What I know now

The best piece of advice I ever received was, “One hand don’t clap.” The source was my father. Yes. My resilient and seemingly all-knowing father gave me this furtherance. I remember it clearly because it came at a time that marked the end of my puppy love and the onset of self-diagnosed, incurable heartbreak. Lost in short-lived memories, I sat at the kitchen table staring blankly out of the sliding doors leading to our deck. My coffee sat, half-drunk and tepid before me. I felt just like the cup, well on its way to emptying itself down the drain. At least, that’s what I thought.

He walked into the room quietly, careful not to yank the hostess from her grand pity party. This was the hardest morning I had awoken to in a very long time. An ache had settled itself in my core. A stubborn lump rested in my throat and I dared not speak. I feared an ocean tears would be triggered. I feared crying myself blind. He lifted the kettle to fill it, only to replace it having seen that I had left just enough water for him. As he stirred his coffee, he never looked up. He sat across from me and then looked me straight in the eye. “You know, there’s only one thing that makes me sad in this world. And that is when any one of you all is feeling pain and there is nothing I can do to take it away.” By ‘you all’, I knew he meant my two older sisters and me. He was, with all of his being, ready to lay his life down for any one of us at a moment’s notice. I knew this, understood it wholly, but it brought me no comfort given my current condition.

I tuned out his presence to examine my plight. What had gone wrong? My thoughts on love were so simple at this green age. I thought that as long as I gave what was needed, I would get the same in return. Instead, I received a mountain of unfilled promises. I likened it to watching a ticker tape parade marching by from inside a desolate house. The whole world was going on gleefully, and I had no one. I was too young to know that love was not necessarily an even exchange. Sometimes, it was far more taxing than it was rewarding. That a partnership or relationship of any functionality required effort on both parts, but was not guaranteed. So many nights I lay, clutching my heart overwhelmed by the depths of unrequited love. It just wasn’t fair. Entranced by a slide show behind my eyes, I saw moments of firsts replaying themselves. First meeting, first kiss, and the first time to share myself with another human being. I would never be the same. Instantly the tears welled and I began to quake. Inconsolably, I sobbed for ten minutes that seemed everlasting. He allowed me to cry, knowing then what I know now; that this was all part of healing my heart. A good cry refreshes the soul and replenishes the spirit. It was the first of many to come.

Finally, he rose from his seat to leave me in my despair, but not before he poured these words over my hair as salve. “Sweetheart, one hand don’t clap. Remember that.” As he walked out of the kitchen, I ingested what he said. No sweeping exits or off-stage lines. I thought I heard the fanning of a solitary hand, seeking out another that simply was not there. The curtain was closing on my devotion after the dance and I could hear nothing.

These days, that sage advice holds true to this day. When I find myself giving a tireless effort to a lost cause, my father's words return to me. Anything worth having is worth fighting for, but there are times when you have to accept that if you are doing it all by yourself- perhaps it just should not be. It is true: One hand indeed cannot clap, but to append to my learned words of wisdom, all you have to do is be still. Listen closely, because that silence may tell you all that you need to know. It is one of the bravest things you can do.