflected in a pool of water. 

These fruits look like rose hips, but the plant does not have any thorns. 

Underpass

For the last year, I have worked at the Hillyard Adult Education Center, perhaps a mile away from my father's childhood home. In fact, less than two blocks from my office, the street still passes under a train bridge that my father would have seen every day as he walked to school. Likewise, I drive under that bridge daily as I go to work, and of course, I think about my dad. 

Ever since I transferred to the Hillyard Center, I have thought about retracing my father's footsteps under that bridge, but it seems like I'm always rushing from one place to the next. It seems like I never have the time to stop. However, the Department of Transportation is planning to move the tracks for the new freeway, so the appearance of the site will no doubt change. I decided to go now. As I left my office last Thursday, I walked the block and a half to see my father's old walking trail.   

When I arrived, I saw that one of the old sidewalks was partially reclaimed by nature. A young maple tree had pushed through a crack in the cement, and was now dropping orange and yellow leaves.  

At the end of the sidewalk, I was able to get a good view of the road from above. 

My great aunt once told a funny story about my father and my uncle Pat.

They were cousins, but they were only a year apart. In many ways, they acted more like brothers than cousins. One day, they walked home from school, and when they got to the underpass in this photograph, a car drove by with a group of five or six teenage girls. My father flashed his goofy, toothy grin and waved enthusiastically. My great aunt said he was always a little crazy that way. He was certainly uninhibited. 

My Uncle Pat had a different sense of propriety. Embarrassed by my father, he ditched his younger cousin, ran all the way home, and complained to my Yaya Messie, "Why does Ed always have to act that way? He's so embarrassing!" 

When my father got home, he responded, "What are you cryin' about? It's just a little entertainment."  

When I heard this story, I really laughed - in part because I could practically hear my father saying those words - it seemed typical of his personality - but also in part because it was difficult to imagine my uncle acting like a little boy instead of the community leader he is today. 

The bridge was built in 1941, about seven years before my father was born. 

The surrounding culture has changed since my father was a child. His neighborhood was always considered the "other side of the tracks," quite literally in fact, but now the area is covered with graffiti and gang-related tagging. 

This is just a simple underpass, but it's imbued with memories. I'm almost sad to see it change. 

A gas truck enters the underpass and is partially hidden by a young tree. 

The old sidewalks diverge, one going under the bridge, and the other leading to the concrete foundations of buildings that no longer stand. 

The Hillyard community has done some amazing work revitalizing the area. This tree was planted along Market Street as part of that effort. 

My father's old neighborhood is still visible beyond this old tree. 

A couple walks past a large billboard near the underpass. 

Tribute

As one more photo tribute to my dad before the end of Father's Day, this picture was taken in the summer of 1988, just after we buried my Yaya Messie Moses Haines. It is one of the few photographs where my dad and his three children are all together. 

Sulustu

Finally, this is a watercolor portrait of my father. I really struggled with this piece since watercolor is not as forgiving as pencil or acrylic. I made some mistakes that I just have to live with, but the only way to improve is to practice. Thanks again to Carole and Todd for inspiring me to reclaim my creativity. 

Sulustu

A year ago, I made a commitment to honor the 13th of January. 

As I've mentioned in the past, this week is a difficult time, a week-long series of anniversaries connected to my father. On January 5, my father would have been 65 years old. He passed away on January 8 exactly 19 years ago, and we buried him on January 12. 

It has always been hard, but then a year ago, I was reminded that life continues and that we have to be grateful for all our loved ones who still live among us. I was also told that if I observe these days, then I have to remember that the 13th of January is a day for new life, a day to be thankful, and a day to honor the next generation. Life doesn't end. 

So today, I really felt the gratitude, the love, and the connection to spirit. 

In honor of this time, I started a watercolor portrait of my father, shown above. It's not done yet, and I'm not even sure it's a good representation, but I don't care. It's a prayer in art.   

This is another portrait that was painted by my cousin Christa Garcia. Our families have been apart for many years, but she has recently found her way back. She truly honored me with this painting, but I have not had the heart to share it until now. I wanted to wait until the right time. 

Father's Day

I still miss you...

