Taking Action Through Examining the Past
I can’t help but think of what my father would be saying about this presidential administration or the current domestic terrorism. I am happy for my father that he isn’t trapped in the flesh to witness this society through his painful filters. If he is witnessing all this in spirit, I’m grateful he can see the big picture.
My dad hated Communism more than anything. There was no gray area. You were either pro-freedom for everyone, or you were a Communist. If you told him what to do, you were a Communist. Sometimes he’d put descriptive verbiage before the label. I laugh nervously when I try to imagine what he would say about the Nazis, the hate groups and the Russians. It would be colorful language, indeed.
This year’s news might have activated his PTSD. As hard as he was, he was highly empathetic. He always thought about the victims. He suffered on their behalf.
My father criticized any group of people outside of his church status, age group and race, in that order. He also didn’t see his wife as his equal. He was prejudiced, no doubt about it.
Yet, he was always kind to individuals, regardless of their skin tone or belief system. He was military-and-survivalist-style hard on his family, but he never made anyone outside of our tribe feel less than human. Not that I ever saw.
He was race blind when confronted with anyone being victimized, especially children. He took it personally. It made him angry, and he blamed the government for the plight of the disadvantaged.
Yet, he was a die-hard Republican. One could say he was a mixed bag of extreme dualities.
He taught us to respect others. He would talk to people at length. He was curious and was always bringing people from other cultures home for dinner. Sure, it was to share his beliefs with them, but he asked a lot of questions and learned from them too.
He was also a decorated war veteran. Before his military service, he had been a wanderer and partially hunted/gathered his food. After he was honorably discharged, he never hunted again. He kept a weapon for protecting his family, but he never fired it to kill again, not even for food. He ate meat for Sunday dinner, and preferred peanut butter, homemade wheat bread, potatoes and beans on the other days.
He criticized those who labeled themselves vegetarians or activists. They got lumped in with his definition of “Communist.” I have no idea why. He was indeed both.
No one knows how we transmute when our flesh dies. All we know for sure is that energy can neither be created nor destroyed. It just is. I imagine we turn into what we truly are, energetic beings. Some call it “angel.” Some call it “spirit.” Some call it creative energy.
Since my dad’s passing, I have sensed that he is a fiery, electric-blue angel. I never believed in angel wings until this year, when I sensed his spirit form. His wings are as beautiful as a butterfly’s and as strong as a dragon’s. He is really something now, at least as he has shown himself to me. When he shows up, hold on to your seat. He doesn’t mind shaking things up.
I hope he doesn’t mind me spilling his secrets. I feel guided in what I am telling you. This isn’t me purging old memories. I’m through all that. I am just … listening.
My father’s DNA lives in me. This week, I hear his war cry, and I feel his courage. Confronting his dualistic views, which were flawed in major ways and spot on in other ways, is how I am going to grow, not just for myself but for everyone I touch.
I don’t know where my path is leading. I just know that I am honoring my parents and my ancestors by being the kind of activist this world needs. I am also honoring them by letting go of the paradigms that didn’t serve them, and that don’t serve me, my genetic family or my human family, in which I include you, you beautiful soul.
Lucretia Robison is a licensed massage therapist, Emory University-trained health coach and blogger. If you have a personal story of awakening that you’d like to share in Walking Each Other Home, please contact [email protected].