You Are Your Father's Daughter

This was the weekend of my father's birth and passing,
  Many emotions emerged, some enigmatic and painful to
  unpack, all intricately woven into my relationship with him.

It started Friday in mediation with a deep-seated sorrow.
  I sat with the sorrow, explored its depth and expanse.
  In the quiet, I was shown its birth and life source.

The sorrow is my deep disappointment in myself.
  As I face my mortality, I am acutely aware
  that I never measured up.

My earliest memories include looking upon my father
  and seeing a hero.  I witnessed his impact on all who
  came into his presence, his incredible contribution to life.

And I wanted nothing more than to be like him.
  I wanted to create something that touched people's
  hearts and souls, and left an indelible mark in their lives.

I wanted to have people love and seek me out,
  just as they did him.  14 years after his passing,
  they still express their devotion to, and love of, him.

I wanted to grow wise and compassionate.
  I wanted my children to cherish my counsel.
  I wanted them to regard me as a wise mother.

My sorrow is born of my belief that to
  live a life of value means that
  I must be like my father.

Its source of nourishment has been the constant
  reminder that I am not like him, that I have always
  and continue to, fall short of the life he demonstrated.

In the abyss created by the possibility that few days remain,
  the long-standing fear that I do not measure-up quickened
  into trepidation that it could materialize and define my life.

Then, in the quiet of the candle light and my tears, I heard,
  'But you are not your father.  His journey was not to be yours.'
  The words, barely audible over the keening of my duress, lingered.

Two days later, driving my grandson home from our date,
  we listened to music from 'The Lion King'.  Deeply affected,
  I remembered a poem I wrote to honor my mother and father.

In the poem, I spoke of the footprint my father left in this life.
  I recounted how I accidentally stepped into that footprint
  and found myself swallowed up in its immensity.

So small was I in his shadow.

Years later, I still can't find my way out of that enormous footprint.
  And the quiet voice repeated, 'You are not your father.'
  'You were not meant to journey on his path.'

'While you mourn that for which you were never destined, 
  you miss the journey that is yours to walk in this life.'
  'You are your father's daughter.  Your life matters.'

'You have sown seeds of love.  There are those that love you.'
  'You have gifted to life and can as long as chi flows through you.'

My father is here with me now, as I face my mortality.
  He stands at my side, loving, kind, compassionate.
  He will walk the distance with me.

I am my father's daughter.
  I have value because of who I am.
  I still have time to contribute to life.
  I can love and gift and offer my heart.

So, I will.