Dad Knows Everything.

As a father you give a lot to your children. Not just the material things; toys, books, clothing, food and shelter, and all those vitally important, fashionable and expensive items that will have the lifespan of a mayfly. Much more than that you give of yourself. I was in Melbourne recently, talking to my father as he spoke about a discussion with my brother, and I was amazed at his patience, his gentleness and the relaxed way in which he put his own concerns second to being a loving and patient father after doing this for fifty-five years now.

It's something I learned from him many years ago when my kids were small, and which my brother is learning now as he raises his two sons, both still under school age. My youngest is now twenty-five and the oldest thirty-four. All three girls, all smart, capable young women we love and cherish all we can. 

And it was only  a few years ago that I gave them a gift that cost me more than I thought it would at the time. When they were young I would answer every question they brought to me with a confident, calm and loving voice. With authority, and education and certainty I would listen carefully to their questions, taking them and their question equally seriously, and give precisely the truthful and complete answer.

When they would ask me how I knew the answer I would simply say, with equal authority,

"Dad knows everything."

This worked so well that before long they would come to me with any and all of their problems, in perfect expectation that Dad did indeed know absolutely everything. Most of the time this was because their questions were simple, or they were about people, which I understand better than I do physics, for example. When they reached the age at which their questions were more complex, or about complex relationships I would talk them through a process of examining their own assumptions, motives and behaviours. 

Years spent as a psychotherapist came in very handy here, providing me with skills and processes that meant I could walk them through a step-by-step process towards their own solutions. But more than that I was always interested in their lives, their worries and problems, no matter how small or how serious. Dad knows everything gave them the absolute certainty, not just that they were loved and respected, but that there was never going to be a problem in life that would overwhelm them. Their safety and security were backed by Dad's encyclopaedic brain as well as his strong right arm.

The benefits of this for me were wonderful. I was adored by my girls, always loved and respected and always the one to whom they could and would bring any problem. They would even show me off to their friends, who were almost always envious of such a sage and wise paterfamilias who could answer any question, and was willing to put aside any task to do so.

All good things come to an end, however. And a few years ago, sitting around a dinner table I broke the spell. The question I don't remember. The atmosphere was convivial, laughter and wine and the fun of a family Christmas feast had us all relaxed. And my youngest asked me a simple question. 

"I don't know," I said, "Dad doesn't know absolutely everything."

The girls laughed, and made mock of a poor old man who had only been fooling all this time. 

"Aha!"

"So, you really don't know everything!"

"Aha, I knew it! You've been faking it all along!"

Oh, it was cruel and terrible and sad. (Listen, you can hear the violins!) 

And the effect was instantaneous. I saw that particular awe in which they held me disappear right before my eyes, never to return. They don't come to me with their problems so much these days. Which I miss. But then, they don't need to. They grew up surrounded by safety and certainty. Now that they're grown they can meet the world on their own terms. And the last gift I could give them was to pull back the curtain and show them that the great and powerful Oz was really just an ordinary, if well-researched, man pretending to be omniscient. 

I miss those years, and that role, still working and fully functional only a little while ago. But once the illusion is gone it's gone forever. Which is as it should be. And it's not such a great loss. After all, my Dad did the same for me, and he survived it. That we can talk to each other as equals now, as friends, is because I've learned by doing the same for my girls.

On Being a Samurai.

.

 

Writer, thinker, teacher and trainer, therapist, shaman, initiate, musician, mystic, intellectual, samurai, priest, magician, psychic, empathic, mythologist, shape-shifter, husband, father, lover, Kabbalist, Tantric and Gnostic.

It's been a long, strange trip.

About twenty-five years ago I was a management consultant running a communications skills workshop for a team of young professionals: psychologists, social workers, speech therapists and so on, all intelligent young women in their twenties or early thirties (I've certainly had worse jobs). During conversation it emerged that one woman, a social worker, had a particular skill that she would occasionally agree to do for people. She read palms. She went pink from embarrassment when it was brought up, but agreed after some encouragement to read mine.

