I was raised in a home that was filled with books and discussion. I’ve carried the tradition into my home with my children.
It was my father who nurtured me emotionally and intellectually by choice and circumstance. I adored him. He became an invalid at 39 after he suffered a major heart attack and became a stay-at-home dad, so he was more accessible while my mother went out to work. I loved his reserve. His wisdom still guides me each day.
Like a bird that sits quietly while her eggs incubate beneath her, my father would listen to my endless questions, pause thoughtfully and ask, “what do you think?” I always had an answer or five and when I didn’t, I’d scurry to find a book with the answer and return back to him, brimming with information.
He didn’t know then, and I wish I could tell him now, he was my Dream Maker. In those pauses, my dreams found a place to incubate.
Until next time
a dawn bird