Father's Day always reminds me how lucky I am to have Dad as my dad. For instance, if Dad weren't my dad, would I be excited to rummage through the owl pellets beneath the owl box up on the hill? A mouse skull here, a gopher skull there, rodent bones, hair, and, look! a feather! A Barl Owl feather, to be precise.
The wild things sustain me. I have found, though, that I have a need to share these wild things with the ones I love.
I follow a road that becomes a trail that becomes a game trail that leads to a sudden drop-off into a canyon. I smell the sage, nibble on buckwheat, and stare back at a sharp-shinned hawk. But there is one man in particular I wish were besides me. He could also identify the plants, the birds, the animals. He is 115 miles away, on his own hike in a canyon behind his house in Joshua Tree.
I smell Pearly Everlasting and look down at my feet. A few pieces lay on the ground and I gather them up, make a bouquet. Next to my toes I find a sun-bleached snail shell with a hole through the center. I cinch the stems of the Pearly Everlasting with the shell and continue walking. What appears to be string is actually coyote melon vines, partially dried in the sun. Round and wound it goes, to finish off my bouquet, which I give to Dad for Father's Day.
I no longer feel the pressure to be someone I am not. I am not ashamed to dissect owl pellets, find scat as informative as a newspaper (and less depressing), and deem a bouquet of dried up wildflowers more intoxicating than any rose. Daddo, thank you for teaching me to be who you taught me to be, confidently, and without need for compromise.
Happy Father's Day, Daddo.
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