I think I’ve deleted at least 20 e-mail messages in the last week with announcements from various retailers advising me what to get my father this Father’s Day; I guess having associations with World Market, Kohls, Wine Country Gift Baskets, Kodak Gallery, Borders, among others will do that.  At Target the other day, a cluster of individuals stood in front of the Father’s Day card section, weeding through the selection and trying to find that perfect card.  I’ve already found myself wishing several male friends a Happy Father’s Day this last week, not knowing if I would see or talk to them before the holiday, and feeling joy for certain friends for their first Father’s Day as a dad.

My dad passed away on April 3, 2000; he was 48 years old and died suddenly of a heart-attack at work on a late Monday afternoon near Milwaukee, WI.  I remember the anticipation beforehand and the sadness on the actual day of Father’s Day for the first couple of years.  Until you’ve physically [this word choice will be clearer a bit later] experienced a Father’s Day without your dad or Mother’s Day without your mom, it’s hard to fully explain the pang of loss that creeps in, sometimes on a dramatic or subtle level or somewhere in-between.  But then there’s the opportunity: Choosing how we wish and need to spend the “reminder days”—the holidays, the anniversaries, the birthdays and even just days that feel funky.

As some of my readers know, my Father’s Day times with my dad when he was alive were not all that perfect.  After age four, when my parents divorced, I only saw my dad for court-approved visitation times.  He was imperfect, just as we all are, and I as a younger person admittedly didn’t know exactly how to integrate or understand his alcoholism, various girlfriends and divorces, regular bar visits with us in tow, and hobbies with loud cars, vintage cars, motorcycles and car races.  At 24, my last in-person Father’s Day with my father included a walk and heartfelt conversation, where I actually told him he’d sometimes been a sh*tty father, to which he responded, “I know.”  But in the following months, we talked a bit more; we got together to watch a couple of Green Bay Packer games, and he cooked; and I was starting to feel a bit more hopeful about an improved relationship.  And then he died.

For as complicated as my dad could be, he was also amazingly supportive and… amazing.  He bought me my first sets of calligraphy pens and my first sketchbooks.  He sent some of my poems to a local paper in Menononee Falls, WI, and I was Poet of the Week three times.  He would pull over on the side of the road just to say, “Look at that sunset,” and we’d watch the beauty unfolding.  Dad taught me how to swim, stayed up late with me on Saturday nights to watch wrestling or scary movies and eat pizza, taught me how to make scrambled eggs with bacon bits, and took us camping.  About a year and a half or so before he died, he called me to tell me about a new song he’d just heard, called “Butterfly Kisses”—about a father watching his daughter grow up—by Bob Carlisle, and then started crying, telling me how the song reminded him of me, how we used to share butterfly kisses when I was little, and how he someday wanted to walk me down the aisle.  It wasn’t until after my dad passed away that I truly learned the greatest, toughest lesson with loved ones: Loving and accepting my dad for who he truly was.

So, the beautiful side of this story is my continued relationship with my father.  I know he’s around me—and quite often.  I’ve learned to be open to his presence and at times even request signs of his presence.  I have a decade of incredible stories of lights turning on (Dad), meaningful songs coming on the radio at key times (Dad) and circumstances clearly guided by my father’s spiritual hand.  But my most recent experience occurred while making the 18-hour-drive to visit family and friends in WI.  As I got closer to my halfway point in Omaha, NE, around 11 p.m., my thoughts suddenly were on Dad, and I could feel him near me.  And looking to my left while I was in the right lane, I saw an image of my father riding on his Harley Davidson, ponytail flapping in the wind underneath his helmet, and looking over at me, even waving.  I smiled and said, “Hi, Dad.”  With that, he sped ahead, crossed in front of me and was gone.  About two miles later, I noticed a Harley Davidson dealer with a lit sign, only I had to blink with what I saw.  The sign had unlit letters, so I saw the following: HARLEY DA–D-ON.  “Harley Dad”… my dad… with an actual sign displaying a message from my father.  These types of signs and so many others help prove again and again that our deceased loved ones truly can remain near and guide.  I believe that death is a transition, not an end to everything.  And sometimes it’s just the beginning.

A note to those with the tougher, even abusive or negligent or absent, fathers: Father’s Day can also be a tough day for you with these types of dads, living or deceased.  I had a father figure—not my father—for 12 years, whom I prefer to not see or talk to again.  Instead of letting the hurt, pain and other intensities associated with these extreme, more negative fathers continue building, I recommend release.  Forgiveness is up to you, but cutting the emotional ties and drain—the etheric cords—and releasing the toxic stuff in ways you find most helpful is necessary for well-being.  May you be able to send love and light to this type of person and especially to yourself, breathe, and focus on now—and the safety, power and peace you so deserve.  Anything else you choose to do that would be helpful but healthy and for your highest good is up to you.

Holidays and anniversaries related to our dearly departed loved ones… We can honor our loved ones in our own, knowing ways and what we need and wish to do.  Realize the celebration and joy in the moments, memories and love; develop new traditions.  One step I take from time to time is an intention ceremony, and I highly recommend Becky Burns’ Soothe the Spirit: Blessings and Rituals for Energy Enhancement.  She kindly offers her Ceremony to Commemorate the Death of a Beloved One on her website.

It’s hard to capture everything I want to share with all of these ideas and experiences in a blog post aiming to be on the briefer side, but that’s why I’m writing a book.  More on that another time.