These Tears Did Not Begin With Me —
On Lenape (Lenapehoking) land, in the freezing rain of a winter evening, around a fire, surrounded by trustable men, I wept.
The questions came from the men as to where my tears originate. The excavation of their beginnings. They are curious. And I don’t have an answer…yet.
It just may be that these tears did not begin with me.
For I grieve the epic loss of my father. I miss him so much. It was and still is pure love. I never received anything but support, love, comfort, motivation, celebration, joy, ceremony, wisdom, rituals, stories of our people that came before us, milestones of initiation, safety, a look of confident ‘i got your back’ knowingness, and the sweet, simple and humble leadership of a man who could laugh in front of his kids and cry in front of his kids at the same meal. I know that having a father so loving and present and vulnerable is rare in this western world. His gift of being does not fall on me lightly.
These trustable men inquire around my future grief that my son will face upon the losing of his father. Me.
— In giving him life, I have also granted him his own death. Just as my mother and father have gifted me life and with it, and ending that I will meet one day. —
I follow the inquiry – I weep for my son’s future tears. I follow my wet, salty liquid pouring from my eyes. I follow it to a notion that maybe…just maybe one day, my son (who is 4 and ½ years old at the time of writing this) will also be standing around a fire, in the midst of a cold and windy night. He will be showered by the nearly frozen cloud juices of sorrow. He will look into the eyes of trustable men around him. He will look into himself. He will close his eyes, and if he is blessed, he may get a glimpse of me looking back at him with the look of confident ‘i got your back’ knowingness from me. And in that moment, we are one.
I imagine my father wept around men and saw his father inside himself looking back at him. Just like his father (my grandfather) wept his father before him and in the searching for that ‘look,’ found solace.
My son, Julian, will have to grieve me one day. If I am blessed and he is blessed, that is the natural order of things. In doing so, he threads the tapestry of all the fathers who came before him. Just as now I work upon that loom.
And just like that, my own grief, my own depths, my broken open heart, and my own death…have meaning.
And as I write this in a cafe…and you can’t make this stuff up…Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch comes on the radio. AKA “I Can’t Help Myself” by the Four Tops. One of my father's favorite songs. I would say it is in his top 3.
He speaks to me still.
If I am present enough and willing enough to listen, I can heal more and more.
And excerpt from “I Can’t Help Myself:”
“No matter how I try
My love, I cannot hide”
If you feel called to be supported, I am here for you. I am here to foster your listening and weave your way toward your own healing.
Jonathan Greenfield, Heartspace Hero