Photo by Gordie Strongman
If you’ve been around here for a while, you probably know a little something about my dad. He is woven through so much of my life that I’m not sure I ever imagined a version of it without him.
Cliff was the best. He wasn’t a man who talked a lot about love, but he exuded it. It was there in that big smile of his, and in absolutely everything he touched. If you needed him, he was there. He’d fix what was broken, build what was needed and carry what was heavy.
I was lucky to grow up believing this was simply what love did: it showed up. And this summer, when I was faced with losing him, I began to see just how far his particular kind of love could stretch.
Dad had become quite ill over the winter, and as summer approached, I spent as much time with him as I possibly could, stepping away from studio work, but still preparing for our three back-to-back July Summer Sessions here at home. Around me, all the familiar retreat preparations were underway, with my beloved team of friends and family doing what they always do to help bring it all together.
As things grew closer, I decided a Plan B might be wise, just in case. I asked my friend Michelle Miller, a wonderful artist and the best instructor I know, if she would be willing to step into the retreat studio if things changed at the last minute. She didn’t hesitate.
As the retreats approached, Dad was stable. He was eating, that big smile of his was still very much there, and he was even counting down the days with me, asking, “When do things kick off?”
The first day began as it had so many times before, and for a little while everything felt familiar. Then, by the end of that very first day, Dad took a sharp turn. Suddenly, we were losing him, and there was nowhere in the world I could be but by his side.
It was, in the strangest way, the worst and best possible time for it to happen. The worst because my home and studio were full of lovely guests I was meant to be caring for. There were canvases started, creative plans barely hatched with people who had travelled to be there… all the moving parts of a retreat I would normally be holding.
And the best because I was surrounded by the people who have known and loved me the longest.
Those people stepped into all the places I would normally have been. They taught and cooked and organized and cared for everyone. There was no big discussion about who would do what. They simply saw what needed doing and did it.
And I went to Dad.
I spent his last night beside him, and on Friday, July 17, with Mom, my brother Rob and our family around him, he died. Gosh, as I write this, I still struggle to believe it.
Meanwhile, only a short distance away, the retreat carried on. Not because everything was fine, and certainly not because it mattered more, but because my friends and family kept it going for me. And so did the guests. They met what was happening with such extraordinary understanding and grace, asking nothing of me and making it very clear that I was exactly where I needed to be.
The music played, paint flew, people laughed and made things, and of course the beautiful food just kept coming. It travelled from the kitchen to the retreat tables, then out the door to the hospital, to Mom, to my family and to whoever happened to need feeding. Plates were wrapped, baskets were packed, fresh out of the oven baking arrived, was shared and sent out again. Food simply kept moving outward from that kitchen, carrying with it all the things nobody quite had words for.
By Sunday, after a few precious days with Mom, I knew I wanted to return for the final two-day session. I didn’t feel obligated to, I just knew I wanted to be there. I must say too, I knew for certain, Dad would be coming back with me. I felt him all around me. Still do.
The new guests arriving that morning didn’t know Dad had died, and I wasn’t ready to tell them. I didn’t want to change the experience for anyone, and I certainly didn’t want our guests to feel sorry for me. I remember standing there that day, taking in the whole beautiful scene. I had seen it many times. In fact, I had spent years creating it. But I had never stood inside it with a broken heart, and it felt quite different from that side of things. Instead of being the one holding the space for everyone else, I simply let it hold me.
Just over a week ago, more than 200 people gathered to celebrate Dad’s life. We talked about the amazing things he created, the times he’d helped and small kindnesses he shared. Again and again, it came back to the same thing: when people needed Dad, he was there.
Dad showed me exactly what love looked like every single day of my life. And I realize now that I have built a life surrounded by people who speak the same language.
During those strange, heartbreaking days, when I couldn’t hold everything myself, my friends and family took hold of what they instinctively knew I couldn’t manage. They carried it all, fixed what they could, lifted the heavy things and kept the world around me moving. But more than any of that, they held me. They were my bedrock when the ground beneath me had shifted, tending to me as instinctively as they tended to everything else. They stayed for all of it, including the mess of me. In every way that mattered, they simply said, We’ve got this. Go be with your dad.
We all have a language of love, I suppose. And what a beautiful thing to discover that even after losing him, Dad’s is still all around me.
Love, Laura. xo
