UFC, red wine, and the painted garden

I spent the weekend with my family in New Jersey, at my mother and father's house.  It was a much needed break; I haven't had a full blown vacation in nearly three years.  This was just an extra day, a Friday off before the Memorial Day weekend.  And the weekend provided a little more perspective for me.  

There were many great moments over the three days-walking the boardwalk for the first time with my wife and son, a great dinner with my brother and his fiance, breakfast with my niece and husband at their beautiful new home.  But there was one moment that stands out above the rest; a moment when I was completely alone, Saturday night after everyone went to bed.  I was sipping on some wine, watching UFC (a guilty pleasure that I can't resist, probably twice a year).  I walked out into the backyard, to my parents' garden.  It was quiet.  More quiet than I am used to, living in my apartment on the main drag, where my family listens to the rush of transports all day and night.  No road noise.  Soft grass between my toes.  And crickets, frogs, etc.  It was so peaceful that I didn't know what to do with myself.  It's a very small backyard, but it is beautiful.  And I forced myself to stay out there for a while..

My father, after having been forced into his now pensionless retirement 4 years ago (see http://theperpetualwantrapreneur.blogspot.com/2014/04/i-have-very-good-friend-whos-in-trouble.html), was lost after losing his post-retirement hobby of going to the office, and permanently losing his income.  My parents immediately sold their house in Florida, and they moved to New Jersey, to be closer to my family (my brother wasn't far behind).  They bought a cute little home in a retirement community, which my brother-in-law worked tirelessly to renovate and beautify.  And it is beautiful, inside and out.  But my father needed something to do.  He loves being outside.  So he started painting.  Not on a canvas, mind you (although we did encourage this idea), but on garden figurines.  Yes, the cement ones which adorn the gardens of people all over the world.  His yard is now full of beautifully painted garden statues (as well as my sister's garden, my niece's, my brother's, etc.).  The colors are spectacularly vivid on each and every one of them, as if to give us a peek into the window of his soul.  He also created beautiful birdhouses amongst the greenery.  As kids, we would have never known that he possessed such artistic skill (I'll speak for myself on that one).  As I looked out into the darkness Saturday night, with the soft glow of solar garden lighting cast upon the painted works, I wondered what was going through my father's head in the months following his devastating loss.  He doesn't talk about it much, even when asked.  He's an old-school Hungarian, who is much more apt to dispense great advice on life before discussing his own.  So what was he thinking?  We all know he was deeply hurt.  And he turned to painting.  None of us knew he had such talent.  He had built sheds in the past (not the pre-assembled ones, mind you, but miniature houses, of wood and nails), assembled beautiful stone fireplaces, and he can stack wood in more stunning formations than anything you have ever seen.  He's an artist.  That's what I realized in the garden that night.  Even though he was a textile manager his entire life, without any need to tap into his creative spirit, he has been an artist all along.  And through his art, he found peace.  And if you step into his backyard, you'll see the beauty in his art.  And that's the moral of this story, the theme of this message.  It's never too late to find your passion.  His life is not much different than mine, or yours, in many respects.  He chose to dig deep and engage in self-exploration.  And he found his passion.  That's what I need to do, what we all need to do.  My father loved what he did for fifty years, and he never complained about anything.  He still doesn't complain.  Outwardly, he is an eternal optimist.  Inwardly, nobody knows.  But he is my hero, and I will honor him in my pursuits.  So honor yourself, and whoever else inspires you.  Find your passion.  It's hard as hell, but you can do it.  We can all do it.  And we can walk on the summer grass, cool dew between our toes, content in the knowledge that we have followed our passion, and made a living out of it.  So grab your own "garden gnome" and have at it.  If you can see my father's garden, you'll love what you can create.