Post Mortem

I have been meaning to write this, just a little something, my dad having passed away last month.

It’s a quiet September Sunday, and I finally went through the notes I made the morning he passed, when, having seen the text to call my sister back, I knew he was gone.

The return call was short, and the words: Dad passed away this morning hit like a canon blast.

All I could do was go into my study, close the door, and cry out “goddamnit”.

Over and over.

Then I opened the first of at least four Miller Lites that morning, and I began to write – frantically, passionately, and madly; for I had lost my Dad.

Frankly, I am not sure I can give away my feelings about what essentially amounts to the culmination of my childhood, but I want to share what I can.

Because this is the place where I can upload my deepest ruminations, the place where I commit to ideas, and the place where I am become definite.

So, I’ll share some of what my Dad dying meant to me:

It was the first time in my life I had worn a thousand yard stare and felt the light of my soul snuffed out by the darkness of death. And in this shock, I learned the cost of loss, the price of missed opportunity, and the sting of regret.

It meant that everything he ever gave me arrived at once, in light of his absence, and for the first time, I understood all the inadvertent and intentional lessons he had gifted me.

I learned life is to goddamn short for foolish pride and vanity.

I felt that I was finally faced with the task of distilling my upbringing into something meaningful, because it was over.

I looked back and asked myself what was more important than family? And I knew that the answer was nothing.

And I knew that I could finally know him. Now that he was gone: I no longer had the feelings that before were a barrier to that.

And I knew that no one was ever going to fuck with me ever again.

In closing, I wrote the following:

Life goes on. It has to. But it has to be different – or else nothing is learned.

That morning, I committed in the depths of my soul to my Dad’s death meaning something – I committed to honoring him, and I thought about what he would want for me.

My dad loved me, and he wanted me to be happy. And I fucking miss him.

But I’m learning:

Life is short.
You will die.

What’s in between is solely up to you:

Don’t waste life in negative feeling.
Don’t pity yourself.
Don’t waste your own time.

Be brave.
Love fully.

Release guilt. Release regret. Release fear.
Trust yourself. Trust the universe.

Be happy.
Be free.

Never give up.
Go up to bat. Again.

Blind Spots

Biases, weaknesses, complexes, assumptions – things that cloud our objectivity – we all have our shortsightedness. 

Unfortunately, we typically do not recognize blind spots until they become clear: in hindsight, where we can see them – often for the first time. 

The cause of our blind spots are as varied as human folly, and as vast as the fallacies we are capable of engendering. 

In short, blind spots are a part of life, they will fuck your shit up, and you will be blind-sided time and again by things you do not see, things you fail to understand: relationships, businesses, friendships. In life, the plane will crash into the mountain. 

But we have to keep trying. The day we give up, our shadow has won and we have placed our dreams on ice. 

There will be blind spots. This, I recognize. What I want to do, however, is succeed in spite of them. Is this not how life is lived: via hypothesis – our beliefs and theories – the working models we apply to avoid blind spots. 

It’s nothing less than a great irony, that the successful working model is often the very product of the numerous pitfalls and blind spots a person had to ultimately encounter in order to succeed. 

In the words of Steve Jobs: you can only connect the dots looking backward

To close, I’m trusting life. That it will carry me further and care for me, as it has. But I am also hoping to hit the moon. And I’m trusting that my blind spots have prepared me.