LIES

LIES

Peeking through the crystal flakes scattered on my window to days past, I see my dad’s hair covered with silver powder snow, reading a book, thoughtful as ever. Once I believed each word he ever said. Later, I did not trust his judgement anymore, and thought that all his words had been lies.

My dad used to say, one should never work for money.

He also said, work would be the source of my greatest joy.

“If you want an interesting life, you should pay attention in school and develop a passion for everything you do. One day, if you want to do the same boring chores again and again, day after day, month after month, for years to come, until you are no more, then you don’t need to care about this. You would live in a hamster wheel or a production line forever.

Whatever you decide to do, try to do your best – if you are a baker, serve the best bread rolls in town; if you are a singer, be sure to touch everyone’s heart, even if there is only one person sitting on the wooden bench in a church, a nearby park, or the pavement next to you”.

He told me about his friend growing up in a little village in the heart of the mountains who wanted to become a musician but did not have a piano at home. He used to walk for miles to the next town, to enter a community centre and play there. Sometimes, in winter, streets were covered with snow, and since he did not have proper gloves, his fingers were frozen and hard as stone, so he kept them at the big oven for an hour before he was able to play. He became a conductor, established an excellent choir, and was honoured at festivals all over the world. His life: hard work, standing ovations and a full heart.

I believed him and I worshiped him. He was also so much fun. Not talking about duty all the time like my mom (forgive me mom, I know you had the household, and you loved your work, too) – he would cuddle with me or tickle me on the big family sofa, we would laugh together, and I would listen to all his interesting stories and enjoy every word he said.

Suddenly I grew up and turned twenty. I looked around and saw that most people I met did, indeed, work for money. At first, I wondered, how come they were not ashamed. Then I decided that my dad had lied to me. This is not the way the world goes round. While I was still insecure, I asked him, why does not everybody study business or become an engineer, like my brother was planning to do? Being a man of languages, he said, “well, imagine that nobody in this world would be able to appreciate a good piece of music, a good book or a wonderful picture, how poor would we all be?”. I dismissed this as a piece of polemics, he always had good arguments. My dad had just compiled the biggest dictionary in the country’s history, having worked on it for many nights, after everybody else had done their job – but I didn’t really notice. When I did, I wondered how he could work for so long.

One day I said, “I want to study economics” (nothing wrong with that), since I was good at languages and math’s. He took his time and spoke to me for hours, telling me how my family did not have connections in those circles, so the most I could achieve would become a secretary in a foreign bank. But with science, I could discover yet unrevealed secrets, or perhaps translate a great book?

I never forgave him that he talked me out of this plan, for decades to come, until his very last day. How could I know he did not imagine that I would enjoy something else than what he loved? He only wanted the best for me.

One thing I believed for a while, since it worked out for my mom and dad – it’s good to enjoy what I do for a living and derive satisfaction out of it. When I had a boring student job, I knew it was a temporary state to simply work for money, one day I would do “the real thing” and would find joy in my work. I only thought it would be something different than what my dad had told me it would be.

Therefore, I made a U-turn. Finished what he wanted but studied business afterwards. Changed several jobs, made more money, took on responsibility, my CV was getting longer. Still, slowly, a nameless void unfolded like a November fog in my chest and spread in my bare soul. The sunny part was missing – no satisfaction, no joy, just an expectation of something to come – with the next project or an even better role. From time to time, there were substitutes, showing other peoples’ appreciation for what I did (since I was good, as my dad always said I had to be), but nothing came from within. Wondered what I was doing wrong, since all people around me seemed to be content and happy with their life.

Until I talked to a childhood’s friend and recalled a forgotten dream. I had forgotten how often teachers had read my stories as a good example in school, and how many hours I had been sitting in bed, writing a poem or a couple of lines, not caring whether one or many would read and love them, overwhelmed with my thoughts. Realized that the people around me simply had another dream, not mine. Everything became clear. I wrote a novelette, and the muggy fog was driven away, long before someone else became enthusiastic about the piece. Showing it to others was difficult, like being naked, but writing was easy, a pure joy.

I understood. Thank you, Dad.

Now, decades later, I see your words were all true.

They will never fade away.