She took my hand in hers and leaned forward until her face was over it, her blonde hair falling forward around her face, and gently stroked my palm and began to speak. But not about lines and ridges and loops on the skin. She just slipped straight into a trance state and spoke in a faraway voice about my life, my past and my inner self. It was fascinating. And accurate enough about the real me to give me food for later thought. After she finished and her face regained its frank, friendly countenance I said,

"That's an incredible gift. You really should develop it."
.

"Oh, no." She said.

"Why ever not?"

"Because I don't want to be thought of as a freak."

I know how she feels.

For most of my life I've been fighting that particular epithet.

But while I may not be a freak I am definitely not one of the normal. And it's true that my natural milieu is among the peculiarly gifted, the psychics and second-sighters, the freaks and the fey. I don't like it, but it's true. It's what I am. Like the list of qualifications above. I am all of those things. For an introvert with a healthy level of paranoia hiding this has become second-nature. Experience has taught me that keeping  my light under a bushel is far better than trying to fend off a pack of freaked-out village idiots with a pitchfork, a smile and a plausible explanation.

But no more. 

I am what I am. 

All of it.

I became a samurai in 1992. 

I've been a martial artist since I was eight years old. Forty-seven years of judo, karate, iaido (Japanese sword kata), halberd, spear, longbow, crossbow. Anything and everything up to and including small arms. Years spent studying and developing subtle forms of thinking and awareness and spiritual attitudes (Zenshin, Zanshin, Mushin and the rest) that began with Zen meditation and led in the end to ritual magic and Kabbalah. I spent years refining my skills and my spirit, up at dawn and building a Tree of Life the size of a cathedral down by the Brisbane river, with the ten spheres each filled with their own kata, and connected by long galloping runs with blades whirling and sweat running.

Now, here in Canberra I can see every inch of it in my minds eye, recall every blade and bird and tree, feel the sun burning off the grey mist in autumn, scorching the ground to dust at midsummer.

Like I said, it's been a long strange trip.

But it takes more than simple competence or even a lifetime of acquiring skills to become a samurai. There's a simple qualification that goes beyond this. You have to serve. You have to be accepted as a retainer by a noble house. Which happened to me in '92.

Her name is Maeda Asano and she came to Brisbane to teach Iaido at the club I was attending, and to demonstrate Ryushin Ryu Kenbu, a combination of dance, sword, fan and spear work used to tell stories of Japanese historical events. Meetings between famous samurai, incidents during famous battles, demonstrating the techniques used at the time. She was also a 'living national treasure' in Japan for her ikebana flower arranging.

She would have been in her 60s then. I volunteered to do some PR work for her, and arranged ABC news to interview her and show a demonstration of her art in a bamboo grove at the Brisbane Botanical Gardens. I was also able to involve her in an Asian Cultural festival and a highlight for me was leading a huge procession along Brisbane's Southbank with Maeda San, with my youngest daughter Ellen marching along between us. Despite my having only 'dojo and sushi' Japanese, and her having no English we were able to communicate and I was much taken with her grace, dignity and bearing.

At the last training session, just before she left, I presented her with a box full of Australian bird feathers I had collected, yellow cockatoo crests, beautiful reds, greens and blues from rosellas, and black and white magpie feathers like the black and white of hakama and dogi. I'd prepared a short speech (in hastily scribbled phonetic Japanese) expressing my thanks for her generosity and patience, and formally offering myself for her service. This I carefully read out in the car park, surrounded by mystified fellow students. She listened seriously and intently. 

She accepted the box with a graceful bow, then quickly snatched the crumpled paper I'd read from and tucked it away in her kimono. She then took a purple and gold fan from her obi and presented it to me with a smile. She had formally accepted my offer.

I've been thinking about her a lot recently, particularly when I found the fan last month while tidying up the study. I found out this afternoon that she passed away that day, January 7th. Which I suppose makes me a ronin, and my own man. 

I don't have the words I said that day. 

But I do have a haiku I composed for her, while watching her perform in the bamboo grove.

                                 When she moves her feet
                                 turn small circles in the dust,
                                 Maeda Asano.

I'll be transferring this blog to a new website soon: leekear.com