Pull Push

This is how I learned to swim:
My dad stood in the shallow end of the pool and I clung to the side. He said to swim towards him. He held his arms out. He was only a few feet away. I pushed off and flailed towards him, using more energy than the distance covered required. When I finally reached him I looked back at where I'd started. The distance was greater.

"Dad you moved."

"Yep. I knew you could do it and I was right in front of you the whole time."

This is how I learned to ride a bike:
My dad said to keep pedaling. He said that speed helped you stay up. I told him not to let go of my seat. I pedaled and he ran along side, encouraging me forward.

There was a moment, I felt it in my stomach, when the balance took over. He'd let go and I was on my own. Then I crashed.

"Dad you let go."

"Yep. I knew you had it and I was back here the whole time."

The lessons my dad has taught me since fall into those two categories. Pulling me towards him and pushing me on have been his methods for as long I as I've needed teaching.

When he yelled at me at 18 to get up and go to work when I wanted to blow it off, that was a swim lesson.

When my parents let me run off to Honduras for a couple of weeks to help others, they were supporting the bike until I could pedal. They stood back and watched me go, confident in my balance, sure of my return.

Both of my parents stayed up late several nights helping me learn the devil's algebra so I could finish school. Swim lessons.

Always being willing to help out with college costs when they could was no different than their hand on the seat, helping me gain my own momentum.

I've made some bad choices with women and my mom was always so willing to treat them well and make them feel welcome. Those were bike lessons. She was supportive without needing to steer.

In the pool, my dad moved away as I approached. He knew what I didn't. That the distance from where I was to where I needed to be was shorter than I thought. He knew that in my blind, head down, flailing I needed direction. I had the strength, but not the confidence.

On the street in front of my house, my parents encouraged me to take flight. To find my balance, to learn how to navigate, turn and even stop on my own.

The first lesson is motion towards becoming more like them. The second is to launch and hopefully do better.

My parents' voices guide me daily toward making good decisions and swimming toward the deep end of adulthood.

Their strength has allowed me to push myself in my own direction, crash and get back up again. Returning to them for repair and rest.

Every wise choice I've made, I've done so while trying to swim out to where they were. My successes have been largely because they steadied me while I figured out the gears.

The healthiest departure from my childhood was somewhere between my dad letting go of the seat and the realization that I was in control.

So far, adulthood has not been a fixed point. There is no other side of the pool. It's your dad moving backwards, calling out to you until you can stand, head above water, and breathe.


Hold Fast,
Caulfield