Throughout the years my Dad and I would go on little car rides. I am sure that over the years when I would ask my Dad if he wanted to ride a bit it sent fears up through his spine like a gun shy dog hearing a the sound of a shot gun in the near distance.
Inside the doors of the old pick up truck, that was where I went to make my confessions. I now smile when I think back over all times I said, "hey dad, ya wanna ride". I remember at times being terrified to confess my sins. Not that he would ever be angry, he never was, I just didn't want to disappoint him. Now being a mother myself I understand why those rides were never disappointing for him. We talked. Our open communication voided all things bad.
I never did anything too terrible. My confessions were typically about boys I dated that he may or may not approve of, or telling him an injustice in our little world that was weighing heavy on my heart. The good thing about my dad, we could talked about everything! Although we did talk about the simpler things in life like our pets, childhood memories, family, and trips we had taken but we also talked about the tough stuff too like drugs alcohol and sex. There was never a time he said "you shouldn't do this or that", it was always like, "well, do YOU feel that is right, what do your values tell you". Although I have to say, I earned my load of intuition and a strong gut instinct from my mom, I revealed the burdens of such to my father. I am not sure why. He was just easy. Maybe it was because I looked to him to fix the injustices in my world? Maybe its because there was always a lot of listening on both ends, there was a mutual respect there. I felt like I could tell him anything because it wasn't going to be met with judgment but with an attempt of understanding. Which I was lucky to have two extremely understanding parents so I am not sure why him, either way, the truck was a spiritual place. Our drives gave us time to connect, to formulate game plans and dreams with out losing a minute from our busy lives... time stood still while we rode. The truck was place were my Dad and I connected on a different level. We were not father and daughter but friends...best friends.
Today we went for a drive. Although this time he was bringing me home from dropping off my truck at the Firestone store, we still had one of those meaningful discussions. We talked about the Gulf oil spill, his days in the coal mines, politics, and the visiting jake's in the back yard of the ole' homestead.
We discussed the grey areas of life. My dad and I are both grey people. Although as he has became wiser in life he has learned how to weigh the grey area and choose a side while still being objective. I am still crippled by the fog and very indecisive. Ultimately being grey people, I think that's why we connect so well. There is not a damn thing in this world that isn't shaded by some form of grey. We know that, We see that and therefor we tend to be slow to pass judgement and easy to forgive. Which in turn creates a lovely space to meet on common ground. The grey area is an area of peace balance and respect... much like our drives together.
As the view beyond the window has morphed into something different throughout the years, inside the ride, time has remained still, sacred as the first and unchanging as the last. Just my dad and I driving through the grey areas of life as time stands still.