Firefly

My nieces Melanie, McKenzie, and Madelyn have their own band, Firefly. Based in Gilbert, Arizona, they have opened for Martina McBride and LeAnn Rimes. They have also performed a preshow for Justin Bieber.  They recently performed a free concert in Spokane for their grandmother's 70th birthday.

This video is a tribute to fathers.

Prophecy and Purpose

After writing my previous blog post, Rhonda reminded me that I dreamed of Dakota several years before his birth, and that I wrote those dreams to her in my missionary letters. Thankfully, she saved the letters and shared them again with me.

The first letter was written on July 23, 1991 from the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah. Among other things, I mentioned:

"I dreamed I was holding a small baby boy in my arms... All I knew was that I was given to take care of him, and the devil kept throwing knives at my baby. But no matter what happened, the devil couldn't hurt my baby boy because he was safely held in my arms."

The second time I dreamed of my future child, I wrote the experience in a letter to Rhonda from Quetzaltenango, Guatemala. The letter was dated on April 20, 1992. I wrote:

"Last night I dreamed that I was on the beach at sunrise watching the sad, blue waves come up onto the sand. I was overcome by the sadness of the deep blue water, when I saw a small child come running onto the beach. Somehow seeing that boy gave my heart so much joy. The waves came up to take him away, but I took him into my arms to protect him so that no sadness would come upon him. He had deep eyes, light brown skin, and sandy brown hair. As I held him in my arms, I whispered into his ear, 'My precious child, I love you.'"

As I reflect upon these experiences, I'm amazed to think that I saw my son four years before he was born. But I'm also struck by the recurring theme of protecting him from sadness and danger. Perhaps even then, my soul understood the challenges we would face together. My son has indeed looked into the well of sadness, but with all my heart, I strive to embrace the prophecy of my dreams and shield him from the daggers of life.

He appeared in my dream at least one other time before he was born. Unfortunately, I don't think I kept a journal of my experience, so I have to write about my dream from memory more than a decade after the fact. The dream happened sometime during Rhonda's first trimester of pregnancy. In fact, I think it was before the twelfth week because we had not yet learned the sex of the child. Based on these facts, I estimate the dream must have happened between September and November of 1994.

In my dream, I saw a baby standing on a table. I was surprised because the child was tiny, like a newborn, but there he stood upright like an adult. He even spoke like an adult. I don't remember the full conversation, but he said something like: "I want to let you know that I'm a boy, and I will be your son." He also said, "I want you to know that my name is Edward Dakota Moses." He carefully articulated each syllable of the name, as if to emphasize its great importance. Then he said, "When I'm a child, you'll call me Dakota, but when I'm an adult, you'll call me Edward. Dakota is my childhood name and Edward is my adult name."

Not long after my dream, Rhonda got an ultrasound and confirmed that the baby was a boy.

Dakota's delivery was a long and difficult process, but even then, Dakota's spirit influenced our dreaming. Several days before his birth, my auntie Dena had a dream that my dad told her to follow him. "Hurry up!" he said, "My grandson is about to be born." In her dream, they arrived just in time. She looked up and saw the hands of the clock standing at 10:04.

During the delivery, Dena shared the dream with all the people in the room, including the doctor. It was probably close to 7:00 in the evening, but Dr. Condon remarked, "I suppose it's possible." Rhonda continued to push for the next several hours, and after an exhausting labor, she finally gave birth to our beautiful baby boy. In that moment, I looked over my shoulder to see the clock, just as the hands reached 10:04 pm.

And then just a few years ago, I had a dream that Dakota, my father, and I were walking together on a road. We arrived at a bridge and my father said to me, "You cannot cross this bridge. It belongs to your son."

"Where does it lead?" I asked.

"This is the bridge to adulthood," he said. "You already crossed your bridge, but this one belongs to Dakota. After his 18th birthday, you will have a dinner and a ceremony in his honor where you will put away his childhood name. From that day on, he will have the right to be known in the community as the new Ed Moses."

After so many spiritual experiences, I see my son approaching adulthood and struggling to understand his own value in the world. I suppose every young man passes through some degree of sadness and self-doubt. It's only natural that he would have to discover his own path in life, but I want him to know that he is never alone. I love him with all my heart. The ancestors are guiding him, his family supports him, and all the signs indicate he is a man with a great purpose.