If you want to live a quiet life, live a quiet life.
Seven things my father taught me, by example.
Thanks to all who came out for our Candlelight Chat last Sunday with the glorious Dr. Ellen Hendriksen, on the topics of perfectionism, social anxiety, and Ellen’s latest book. The video replay—along with Ellen’s famous chart that shows you how to avoid counter-productive loops—will go out in a few days to paid and scholarship subscribers - please stay tuned!
Today is the fourth anniversary of my father’s death. In his honor, I’d like to do my annual share of these seven things that he taught me by example.
Do beautiful things, just for the sake of them. If you love orchids, build a greenhouse full of them in the basement. If you love the sound of French, learn to speak it fluently, even though you rarely have time to visit France. If you love organic chemistry, spend your Sundays reading “orgo” textbooks. My father pursued these passions, and many others besides (stamp-collecting, classical music, the list goes on).
Find work you love and work that matters, and do it as excellently as you can.
Make a life where you’re as free as possible from the forces of dogma and bureaucracy.
If you want to live a quiet life, live a quiet life. If you’re a humble person who has no use for the spotlight, be a humble person who has no use for the spotlight. No big deal. (I got the tendency to march to my own drummer, from my father. On many subjects he would shrug his shoulders, with no fanfare, and go his own way.)
If you happen to be a doctor, take care of your patients – really take care of them. Study medical journals after dinner, train the next generation of physicians (my father kept teaching until age 81), spend the extra hour to visit the bedside of your patients in the hospital. (Here’s a letter from one of those patients, which we found after my father passed away. He never showed us these things while he was alive.)
If you’re a husband, take care of your wife, even when she has Alzheimer’s and can’t walk and asks you the same question again and again and again and again and again and again…
If you’re a parent, teach your children the things you love, like music and poetry, so that one day they’ll love them too. One of my earliest memories is asking my father to play the “chair record” (Beethoven’s “Emperor’s” concerto, whose name I was too young to pronounce) over and over again.
My father and I talked, just before he died of COVID. He was in the hospital, trying to breathe.
“Be well, kid,” he said, as he hung up the phone.
And I have been well. And so, I hope, will you.
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What are some of the most important things your parents or other guides have taught you, or that you hope to teach other people?
If you’d like to share your thoughts below, or share this Kindred Letter with a friend, you can do those things here.
Susan, this brought tears. How blessed you are to have had such a close relationship with your father!
A couple of things passed on by my father:
Keep choosing life. No matter what. Even when things appear utterly hopeless, choose life!
Humanize, humanize, humanize every space you enter. The cranky nurse in the palliative care unit? She’s having a tough day, just like you. Flirt with her. Make her laugh.
If you find something or someone to love, go all the way. Don’t worry about what that looks like to anyone else. Give. Be a giver.
And never, ever, EVER underestimate anyone.
It’s actually my father’s birthday on Monday. Such a gift you gave me to spend these few minutes remembering him today.
Much, much love, Susan!
Susan, Sending caring love to you on this heart-tugging anniversary.
You inspired me to write about the 7 top lessons from my mother. She passed away 16 months ago:
Top 7 Things My Mom Taught Me by Example
1. Love others the way they are & where they are in life. Be present. Say, “I’m glad you are you!”
2. Keep sharing your special gifts with the world making positive change and making a difference on all levels (until the very end). Mentor, share experiences & exchange knowledge (and don’t worry about getting credit for it). Don’t be boring. Be pragmatic. Be curious. Find common humanity (even if it is the love of pets). Smile. Listen and build on what you hear. Collaborate and compete to reach better outcomes. Keep each other’s spirits up. Persevere.
3. Be thoughtful, thankful, kind and compassionate. Listen, give your attention and care to others. Write that thank you note. Make the gesture. Remember to thank the grocery clerks. Maybe make a poster & join them on their picket line, like my mom did. Thank the farm workers who picked the food on our plates.
4. Mark life with the specialness of celebrations & the rhythm of rituals. At the milestones have cake + ice cream with colorful sprinkles! Put up banners. Light candles for a wish! Share with friends. Celebrate the quiet corners of life with unpretentious rituals, like going out for breakfast with a loved one (contemplating an ice cream shake) each time the car gets serviced. It’s terribly important. Make doing errands an “outing.” Have fun. Take the scenic route!
5. Love all that is beautiful in this world & really enjoy it! Have a wide breadth of interests; multiple sources of vitality, happiness & identity.
6. Work for systemic change, it is the sustainable, large scale and long-term solutions that matter. It takes maybe more than a lifetime to achieve. Persist. It is meaningful. Work for the right relationships between us to heal the wounds of this world. Live with the contradictions. Make lunches with big sandwiches, bananas and other treats and stuff backpacks with essentials, including tube socks, to gift to people without homes.
7. Seek out and treasure awe, enchantment, beauty & humor (the irreverent, subversive and silly) in obvious and unexpected places. Continually be aware of such moments near & far. Live in the present. Feed your body, mind & spirit. Broaden your universe. Ask and contemplate the big questions. Jubilantly laugh. Oh, how I miss her hearty contagious laugh!
(Well maybe that’s more than seven…)
And your addition of your father’s ultimate farewell, I wrote an essay that starts:
My mom’s last words were, “My butt hurts.” This phrase wasn’t the extraordinarily profound final goodbye immortalized by films that I anticipated from her. This was no Hollywood ending. No enduring or poignant narration to linger and reflect upon…
And ended with:
…Laughing. Crying. Laughing so not to cry. Sometimes bringing us to tears.
Not an ultimate farewell after all.