Bob, my grandfather, was a bit of mystery to me growing up. Part of it was how few times I’d seen him. Unlike my grandmother, who lived next door, Bob lived on the other side of the country, and trips to see each other only seemed to happen every few years.
I remember him visiting once when I was in high school. One morning I came downstairs, hair amess, teeth unbrushed, still in my pajamas to find him sitting in perfect stillness staring out the windows. He was neatly dressed in khakis and cashmere, his gaze so steady I wondered if something momentous was happening out there. But as I peeked over his shoulder I only saw the waves lapping.
His focus made me to sit too. Wordlessly we watched the water for some time. What was he thinking? I wondered. Somehow it seemed wrong to ask. Bob rarely asked questions. He had perfect manners, but he rarely initiated conversations or offered free information at our family meals. At parties, he often sat alone not talking to anyone at all. To my child’s mind, I wondered if he cared, and whether he might prefer not to be known.
~~~
As an adult I’ve seen him a few times, once every few years. We talked on the phone many a Christmas. He sometimes sent me a birthday card. I loved him, but I hadn’t spent much energy trying to let him know me or really getting to know him.
So, it’s not surprising that this winter, after my grandmother died and I’d left my job, that I didn’t consult with Bob on what I should do next. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to ask for advice.
But when I set up my blog he was the first to subscribe. When I began posting, he always sends me a short email letting me know he’s read it. And when I began snaking my way up the Pacific coast in the spring, he told me I needed to come Seattle. We had a lot to discuss over a beer, he said. I didn’t know he drank beer.
The first night I was there, we sat in his living room. He didn’t turn on the lights even as it was getting dark. We said a little, but smiled often. The next day he took me to his writing club, which consisted of a few men about his age, who met every week in the lobby of a local mall. Later, we flipped through all of his photo albums. In his garden, he told me how how he struggled with many of the same doubts and fears that I write about. Over dinner he told me what he was most proud of in his life, and what he most regretted. We traded beer for harder spirits. He told me how proud he was of what I was doing. When I left, he told me to come back soon.
Caption: Bob (my grandfather) and his wife Nancy
This week, five months later, I received a package from him. In it I found a bound book of my images and his poems. They poem were all about my journey based on the stories and images I’ve been sharing on my blog. [I’ve included several of my favorites at the end of this post]
Bob’s poems are one of the most precious gifts I’ve ever received.
I’m so touched by the time he put into creating them, the period of time over which they were written, and the way he saw beyond the surface of what I shared to deeper truths I hoped to express.
His words also make me feel connected to him in new ways, across different planes of both time and memory. Reading him recounting stories I lived somehow makes them feel more real. But so too in reading through them do I feel like I’m treading both paths he crossed before, and paths he always wished he could reach.
I love the words of his poems, but even if I didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. I’d still be so moved by his gift.
Why? Because Bob’s gift has reminded me that the mere act of truly seeing and letting yourself be seen can be one of the greatest forms of love, even (or perhaps especially) if you’ve been silent or hiding for a long time.
Caption: my grandma Lucy and me two nights before she passed away
THREE OF MY FAVORITE POEMS FROM BOB ARE INCLUDED BELOW
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Northern Lights (image by Tim, poem by Bob)
The land of ice and snow
Where the northern lights
Dance heel and toe
As sun’s wild storms
Rage through the night
Called me to this place
I promised I would go
To add another moment of connection
To a lifetime of dear memories
~~~
What Do You Do? (image by Tim, poem by Bob)
That’s a simple question
That conjures up
A myriad of answers,
But the only one that counts
Is the one you believe
Deeply in your heart
And can state
With pride in your voice
Masks (image by Tim, poem by Bob)
The Greeks wore masks to show emotions
Many of us wear masks to conceal emotions
Perhaps knowing that we’ve
Made mistakes in our lives
Have been messy and broken,
We put on a mask to hide
Our persistent fear of being discovered.
It’s then we need to trust
Those we love will still love us
As we lift our masks and
Become who they know we really are