I just got this overwhelming feeling of my Dad being really proud of me. I can feel it in my bones. It’s one thing to think it, its another to connect with the feeling. And it’s beautiful.

My maverick father and I didn’t seem to share much in common in life. As an introverted vagabond-in-training I would much prefer to do my Paint-by-Numbers of some faraway land than disassemble a motorcycle engine. But it was because of him that I started traveling at all, moving to Mexico to live out his final years in sun-drenched peace. During those years, he made me more aware of my heart and my strength than I could ever thank him for. The unspeakable pain and the all-knowing love – each equally pure – reach me at a young age and I didn’t halt it’s path. In that same spirit of surrender, I can unequivocally say that I am grateful beyond words for what he gave me in life and in death.

He gave me, me.

“I don’t care what you do, so long as you’re happy. But whatever you do, if you’re gonna half-ass it, don’t do it at all.” – my Dad

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