I have always had a deep love for reading. As a child, I was envious of my, next to me in age, older sister who had the privilege of going to school before me. Determined to catch up, I would insist that she teach me to read while she did her homework each night at our kitchen table.

There was something magical about learning how letters formed words that held meaning and joy in making sense out of sentences woven together with those meaningful words.

Many evenings, when my father was home, he would pull out the dictionary and challenge us with the definition of unfamiliar words. As I grew older, my siblings and I would gather with our father around that same kitchen table to play Scrabble, a game that further deepened my love affair with words.

A while ago, after my mother’s passing, I stumbled upon a big tin box of papers she had carefully preserved over the years. Among them, I discovered one of my father’s small black notebooks where he had diligently recorded our Scrabble scores. There, in his scrawling handwriting, I found evidence of my passionate connection with words. My father, who never believed in letting me (or anyone else for that matter) win, inevitably emerged as the victor in every game. However, scattered throughout the notebook, I discovered occasional victories of my own, moments when I had managed to best him.

My father is the root of my love for words and writing. A man of few words himself, he used writing to express the emotions his heart did not know how to speak.

When I moved from Europe to Canada in my early twenties, my father’s letters were the lifeine that connected me to ‘home’. Over the years, he began to shift from letter-writing to recording casette tapes where both he and my mother would chat together as if I was at the table with them. Inevitably, they also shared menus and recipes.

My father’s love of all things culinary is the root of my love of cooking.

Someone mentioned to me the other day that I don’t often write or speak about my relationship with my father.

They’re right.

Challenge is, I didn’t have an answer to the next part of their question, “Why is that?”.

I wasn’t close to my father. I don’t think anyone could be. Some of our lack of closeness may be because for many years, I held my father on a pedestal and it’s hard to be close to anyone when you can only view them from afar. It could also be because the walls around his heart were so high and impenetrable, breaking through (and believe me, I tried a lot) left me feeling like Sisyphus rolling his giant boulder up the hill again and again, never to reach the top.

But here’s the thing, not having an answer doesn’t excuse me from my responsibility to explore that relationship to understand its role in forming who and how I am in this world today.

My father was a complex man. Undoubtedly, our relationship influenced many of my choices in partners. While I always seemed drawn to those who were emotionally distant and strong-willed, they also needed to possess intelligence, generosity, quick-wittedness, and a love for reading. And if they happened to enjoy playing Scrabble and spending time in the kitchen, it was an added bonus!

Our parents play an integral role in who we become and how we see the world and our role in it.

My father taught me to not be afraid to rock the boat. That accepting ‘status quo’ was just another way of settling. He taught me the value of a human being is not because of their skin colour, faith, pedigree or wealth, it’s because they’re the same kind of different as us. He taught me to be welcoming to everyone at the dinner table, and to make room for those who have no other table to sit at.

During our countless walks along the Rhine River on peaceful Sunday mornings, he instilled in me an appreciation for all creatures, both great and small. He helped me see the wonder and awe in nature’s grand displays of bold colors as well as its quiet, leafy beauty. He encouraged me to listen to the melodies of birdsong and discover the rhythm of my own heart amidst the gentle thrum, thrum, thrum of barges gliding along the river.

He taught me the art of baking bread, exploring recipes and new ideas, and the value of curiosity in seeking answers to the countless questions that arise within my mind.

And he taught me how to love life, fiercely.

I was 42 years old when my father died of a massive heart-attack almost almost 28 years ago. It’s time I got to know him better now.

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PS. If you are interesting in exploring your relationships with those who played a role in making you who you are today and want support in taking that journey in a safe, loving and courageous space, Discovery Seminars has room at their table for you.