A Simple Kind of Man

"And be a simple kind of man.
And maybe some day you'll love and understand.
Baby be a simple kind of man.
Won't you do this for me son,
If you can?"

("A Simple Kind of Man", Lynryd Skynyrd)

In my head, I've written this post many times over the last number of years.  I've reworded it just about every time I've visited my father.  It's different every time.  Some things remain the same.  Years ago, I think it would have come out a little more angry (at my father's peers) and included a quote from "The Noose" by A Perfect Circle.  But instead, today, as I sit to write this, thinking on the man, I don't feel angry at those who looked down their noses at my father; I feel sorry for them, for what they've missed.

A few years ago, I first noticed the song above at Scott and Nina's wedding, and asked what it was.  It made me think of my father immediately, and of things I'd written about him in the past.  It's stuck with me off and on ever since, and today, the day of his death, it's been running through my head on repeat.

I'm a Taoist, and while I've read the works of Lao Tse many times, I've seldom found much use for Chuang Tse.  Most of what he wrote was far more... ethereal.  It's meant to be soaked in, slowly, moreso than absorbed and interpreted quickly.  It's strange, nebulous material.  But there was one particular passage I came across a little while back that made an impression on me, also because it reminded me immediately of my father.  It comes from a Taoist ideal that happiness comes more often from forgetting than remembering, that simplicity, not sophistication, leads to a better understanding of our world, and the tranquility that comes with enlightenment.  I paraphrase it as follows:

When the rabbit is caught, the snare is discarded.

When the wolf is shot, the bow is discarded.

When the words are truly understood, they too must pass.

I would like to meet the man who has forgotten all the words.

My father didn't teach me much carpentry, or plumbing, or how to tie a tie or build a deck.  He didn't help me with my homework.  In most ways we had little in common and often very little to talk about, but not because we didn't love or respect one another, just because we were so different.  The lessons my father passed to me are not those spoken in words.  They are a more important kind, of a sort that can come only by example.

Without words, he taught me things like loyalty, determination, commitment, resilience, fairness, dependability, and the importance of family.  He taught me to find joy in life, in the simplest of things.  When he was unable to walk or even speak, he could still find the strength to smile, and a way to flirt with the ladies.

John Basil Constantine was a simple kind of man.

The older I get the more I understand him, and the more I appreciate both him and that simplicity.  And in the coming weeks, as people ask me "how are you doing?", I will say "fine" or "I'm ok".  It will be a half-truth, of course, but the lying won't come from the fact that it conceals a deep sadness, that's to be expected.  It will come from the fact that the best answers might require some explanation, and right now I feel I've only a few words left:

Enlightened.

Grateful.

Proud.

And the road
The old man paved
The broken seams along the way
The rusted signs, left just for me
He was guiding me, love, his own way
Now the man of the hour is taking his final bow 

("Man of the Hour", Pearl Jam)