Living Years

I was reading yesterday about the passing of the world’s oldest man, Walter Breuning. He lived to 114 years of age and clearly witnessed a great deal of change on earth. There may not be any magic formula for how to live your life but he certainly had some really interesting things to say about the secret behind his longevity:

- Embrace change, even when the change slaps you in the face. ("Every change is good.")
- Eat two meals a day ("That's all you need.")
- Work as long as you can ("That money's going to come in handy.")
- Help others ("The more you do for others, the better shape you're in.")
- A lesson Breuning said he learned from his grandfather: Accept death.
- He didn't regret anything, and he implored others to follow his philosophy.
- "Everybody says your mind is the most important thing about your body. Your mind and your body. You keep both busy, and by God you'll be here a long time."

This, I guess, represented his guiding principles or inner compass - what made him tick and what he was all about. I certainly can see value in a lot of what he said but it also made me think about what my own template for life is. The clearer it is to me and the more I embrace it, the more I'll be living a life that's true to me, however long that turns out to be. Thanks Walter.

Father's day

A year ago today my father past away. We had an unconventional relationship, bordering on non-existent up until a year before his death. The whys and wherefores behind the 18-year gap between conversations weren't especially complex - simply human beings being human beings. I had my reasons, which when placed under the brightest of spotlights can be properly seen as excuses. Apportioning blame is always easy. Taking responsibility, less so. The breakdown in communication wasn't the fault of either of us in particular but, in reality, we were both at fault.

Reinitiating contact with him after all those years at the time didn't seem like a courageous act or a sudden awakening. It had been stirring for a little while but just found the trigger one day. It was like that scene out of 'Forrest Gump' where Forrest has been running across the United States, seemingly forever and for no particular reason. Along his journey hundreds of individuals join him, seeking guidance and inspiration from him. One day, Forrest suddenly stops running and says it's over. No reason, no warning, just that it was time to go home. Okay, this analogy is hardly 'The Illiad' but it works for me. One day, I just thought, "it's time".

So over the next year or so we spoke. We were separated by a generation, continents and very different views on the world but we were two grown-up men talking about grown-up stuff. I struggled to use the word "dad" and he struggled to avoid taking on the role of all-knowing father. But it worked for us. In his last few weeks, when it was still unclear as to how ill he was, we managed to make our peace. A lot of it was unspoken but the fact that our skating-round-the-edges conversations were happening at all was a major breakthrough.

A year ago I didn't entirely know how I was supposed to grieve. None of my siblings did either, as we all had varying degrees of detachment from him. Still, I didn't have a Mike and The Mechanics "Living Years" moment of not getting a chance to clear the air at all. It may not have been a perfect relationship but at least now, a year on, I'm not writing a angry piece (whether towards him or towards myself) and can wonder what might have been with a positive slant.