In Celebration of Fatherhood
Only 17% of American men reported having a healthy, vibrant relationship with their father. What about you?
Fatherhood is on my mind a lot this time of year.
In part, because I’m preparing the last-minute logistics for an annual men’s medicine retreat centered around fatherhood, coming up next weekend. The seats are filled, venue ready, menu prep in the works, and we’ve just met up for the preparation call. I’ll be sitting with an amazing group of men deeply engaged in their work as fathers, sons, partners, and humans in the world.
For me, organizing and facilitating these events can take away from family time more than usual. But there’s also something important and nourishing about holding the space for men to come together, to expand our awareness and capacity for engaging edges—and, importantly, to rest.
While I make no guarantees and strive to hold zero agenda and expectations, participants in the past have left these retreats with a sense of transformation, renewal and vigor that ripples out to their intimate partners, families, and communities.
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Fatherhood is on my mind also in part because death is present right now. Around this time of year, the thinning of the veil between this world and the next can offer a clearer view of my intergenerational relationships with my father, grandfathers, great-grandfathers, all the way back.
It gives me a chance to ask, what am I giving back to them that doesn’t serve me, my son, or the generations forward in a life-giving way?
It also gives me the chance to ask, what am I passing on—to my son, and his children, and theirs? What wisdom, capacity, or gifts did I receive from my fathers upon fathers that has served me well, helped me navigate my life, learned more about who I am and why I’m here?
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I recently started listening to Men’s Work, by Connor Beaton. Connor has done a great job of distilling the best elements of mythopoetic men’s work—which for me has a reputation for being dense, prescriptive, and misattuned—and sacred sexuality—based in somatic practices for moving (and tolerating) more energy through the body—to offer a no-frills container for men’s healing that is accessible, applicable, and helpful.
Rightfully, he begins with the father, and the wounds of the father. He invites the reader (I’m assuming most who read the book would be male, or conditioned male) to ask how he relates with his father, what he wanted more or less of, what he still carries from that complex relationship.
One piece that struck me was a statistic that said only 17% of American men reported having a healthy, vibrant relationship with their father.
I would count myself amongst the majority there, that is, my relationship with my father is strained by a lifetime of tenuous connection. We rarely communicate at all anymore, and I’ve let go of almost all desire for that to be different.
As a father myself, I want a healthy and vibrant relationship with my son. A connection that both changes over time and is also deeply anchored in trust and love and witnessing and support. I want to know him, and I want him to know who I am.
I wish that for every father and child. I also understand that it’s not always possible, nor is it customary in particular cultures.
But in a decade of working with men, I’ve yet to meet a man in this world who enjoys a depth of connection with his father who wishes it was less so.
Nor have I met a man who doesn’t wish for a deeper, healthier connections in his life.
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I invite you to sit with the following questions this week.
Choose one or more that feel applicable to you, and go deep with it. Leave a comment below, or journal around it.
What is the felt sense of your relationship with your father?
What do you wish you receved more of from him?
What do you wish you received less of from him?
Which emotions or feelings do you still carry around that?
How do those things play out in your life and relationships now?
What do you want for yourself, in relationship to your father?
What do you want for yourself, in relation to your child(ren)?
This hit home