The lessons I learned from an odd Man, who happened to be my Father.
Iam 8, maybe 9 years old. The day at school is over and I know my father will be waiting for me on a street nearby, in his car.
I am walking with a classmate and making fun of him, for some silly boyish reason. I leave him in tears as I cross the road, approaching the car, a Fiat Regata of a questionable bordeaux color. On the other side of the street, my father, Gianni, is waiting inside. Before I can even enter the car, he steps out of it. He looks at me and asks with a threatening tone:“Why is he crying?”
I begin to stammer: I know I am guilty. He pulls my ear with two fingers for a few seconds and says: “Go and apologize to him”
This is one of the few instances in which I had to learn the lesson “the hard way” from my father. As to the rest, I was blessed to be able to learn directly from his personality and day-to-day attitude towards life, almost by osmosis.
I never had a brother. However, during my adulthood I always treated my father as such. I could tell him anything about me (literally anything, even all those things I am not exactly proud of) and he would listen. Not just that, he would not judge. He’d ask a question or two, share his experiences in similar situations, and elaborate on potential consequences.
Calmly, gently, considerately.
With this article, my goal is to honor the Man that had by far the largest influence on my character and my values, by sharing the main lessons I had the privilege to learn first-hand from him.
My father grew up in a quite humble environment; my grandpa Alfredo was a carpenter but had to work many years in the production chain to make a living, and my grandma Teresa was a housewife. Adorable people.
I remember the fascination I felt listening to the stories of my grandfather about his experience as a prisoner of WWII in the United States.
Occasionally he entertained me with stories whose protagonists were former fellow citizens with bizarre nicknames, which tickled my imagination and my spirit of playful boy.
I will never forget the mouthwatering tortellini my grandmother used to prepare. Seasoned with her lively smile, they cheered those Sunday lunches that took place on a monthly basis.
All in all, the young Gianni and his family never really lived in opulence; still today he gets nervous when expired or leftover food goes into the garbage.
His generosity is staggering though. As long as I can remember, he devotes an amount of his income to charity organizations.
He would spare some cash for the African guys visiting us periodically selling door-to-door any sort of goods. In exchange of nothing, of course. But even more than a banknote, he would give them warmth and compassion: inquiring them about their stories and their families, treating them with the respect that every human being deserves.
He has been a volunteer for years in drug-treatment communities and serviced three times in orphanages in Romania.
I could mention a great deal of other examples, but I suppose you got the point.
One thing is certain: in my family life, I never felt lack of anything, neither materially nor emotionally. Of course my mother played a huge role in this, too. God bless Mamma Francesca (Mom I will write an article for you too, deal?).
Quite early in life I came to the realization that whatever you give out of genuine care and compassion, comes back multiplied, one way or another, in a beautifully mysterious way. All the way through, my father has been for me an icon of this precious lesson.
During my childhood, Dad used to adopt a bunch of self-generated or randomly picked names as a source of verbal entertainment; he taught me how to make fun out of words, names and songs.
He created names of superheroes out of improbable characters, like “Picone” (inspired by an Italian movie from the early ‘80s). I must have been 5 or 6 when he convinced me that Picone was stronger than any other superhero. Fascinated by this name, I remember “allowing” him to impersonate Batman as long as I could be Picone.
Since I was a kid, I remember him coming out fairly often with bizarre questions or making funny falsetto voices using names or sentences that he invented himself or heard years before, who knows where from. There is a unique set of words and short phrases whose reference can be understood only by him and me. Most likely this is the same for many father-son pairs. However, he still enacts these performances today, though, at age 63 (almost 64, to be fair)
He would manufacture Machiavellian pranks for his friends, colleagues, or even the entire village. Once he made a friend believe a company was going to organize an unsolicited party for his birthday. I acted over the phone, announcing to the ‘victim’ that the van with the food and the materials was going to arrive in 30 minutes. Of course the fake company wanted to be paid for its services. It ended up in a real small birthday celebration with lots of laughs.
Not to mention that time (about 20 years ago), when he sent letters to various women of the village with excerpts from a quite explicit book about “how to make a man happy in bed”, allegedly signed by the author, inviting them to buy the book. I don’t even remember if he could eventually see the outcome of the joke in any form, but I can guarantee you that the fun he had as he was picturing in his mind the faces of the women reading those letters, was worth all the effort.
Looking at the situations with the eyes of a child, seeking the funny element in every circumstance, always offering a smile. Thanks to this attitude of yours, dear Dad, I didn’t even have to learn how to pursue entertainment and joy in everything I do: it just became natural. I cannot be more grateful for this.
