There have been times in my life when a person presents themselves and you just know they are going to be your teacher. Being a teacher can take many forms: muse, healer, and changer to name a few. The lessons can be gentle, violent, inspiring, or challenging but regardless, they seem to be placed in your life to further your personal growth.
Rodger was one of my teachers. I met him at a low point in my life in 1990. I was moving into a little house in Upstate New York. He lived across the street and saw me carrying things in from my car in the swirling beginning-of-January snow. From what he told me later, he was often too shy to push into a new situation but that day when I looked up--there he was, offering to help.
Our friendship was immediate. It was "sweet" from the very beginning. I am a great listener and his stories of WWII, his changing careers mid-way through his working life to become an artist, and all of his travels (from riding the trains as a boy to driving to Florida or New York City as an adult)--all were welcome to my ears. He loved art, writing poetry and dancing. He loved these things almost as much as telling his life stories. I happily listened to the same stories over and over through the years and never tired of watching his face and his animation as the stories unraveled but never were ambelished or changed.
Rodger had no children and was strongly bonded to his wife, Virginia. He told me one time that it took a lot of work to have a long-term relationship and that it was sometimes not easy. His 70 years of marriage was testament to his commitment and stamina and willingness to love well.
I had struggled with my father forever, feeling like he wanted to be the child in relationships and knowing that all he wanted was to be a part of a family. Not his own family of wife and children, but in-laws, sister-in-laws, brother-in-laws and parents. I believe our relationship was disappointing to both of us. By the time I met Rodger, my father and I had for the most part given up on each other. I think we both felt abandoned and orphaned when we were together.
My relationship with Rodger quickly took on a father-daughter tone without the struggle, angst, or trying to change the other person I had with my father. This was clearly one of the aspects of Rodger's being my teacher that I recognized early on.
The healing grew and expanded through the years. It was incredibly refreshing to have him not be needy with me. He would never think of "guilting" me into coming to see him. His way of expressing that was to say, "I will really look forward to seeing you when you can visit." And he meant that! He did other fatherly things, like asking me about my car to make sure I was safe. He was easy to talk with and even though he was a product of his time we found a way around that and seemed to be able to talk about anything. There was never any judgement. There was simply encouragement.
It was extremely difficult for me to move away from Rodger and Virginia in 2003. The miles were made closer as we nurtured our long-distance relationship with regular calls and long letters with photos and poetry added to bring a level of physical reality into the enormous distance.
I think we did very well at keeping in touch. Rodger would express he genuinely missed me, as I did to with him. But there was never bad feelings about it. There was just an enormous understanding that I was doing what I needed to do and it had nothing to do with rejecting him. If anything, distance brought a lot of richness to our relationship as I shared my life from afar.
It was hard to watch Rodger grow old. In his late eighties he began to mention the difficulties of old age. All of the friends in his age group had died. He couldn't do things he had loved to do like fishing and dancing. He seemed to be losing interest in things, possibly to deal with the loss of not being able to do things that he had always done with no problems. When he turned 90 his body began to shut down and all he wanted was to have his life end. He no longer had a quality of life that satisfied him. He hung on for Virginia. I understood and felt helpless because there was nothing I could do but listen (sometimes between the lines) and be there to tell him how much I loved him.
Virginia died this last summer and that pushed him into a deep depression that was totally understandable. He was adamant about wanting to stay in his house and immovably stubborn about fixing it up so that it was accessible for an older person. It became increasingly a worry to me to think of him there alone. He was miserable and all he wanted was to be die and be with Virginia.
I talked with him last on his 94th birthday. We didn't talk long but I took the opportunity to tell him how much he had meant to me in my life and that I loved him to the moon and back. He told me he loved me BIG too. When I got off the phone I felt complete and knew it was the last time we would talk. It made me extremely happy and nostalgic--my mind scanned the years with lovely memories. And, I was gripped with an awful sadness that I had to work through. It didn't take very long.
My "sadness" process brought me back full circle to my own father. Just as Rodger had lost his parents at too young an age, my father had lost his, too. Rodger took it in stride and grew up to adulthood. My biological father remained as a small child. I felt true compassion for both of them. I realized that through my relationship with Rodger my anger at my own father had softened. Understanding replaced hurt feelings and I actually began to let in feelings of love for my father and recognize good things about him.
Rodger was a great teacher. His presence in my life gave me a sort of steady ground that I had never know. He died last night. I will always be grateful that he was put in the path on my life journey and that I could share so much with another person. Rest in peace, dear friend...
