Every time I go to the beach, I remember my father. I stand by the edge of the waves, marvel at how I feel like I’m being moved along even though it’s just an illusion. And I hear my father telling me about the science behind the waves.
He studied oceanography in college, only one of the many subjects he’s studied over the years.
He knows about computers – he built one on his own when he was younger. Regardless of the fact that he never took a software programming course in college, he knew it and would help the classmates who were taking it. He has a passion for numbers and for all that math can do for the world. He knows about the Gita, and he knows Sankrit. He knows how to play the flute, veena, guitar, and sing. He knows how to draw. He knows how to write. And this is only a fraction of what he knows.
My father is the greatest teacher I know, because he’s also one of the best students. If he doesn’t know something, he’ll find out. The world is his teacher. He observes all that he can, he listens to every person he talks to, he remembers all the lessons that life has to offer.
Most of those he’s passed down to me over the years. He talks of his father and grandfathers and their lessons, too.
I have decades of memories embedded in my mind because of all my father’s recollections of his life and the stories they passed down to him.
The earliest stories I heard were from my father.
My love of stories began then.
And they’ve carried me this far.
Not only in my writing, but in music, in dance, in art, in film, in life… Stories are my oxygen. I breathe them in and bring them out as words on a page.
And I have to thank my father and my forefathers for passing down such an intelligence, such a passion for learning, and for their stories.