Until a couple of years ago, my antagonism with the idea of losing was sheer. I endured hard times bearing it. This applied mostly to sports and could reach extreme levels in my passion for soccer. I would get totally upset, then frustrated, and finally depressed, from a defeat of my favorite team.
Also, I would take any card or board game with friends very seriously, like a matter of life and death (some symptoms of this still remain…). As my father would say: “One could see the adrenaline spilling out of my ears”.
This might look strange, considering the following facts about my father.
For 15 years he was one of the leaders of the local soccer club. He always decided to coach the weakest team, in which I normally ended up playing. He cared about the less talented and the ones who had issues integrating in the group: with this, though, he could create a team spirit that few times brought us to win against much stronger teams. Against the opinions of the “experts”, he would always make all the substitutions and give everyone the chance to play for a decent amount of time. Even at the epilogue of the seasons in which we were constantly in the bottom three, we would end up the year with a higher number of kids than we started off.
All in all, the Humility lesson is the one that took me much longer to learn. And it‘s probably the most important.
My father needed no winning on the scoreboard. He knew what Winning really means: make everyone part of the game, run and sweat together for a common goal, and savor the moment.
I had always known that, the young Gianni loved to paint and write poetry. He adored Jim Morrison and found comfort and inspiration in music. He has always cultivated complementary activities next to his job. Framer as a hobby, coach and manager of youth soccer academies for 15 years, volunteer for 8 years, a few articles here and there for local magazines, just to mention the most important activities.
In the last 6–7 years, he has resumed some of his old passions: writing and painting. He has just published his second book: “Monelle” (Gamines), a collection of short stories inspired by ordinary people and brought by his imagination to amusing, yet thought-provoking, situations.
He has produced more than 70 paintings with his very own style, finding an interesting number of people that appreciate his very particular technique and subjects.
There are people who cultivate the same passions for a lifetime.
They are often sources of joy, harmony, satisfaction. When we are fully immersed in an activity that absorbs all our attention and energy, but does not produce negative feelings, and we almost lose track of time, then we are in a so-called state of “flow”. This condition, also known as “optimal experience”, is the essential condition for outstanding results, creativity at its best and profound sense of fulfillment.
Sometimes, however, we tend to stay on roads that have now become dry of creativity and true value. We carry on walking those paths because “it’s always been that way” or because we have invested a great deal of resources and time on them. Abandoning them would look like an injustice we are doing to ourselves, or to our past.
Most of the greatest sages and spiritual masters across the centuries have taught us that the past is probably the worst enemy of happiness and inner peace. When will we learn that the secret is to live the present as if the past did not exist?
Surprise: we do not even need a fancy imagination, as the past already DOES NOT EXIST.
The only time that has ever existed is the present. All you have learned is already part of you in this very moment, you don’t need the mental representation of the past to make it beneficial for you.
To forgive is merely to remember only the loving thoughts you gave in the past, and those that were given you. All the rest must be forgotten.
- A Course in Miracles -
Allow me to quote as well Dr. Wayne W. Dyer, who recently passed away:
The past is a trail you leave behind, much like the wake of a speedboat. That is, it’s a vanishing trail temporarily showing you where you were. The wake of a boat doesn’t affect it’s course — obviously it can’t since it appears behind the boat. So consider this image when you exclaim that your past is the reason you aren’t moving forward.
I was maybe 18 when my father put Dr. Dyer’s first book “Your Erroneous Zones” in my hands and recommended me to read it. Since then, Dyer has often been for me a source of inspiration and serenity.
Here’s another lesson I learned from my father:
It is never too late to abandon a road that no longer has a heart. There’s no point in feeling neither guilt nor regret. All we have to do is kindly say “Thank You” for all the adventures and teachings it has brought and, gently, take another one.
I was 26. Exactly 10 years ago. I don’t remember precisely how this conversation started. However I recall in that period I wanted to find peace with the idea of death, a topic which is too often taboo in the family context, especially during periods in which it seems to be distant and unlikely to touch you in the short term.
I found it would be easier to talk about it in “favorable” times, to try and make everyone a bit more comfortable with the subject, at least to the point of saying those things that we wouldn’t eventually regret not having said, when it would be too late.
Quite frankly, all I remember about this conversation is just a tiny fraction of the whole, but it is so powerful that it still gives me goose bumps and brings tears to my eyes every time I narrate it.
I asked him: “What would happen if I suddenly died?”
“I’d thank God for having given me the chance to share 26 years of my life with a wonderful person like you”.
(Pause. Read it once more)
I’m not afraid of death anymore, Dad. Neither yours, nor mine. We both know it is just a door that opens up to a New Beginning.
And now, now that you’re reading these few lines, I think I told you Everything.
