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People who can hold grudges fascinate me. I mean the "from my cold, dead hands" kind of grudge. It's ferociously perplexing to me how such (seemingly) parsimoniously spiritual beings manage to function so über-reasonably well in this world.

Quiet and cool resentment is a total fail for me. Anger comes quickly and then it's all turned over to hurt, desperation, bewilderment. . . It's hard to let go. Usually, time along with the eventual tired old redundancy (!) of insanity (doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results) moves me on.

I'm missing my dad. He was a good man. He did the very best he could, but it wasn't enough for me. I gave up (see above). And it was O.K. We had a relationship on terms he didn't exactly dictate and I didn't exactly acquiesce to, but it was the best we could do. My resentment became like a pheasant cock dashing to the ditch. It flashed pretty plumage and went away.

With his decline--full-blown cancer and alcoholic dementia; nursing home--came more pain and confusion. But it wasn't resentment I felt during his last months. It was tenderness. It was the understanding that he did the very best he could with the earthbound life he was dealt. Considering what he was dealt, he did pretty damn well. And I considered myself lucky to be a part of his history. And today, well--I'm proud to be a carrier of his cracker-ass genes, as are my children, his grandchildren. I can take what I like and leave the rest for the owls to chew and chaw on and puke up. The beauty of it all, for me, was that I ultimately did not hold a grudge. I forgave him.

I forgave him because it was the only way. Forgiveness--no matter how it happens--is the only way to peace. I regret not honoring him as I wish I could have when his spirit left his body. There were shame issues among his family members, and I wasn't strong enough to protest nor did I understand what it truly meant to have his bodily existence exit the planet.

He was a warrior whose battles were mostly fought with himself, and he doesn't fight anymore. His body lies beneath the frozen ground. He rests in peace.

We are spiritual beings. We arrive all messy and brittle, encased in our transportation for life. We walk and we talk. We scoot along. Sometimes we float! There may be times of triumph. We glow, all health and terrific smile. . . and then we do not. We stumble and fall down and we hurt others and we say stupid, completely inappropriate things.

I am moving toward being conscious of my work-in-progress-ness. In this season of darkness-into-light, I am grateful to be a walking, talking part of the spiritworld that connects us; grateful to have the chance to make mistakes, to learn from my mistakes, to change.