This is my dad.

 

I never really got to know him.

I was 3 when his spirit decided it was time to disengage from this world.

 

This past Sunday was Father’s Day and I realized that I have a lot more questions about what this concept of “father” is than I do reference points.

 

The following are those questions, wonderings, and reflections in no particular order.

 

Can a mother really fulfill a father’s role (and vice versa)?

 

My mom used to tell me that she was both my mom and my dad.

Through my experience of living, of my own partnerships, of studying the embodiment of masculine, men, and what is it to be a man or woman, I have concluded that only a father can really be a father.

Thus only a mother can only really be a mother.

You see there are particular qualities I noticed.

There is a very specific presence a man has – particularly with his children – that is unique and frankly, irreplaceable.

Does that mean my mother failed to provide for me? No.

My mother was very much a mother.

 

In my particular case, my mom never talked about my dad and neither did anyone else.

There were no photos of him on the walls.

It was if he seemingly left without a trace.

 

This combined with my mother’s determination to fulfill both parental roles, left me without even questioning the possibility of ever having a father – of ever experiencing his loss.

Granted, I think that was her point – my mother’s.

Protecting me from loss and at the same time not having the nervous system capacity to accept hers.

 

Over the past few years though as I unravel my own sense of self, and belonging to my body, I find myself noticing an unfamiliar ache.

 

But in most cases, pretending something doesn’t exist or never happened can never erase our experience completely – just the memory of the thing, until one day we become present enough to feel that familiar and yet distant ache.

 

The other day I found myself riding the bus home, listening to a great tune, and suddenly wondering if my dad had a brand of guitar he preferred. Was he really geeky about music gear? What kind of musician was he?

Being the only person in my family who is naturally musical, I wonder what it would have been like.

Would he yell at me for not practicing the piano like my mom? Or join in on the drudgery, letting the practice of endless scales take on a different kind of life?

 

I will never know.

 

I also wanted to note, as an aside to any single mom or dad reading this, that its’ ok to just be you.

You don’t have to fulfill the roll of the other.

It’s not your job.

You’re not supposed to be both and that doesn’t make you a failure as a parent.

Also, know that your presence as a mother or father is needed.

It’s unique and no one could ever replace you.

 

Would my relationships to men and the masculine have looked different and how so?

 

As someone deeply curious in the essence and expression of the deep masculine as well as the deep feminine, how would my have been shaped to have a father presence in my life?

 

I grew up with a most wonderful grandfather.

We used to go rooting up freshly tilled soil in the garden on my grandparent’s huge property, looking for worms we would throw into the creek to feed the fish.

I spent much of my childhood with my grandparents on their expansive, rural property when my mom was working.

The land was my paradise – gardens, trees, and a creek that ran through the bottom of the property.

My grandpa (deda in Russian), would pick me up on an old snowmobile from the bus stop on the back of their land, making all of the other kids jealous (which I relished and delighted in for every second).

He delighted in providing me the simple pleasures of the heart of a child – a porch swing, shovelling the snowbank to make the perfect GT racer sledding hill, and his gentle giant presence.

 

As I contemplate my own relationship to the masculine, I look for the points of reference.

Without really knowing it, and whether we like it or not, each of our close family members plays a role in shaping our relationship to the embodiment of masculine, feminine, and the relationship between.

How would having a father in the flesh in my adolescence shifted my own relationship with the masculine?

I don’t know – and it’s not really up to me to know (obviously because that was not my experience), however it leaves the space for inquiry.

 

Then there is such a simple question I would love to know more about:

What was he like?

 

What kind of person was he?

What was it like to be in his presence?

Are we similar?

Would we have gotten along?

Or would we have fought all the time?

Did he have a favourite guitar?

Did he have any weird preferences about brands, guitar picks, food?

What were his quirks?

What were the things he hid from the world?

What were his secrets?

What was he afraid of?

What kind of advice would have given me and how would I have taken it?

 

For almost my whole life, I had never really considered asking myself these questions and now they pour out of me in random moments, seemingly triggered from no where.

Are you conversing with me, dad?

 

Suddenly in this moment in my life, it matters not that we never talked about him.

It matters not that I never felt safe enough to ask.

 

What matters now, is sitting with these questions, letting them bubble up, letting his existence permeate with the possibility of an answer.

 

To those who are fathers right here and now in the world, your presence is unique.

Your gifts are your own and are irreplaceable.

We need you here.

Thank you.

 

And to my own father, George Plotnikoff,

Thank You.