It's your birthday...
... and here's why I celebrate
*This is a special post made because it is a special, but sad, day for me, for my family. I hope you don’t mind me taking up precious space in your inbox, I didn’t want to miss this day. *
Hi there! I’m Karen, and here at On the Outside I write about navigating life with my compass of curiosity, courage and connection, going via adventure and healing. I live amongst the south Welsh mountains, with a hoard of books, a garden full of foxgloves and goldfinches, drinking tea. Basically, a hobbit. Wandering, not lost.
Subscribe to join me on this journey through the truth and beauty of the uncertain and the unknown. With tea.
Dear Dad,
Today would have been your 70th birthday.
A really special birthday. Yet another one where you probably would have just said ‘don’t worry about getting me anything’ and then you’d buy something and tell us we can just give you the money for it. Easiest gifts ever.
It’s a bit of a tradition for me to write something on your birthday. Something that will generally mean Mum grabs the box of tissues and I sob for a good hour during and after writing. I’m not even really sure why. But it feels good. It’s good to grieve.
It means we loved.
This year, I want to try something a bit different, Dad. I thought I’d try to write about your essence. Let’s see what happens.
Explorer, nomadic
The dirt stretches to the horizon. All around us, nothing. Above us, nothing.
Ahead of us, something. An unexpected thing where no thing had a right to be. On the other side, the place you wanted to get to. Somewhere you had never been to.
Now where?
The question is, how do you navigate in a country that has no street signs or road numbers outside the main city, in a time before sat nav was on every phone and in every car?
The answer: using guidebooks with directions like ‘Drive south on the dirt track and turn right at 1.36 kilometres’ or ‘Turn left at the white shop with the blue paint’. We always hoped and prayed the shop never changed colour.
We had left civilisation behind several hours ago. The only signs of life were tiny, scraggly shrubs, dying in the phenomenal heat of the summer sun. The car was laden with our bags, our supplies, and, thankfully, plenty of water.
The directions we had followed had brought us here, to the middle of absolutely nowhere, and five roads leading off in every direction. The one we wanted, according to guidebooks, was that one - the one that went straight into a giant sand dune that should not have been there…
I never remember worrying. You’d always find the way. It was magical, how you navigated the world, remembering where you’d been just once, guiding us always safely through and to everything. It’s OK, I thought, he’ll know the way around.
And so you did. Because you’d had the foresight to borrow a GPS from work.
We got to our destination. We got to the turtles laying eggs in the sand, silhouetted by brilliant green phosphorescence crashing in the waves, their wet shells highlighted by the crescent moon and, above our sighs of amazement and wonder, the red light of Mars, the closest it had been to earth in a very long time.
And then I got to rescue a lost baby turtle. Holding its tiny energy, the little fins with the tiny claw, crawling ever forwards, pulled by some innate drive that I will never understand.
You got us there. You always got us there.
Supportive, reassuring, calming
“Don’t worry about it, love,” you said, “we’ll come over right now and help you pack.”
I was standing in a house that I was trying to pack up, getting ready to move in a few days. Meanwhile, the man I was living with at the time was in hospital, recovering from emergency surgery. I was worried, crying with stress, not sure how I’d get everything packed and ready to move to a new house 4 hours away.
But you were there, as you always were.
And again, you were there, when my relationship broke down, living by myself far away, trying to work full-time, study part-time and look after my dog (and myself). You never judged. You never gave me that look that said it was high time I stopped making mistakes.
You just helped. Always. Calm and grounding and so utterly reassuring.
Not just me, either. I’m lucky enough, now, to know many of your old friends and colleagues, to count them amongst my friends. Everyone tells me different stories, but all woven through with the same thread: just how much you helped them.
Respected, admired
Those same friends, Dad, they tell me the funny stories, like the ones you used to tell me, the ones I asked you to repeat over and over again. What I’d give to hear you tell me them one more time.
I see the look on their faces when they talk about you. I can see the respect there, the admiration. The knowing in our hearts that our lives are better because of you.
You took time to teach, knowing how to explain something in a way that someone just got. You were sought after by influential people, not because you shouted about what you did, but because you just got on with the job and did it. Your name, even now, even with people I don’t know, can make people’s faces light up — oh I know him — and suddenly, I am connected to them. Through you.
7 years after you’re gone, and you are still respected and admired far and wide.
Loving, proud
I was shaking, standing on the ramp to the stage. My name was first. I’d be first to cross, to remember to shake the Dean’s hand, to remember to give a little wave. Why on earth did I wear heels? What if I trip? What if I forget the handshake? What if?
Then my name is called and it’s my moment. I remember almost nothing. I remember walking (not tripping), shaking hands, waving and aiming it, I hoped, in your general direction. Then it was done. And I still hadn’t tripped.
The video recorded while I had my moment, one of the proudest moments of my life, catches my Bachelors’ degree title being read aloud (in Welsh and English), then my name, the raucous applause, but most of all, your cheering.
You cheered like it was the proudest moment of your life. You cheered like your heart was bursting with love. I watch that video, 7 years later, and feel the pride in my own heart when I hear that cheer. I’m so glad you were there.
You were so proud, of us all. Of Mum, of me and my brothers. No matter what we did, no matter how we tripped (not on the stage, thankfully), no matter what path we took, you loved us, you were proud.
So, what did you teach me?
Your birthday is always a tough day. But it’s always a day for reflecting, for sifting back through the emotions, for patting the scruffy dog at my feet that is my grief for you.
I learned so much from you, though, and nothing can take that from me.
If I hadn’t known you, I wouldn’t have the group of friends I have around me now, the ones who will open their door to me, no matter what. The ones who tell me how like you I am, the ones who tell me the stories about you that you can no longer tell.
If I hadn’t known you, I wouldn’t feel this deep understanding of duty and responsibility, of stepping up to do a job and doing it to the best of my ability. I wouldn’t feel the same pride in the work I do, or the things I achieve.
If I hadn’t known you, I wouldn’t have this insatiable desire to see the world, to go off the beaten track, around a sand dune, all to see some turtles. I wouldn’t have had the courage to lead my mum on a road trip, both of us nervous to do the first big holiday without you. We trod in your footsteps, simply because we dared to step outside of our comfort zone, to go where we had never been before and to enjoy the ride. All of that, we learned from you.
Even in your absence, you have taught me. To love fiercely and to tell people that. To be proud of the people around me, and to tell them that. To help, no matter what. To remember that this life is precious and that it is wondrous and beautiful and exciting. To know that the world is so wide and wild and needs to be seen. I have learned to grieve, to know that my heart can be shredded and that I can be OK.
You taught me how to swim, Dad, and you still are.
You are always missed. You are always loved.
All my love,
K x
Thank you so much for reading this. It’s an incredibly emotional day, but the sort of emotion I find good to lean into, to feel the sadness. I normally don’t share these writings beyond family and friends so I hope, very much, that my readers enjoy these words, if enjoy is the right word.
If you read something here that makes you ask questions, see something slightly differently, or plucks at something deep in your heart, consider sharing this with someone else.
I’m taking part in the Essay Club run by Claire Venus. This is essay (I think?) 8/24 to be published by 31st Jan 2025.
This was so lovely ♥️
So beautiful Karen, I love the idea of writing something for his birthday. It’s so important to allow ourselves to express our grief. He sounds like a wonderful man.