The journey from a father wound, to a father's love.

The first real reminder of the mortality of my parents came with a gentle nudge. A little wake up call. It brought me to a place of deep stillness. Of deep pain. of deep grief. Of deep gratitude. Of the desire to reach out and connect more often. Far more than i have in the past, hazed by the wishful notion that as they have always been in my life, they therefore… will always continue to be.

Reflecting back on the life I have shared with my father always brings me deep joy. Not because it was always easy or loving. But because over the last 7 years, we have both worked at making it so. 

Beginning four years prior to my birth, until his retirement 30 years later, dad worked as a primary school principal. He was exceptional at his job. Yet the distinction between father and principal often felt blurred. He would bring the stress home with him and I often found myself tiptoeing around the house to escape his wrath, or searching for him in his absence as he escaped the discomfort of emotional intimacy. 

Through thick and thin, my parents stuck at it. grinding away to give us kids, from a practical viewpoint, everything we needed and more. The suburban, middle class life was definitely sufficient in giving us all we needed to succeed in life. Yet there was something tangibly missing. I was missing a healthy masculine role model. I was missing connection with a man that I loved by default, but struggled to feel its reciprocation. 

At the age of 55, he retired. Although I had moved away, the visits home became more enjoyable. There was no more stress. no more angst. The ‘hilarious’ man that all his friends would constantly remind me he was, suddenly began to appear. The principal / student relationship had finally dissolved, to reveal the father / son connection that I had longed for. However, more than 30 years of relating in a certain way, leaves a residue. An uncertainty of how to be around each other, or of how these new roles might look like. The goodbyes were still awkward. The sideways hug with a quick pat on the back, and a muffled ‘call your mother’ was his way of telling me he loved me. 

Then one day, everything changed. 

We were four days into a five day hike through the Himalayas in nepal. The whole family was there, and the weather was nothing short of miraculous. As day four included only a half day hike and time to relax with the afternoon off, the time was ripe to introduce my old man to psilocybin. 

I had mentioned it to them in the days prior, and mum's anxiety at the thought of me bringing ‘drugs’ into Asia, was enough to get him off side. though the long days hiking did allow for deeper conversation. 

Having tried to plant the seeds of meditation, yoga and an alkaline diet a few years prior, I knew his conservative, controlling mind would be difficult to breach.

Faced with the stark reality of losing one of his friends to cancer. He asked me the question, ‘if all this shit that you kids do actually worked… why wouldn’t everybody do it?’ 

I replied. because if i told you you had two options… to change your entire lifestyle, your diet, your daily routine and give up your vices… or take a pill. What would you choose?’

He responded. “Gimme the pill”

I smiled. In a society groomed for instant gratification, coziness and complacency, most people would prefer the band aid solution, over the discomfort of what is necessary to properly heal. 

I also used the opportunity to plant a couple of seeds in an attempt to dispel any fear. deflecting the usual diatribe that the media spits out to keep people scared, based not on facts but propaganda to maintain an alternate agenda. I explained the absolute necessity of set and setting. Which to be honest, couldn’t have been more perfect. as well as responding to the absolute sweetness of his innocence. Explaining that ‘shrooms’ isn't a code word for some synthetic chemical powder that I bought from a dude in a public toilet in Berlin… but it was short for mushrooms. That I grew myself. Organically.

Thankfully, I had enlisted the help of my very convincing psychologist sister into the conversation. far more capable and far less reckless in his eyes than i.  

So there we were. sitting on a picnic blanket on a patch of grass on vacant farm land, in the middle of Nepal, at the base of the Himalayas, blue sky and the sun kissing our faces. With no-one around except the owner of the homestay and a few sherpas. 

I had the mushrooms in capsule form for convenience. Slightly distracted and deep in another conversation, almost impatiently he grabbed two and threw them in his mouth. He looked at me sheepishly,  and said, well if I freely take some synthetic shit a doctor gives me, how bad can something natural be? … so. How many do I need?’

I won't go into the details of the beauty of what transpired over the next 8 hours. But imagine living 60 years of your life confined to a very conservative box. Controlled to be the way you need it to be to maximise comfort and avoid suffering. Then something comes along and removes the box. And for the first time in 60 years, your third eye gets blasted open, as the cosmic sky pours in and you are suddenly tuned directly into the frequency of source.

It gives me chills as I write this. tears welling up in my eyes. remembering the look on his face. The smile at a heart cracked so wide open, his life would never be the same. We spent the next 8 hours laughing to the point of crying. The beginning of the healing of our father / son relationship and its transformation into a bond like no other.   

The next day as we continued the hike, I sidled up to him.

“So. Dad. How are you feeling?”

Somewhat pensive, but deeply reflective, he smiled. “I am going to live in four places a year for three months at a time. and everywhere I go… I'm going to get you to Fedex me some of those shrooms.”

We smiled at each other. Basking in the afterglow of the experience, and the warmth of our new found connection.. 

As the years passed, we journeyed together whenever the opportunity arose. At one point, sharing the heart opening experience of mdma. (Funnily enough, telling me that he loved me has never been a problem since then.)

However, the deeper I went into mens work and shadow work, I began to realise that the beauty of our connection, our friendship, our love, was still erected on a broken foundation. Built on a relationship where as a child, I lacked the father that I needed. That I couldn't trust him enough to be able to speak openly. That he sometimes scared me. That I carried tremendous pain and I was covering it up with the joy of this new found connection. That to move forward, we needed to dig it up and bring it into the light. 

So together, we embraced the discomfort, and stepped into the fire of a truth long hidden. Hidden from light out of fear of the pain that it would reveal. As the tears flowed, the intergenerational healing was tangible. The acknowledgement. The understanding. The forgiveness. The gratitude. The freedom. The profound moment that healed a lifetime of pain. 

Years later, when the gentle reminder of his mortality came knocking, he didn’t need any convincing. Those seeds that were planted all those years ago, had already begun to sprout. He doubled down on his daily meditation, yoga, and breath work practice. His diet became heavily alkaline, he gave up his vices and his daily exercise regime makes mine look amateurish. 

Now, recovering in hospital after a successful operation, he will be back home by the end of the week. With many more years to cherish the deep bond, deep connection, deep love we share. Healthy, healed and free. 

I love you so much Dad.