We Become What We Practice

My Dad thought it was cute to act like an old curmudgeon. He amused himself by pushing the buttons of others. He invested his entire sense of self in two perishables: his marriage and his work. The interior lives of others were of little interest to him. He was a handsome man, gifted, intelligent and capable of charm, and that took him a long way.

Now my father is falling apart. His body is collapsing, his mind disintegrating. His wife died; he lost the will to work. The cranky old curmudgeon act became the reality. The friends whose goodwill was rebuffed again and again eventually gave up and withdrew. He rehearsed being a loner; now, when he desperately needs it he doesn't know how to accept help.

As for me, my buttons were pushed too many times: I feel pity, but not love. Any act of kindness I do toward him will be abstractly, not personally, motivated. I will do my best to do the right thing.

I'm taking mental notes like mad. This is not what I want the last years of my life to look like. I need to pay attention to what I practice.