“Look kids, an indigo bunting!”
My Dad swerved to the side of the road, grabbed his binoculars, and ran out to get a better look at the brilliant blue bird.
The drive to our family cottage was about three hours, but going anywhere with my father, you could count on it taking an hour longer. Any interesting bird sightings would have him veering for the shoulder.
He spotted a snapping turtle in the middle of the road once. After making a screeching U-turn to inspect the situation, he found its shell had a huge crack from being run over by a car. Without hesitating, he grabbed it by the base of the tail and walked it to the nearby river as it hissed and kicked murderously.
Dad also loved roadside attractions, no matter how hokey. We teased him endlessly about forcing us to go see the Lone Cypress — a cypress tree growing out of a granite rock near the beach in California.
We were unimpressed with this behavior. We weren’t birders and didn’t care about the world’s largest pumpkin or whatever his latest stop entailed. The cottage was waiting.
“The journey is half the fun,” he would say. Fortunately, he met our apathy and impatience with good humor.
Literally and metaphorically, younger me was all about the destination. My goal was to find the shortest and most direct route everywhere. How fast can I get there, and when can I reap the reward?
I imagined there was a finish line to things, where the journey was done, the knowledge accumulated, and the satisfaction commenced. It’s how I approached my career and my personal life. The journey was just a means to an end.
After dinner, I’d always try to rush through the dishes. Chore time was wasted time, in my mind. I could be socializing, reading, or listening to music.
Dad was methodical with the washing, while I’d entreat him to hurry up. “my parents did the dishes together every night so they had time to talk,” he told me while I fumed.
***
In my early 30s, I worked for a start-up. The most messed up place I’ve ever had the misfortune to draw a paycheck. It took a herculean effort to get anything accomplished given the complete lack of direction, but I managed. This made me the go-to person and my plate was overstuffed with unrealistic responsibilities. I persevered because I thought I was doing something important.
Around this time, I once caught Dad swinging through the subway gates at a crisp 4:00 pm. He worked for the government, so his hours were never too onerous. This was in the twilight of his career, and he was really pushing the work/life balance full-tilt. I remember teasing him about it, to which he only shrugged.
In my mind, people who didn’t make work their priority were lazy non-contributors. Because of them, producers like me had to work extra hard.
After years of non-stop hustle, I finally crawled out of the office to take a vacation. I’d been too busy and stressed to plan anything, so I stayed home. For days, I barely made it off the couch.
The weekend before returning to work, I tried to think of something fun and memorable to do. But I came up empty – I’d made my career so much of my identity that I couldn’t remember what I actually enjoyed.
Years of plowing ahead full-speed had made me a miserable, unrecognizable version of myself. And after all that, I hadn’t even made it to my “destination,” if that’s defined as a fancy title and cushy office. I was drained and miserable. I realized something had to change.
A few months later, I left that job for a new, much more sane position. After leaving that toxic situation, it took me the better part of a year to recover.
At first, I didn’t know what to do with my newfound free time. At a loss, I started going for walks and rediscovered my love of nature. That was the beginning of my journey to finding a life beyond work.
***
These days, you can often find me sitting on a park bench, admiring the birds foraging in the grass. I’m not a birder like my dad — I can’t identify more than a handful of different types, but I love them all the same. They’re so delicate yet hearty, tiny works of art if you stop to take a look at them.
Decades later, it seems I’m carrying on Dad’s legacy. I’d like nothing more than to trade binoculars with him while we admire an indigo bunting, but he’s no longer with us.
At his celebration of life, my siblings and I talked about Dad’s special brand of journey parenting from an adult’s perspective. How rare and special it was that we had a parent who joyfully gave us his time and ended every phone call with “I love you, honey.”
While putting up with our entreaties to just hurry up and get there, he must have known our adult selves would eventually reflect on the lessons he taught us. I’m grateful he got the chance to see us slow down and realize that a fulfilling life is built on more than a career.
When I go for a walk in nature, my eyes mist over thinking about my favorite nature-lover. “Hi Dad,” I whisper, as the bird calls echo around me.
These days I can tell you a lot about who I am. I enjoy a great story, whether that’s a book, a movie, or a chat with a friend. Travel makes my heart beat faster. Like Dad, I love nature and all its creatures. I dig interior design and photography. I’m in my element when I’m learning something interesting.
Oh yes, and I’m a freelancer who does market research. It’s about the least interesting thing about me.
Thanks, Dad.
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