‘A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving.’ ~ Lao Tzu.

I read something in a group chat the other day that resonated. A friend wrote that often it is at a funeral that you learn something about the person who died.  Even if it is someone you thought you knew well, like a parent.  It so happens that exact thing happened at my father’s memorial service in Jamaica, some thirteen years ago.  He died in Wales, and his funeral (and burial) had to be postponed till after the severe winter storm, since the road to the peaceful corner lot of an ancient, abandoned church, beside a babbling (frozen) stream, surrounded by trees and hills, was completely snowed in.  And the snow ploughs were occupied clearing roads for the living.

I had had to return to the US before the service, so my sister Pam and I were fortunate to be able to attend the service held for him in Jamaica, where he had served as minister and chaplain for twenty-three years.  In the church where he had led many a service, preached many a sermon, those who loved him gathered to pay respects.  A former colleague and mentee of my father told many stories about him, one of which referred to how much of a planner he was.

During the summer, there would be a ‘Youth Camp’ held at the local school.  Young people from across the island would stay for a week or two (I was not included – too young at the time, so my memory is not trustworthy), accommodated in the dormitories, since at the time, during school time, there were boarding as well as day students. 

Since the school was closed for the summer, this meant arranging cooks and food; cleaners and other support staff.  What I didn’t know was that it was my father who made all these arrangements, including back up plans in case any of his first line plans fell through. 

But it should not have surprised me, that he was a detailed planner.  In my parents’ marriage, he was the one who made all travel arrangements when they went on their biennial (every other year? I always get biennial and biannual mixed up) vacations.  Back in the day that meant visiting their local travel agent (and receive a new pocket protector for his many pens!), deciding on dates, obtaining tickets (they would look like a little booklet, with each leg of the journey enclosed).  After retirement, the plans became even more complicated, as they would travel from Wales to multiple destinations, always including Jamaica, and wherever Pam and I (the only two children not living in the UK) lived. 

My mother always left all of the decision-making to him, she told us, only knowing the details after the tickets were bought.  We joked that my father (who always included God in his plans, such as knowing God wanted him to go to Jamaica in the first place) was a little obsessive about travel arrangements.  We teased him that he needed to know the gates of departure and arrival, the names of the pilot and co-pilot.  My mother seemed to have a much more laissez-faire approach – leaving all the arrangements and worries to him.  If I mention that my father’s birth sign is Virgo, the above may make sense to those astrologically inclined.  He was not. To my parents, most things outside of the Christian religion (and even some within) were of pagan-origin and thus not to be believed in.

Last weekend, as my family traveled from four different airports, arriving in Denver at five different times, all with luggage made bulky by snow gear, then having to travel by rental cars almost two hours up into the beautiful mountains (with John Denver singing ‘Rocky mountain high, in Colorado’ in my head) I had to acknowledge that I was failing to live up to my philosophy of life, and channeling my father.  I was obsessing on the hows, the whens, the what-ifs of these many moving parts.  While at the airport I was convinced I had lost this boarding pass, misplaced my phone, and getting unnecessarily bothered by the small things of life.

It took me a day or so to remember something I often tell others when they plan a big event (this one was a skiing trip for my third child’s fortieth birthday): everything will work out.  And even if things don’t go exactly according to plan, that won’t spoil the overall enjoyment of the event.  As my body struggled to adjust to the altitude (we stayed in a village with an elevation of almost 9,000 feet), my mind had to readjust to what I already knew.  Don’t be so attached to outcomes that you miss the present.  Stop trying to make sure that in a house full of mostly adults, everyone is happy and catered for.  Allow others to take charge.  Chill! Which was not difficult to do when the highs were in the twenties and the snow kept coming down!

I bravely tackled the ski slopes (first time ever) and had moments of great achievement, balanced with moments of humiliation.  I fell, I collided, I lay like a turtle on its back.  But I did it, and felt the grace of gliding downhill.  Then the moments in the ski lift staring down at the snow covered hills and across at the ridges of mountains; feeling the utter stillness and quiet, despite the people below dotting the landscape (people who also skied, and fell, and struggled).  Yes, it was amazing to feel a part of the organic landscape, the white ridges dominating the horizon, sun laying low in the sky all day, glaring back at you from the snow.

On our day of rest, the snow fell for 24 hours, a winter’s storm threatened, and made travel back to Denver treacherous for the group who left a day ahead of the rest of us.  I was able to find my Zen zone planted in front of a glass door, mesmerized by the gentle, drifting snow.  Attitude adjusted.

On this Friday morning, I hope you can do a better job than me of remembering that everything is small stuff.  I hope you can be present in each moment, not worrying about the future, or wishing to change the past.  And if you get a chance, try skiing! All that is at risk is your pride!

Have a wonderful weekend, Family!

One Love!

Namaste.