My Father's Hands
In last week’s blog about using free-writing to untangle our deepest truths, I shared that I first tried this practice ten years ago, soon after my father passed, and how much it helped me process my grief and reclaim long-forgotten memories. Because people asked for more details, today I’m sharing some of the writing prompts I used back then, as well as one example which was gently edited years after it was written.
I was extremely fortunate to begin writing under the mentorship of Laura Davis—the best-selling author who will be leading our free writing workshop next Saturday, whose books and workshops have been helping thousands of people on their healing journey for over thirty years. Laura created custom prompts for me during that highly emotional time, and although I wasn’t writing with any future goal in mind, I was able to harvest many gems years later when I was working on Quest for Eternal Sunshine.
Myra with her father, Mendek Rubin, 1994
The intention behind this type of practice is to access raw and unfiltered truths by writing from our gut, not our conditioned minds. To summarize the process, you set a timer (I set mine for 20-minutes), and then write continuously for the entire period, never stopping to review your work, fix spelling mistakes, or make edits. In my free-writing sessions, I generally started every paragraph with the prompt, but sometimes I meandered to unexpected places or subjects that were rich and illuminating.
If you are intrigued by this type of writing, you can sign up to receive a provocative new prompt from Laura in your inbox every Tuesday. Some of my favorites include:
Tell me about a time you played it safe—and the price you paid for doing so.
What I love without reservation.
What are you not paying attention to?
Give your exhaustion a voice. Let it speak.
Write a love song to your imperfections.
Below are ten of the prompts I used to help process my father’s death, as well as to explore my feelings about his life and our relationship. Most of these prompts could be easily adjusted if you want to write about a different person—a mother, grandparent, relative or friend.
Before my father died
When my father was dying
After my father died
Without my father
My father’s hands
My father was a self-made man
My father never met a lock he couldn’t open
When my father came home from work
What I wish I could say to my father
What I never knew about my father
Myra’s parents’ hands holding a rose, circa 1980
Here’s one sample of my writing from early 2013 in response to the prompt, “My father’s hands.”
My father’s hands were beautiful. Maybe not by hand model standards. The ring finger on one hand was very bent. As his Alzheimer’s progressed, he didn’t remember that he’d had a bent finger for decades. He would look at it for a long time, wondering why he couldn’t straighten it out.
My father’s hands were warm and soft. Even as his body broke down, as blood pooled in his urine and he began to wear diapers, when you held his hand, you felt his love. You felt his warmth, his life, his gentleness.
My father’s hands meant the world to my mother. He was her only friend in a world she distrusted. Her only ally. As he lost his mind slowly, year by year to his disease, she always had his hands. She said when she held his hands, she felt supported. She got strength. She could imagine making it through another day.
My father’s hands have done so much. With those hands, he was a painter. Wild paintings that must have been from a past life in Africa. Some of Jewish men. Many geometric shapes. Interesting paintings and he was color blind.
My father’s hands wrote me cards in college that I forgot about until I found the box after he died. My father’s hands typed books that he published about how to heal a broken heart, a terrorized mind, a scared, lonely child. His hands wrote poems about light and love and goodness. How to be “big” and not “small.”
My father’s hands were always busy. When he retired to Carmel, he created a magical garden of stones and big gems. On our farm, he built a tractor shed and posts for our raspberries. He built us berry pickers for raspberry picking: plastic plant containers with a hanger bent just so. A part fit in your waist belt and the basket rocked but it always hung straight up while you picked. Kneeling or standing, however you changed your position, the raspberries never tipped out.
My father’s hands tucked me in at night. Never my mother’s. He sang “Good Night, Irene” and told me not to be afraid. I still was afraid every night. There were so many break-ins in our neighborhood in Brooklyn. Our house, too. I was terrified every night.
My father’s hands swept the floor in his factory every evening. He was the boss, but he was always humble. He wouldn’t let himself get tan on vacation because he didn’t want his workers to know he’d been vacationing while they kept working. My mom says he swept the floor because he liked it and also not to give someone else that job.
My father’s hands continued to sweep the patio until about a year before he died. It was the last productive thing he could do. He loved his broom. He loved being productive. Making things. Making everything better.
My father’s hands were held by me and my mom as he died on September 16, 2012. We held his hands and each other’s in a circle of love and appreciation. A circle of sadness but also joy for his pain ending. And because he’d finally be reunited with his family. My father really was an angel on earth. No one can ever remember him saying a hurtful word to anyone.
My father’s hands figured out so many things. They played with my children. Drove a car—often badly. He got lost all the time. He ran red lights when there was no one waiting. He saw no reason to wait. He followed rules, but he made many of his own. He followed the path that made the most sense. He was a pragmatist.
My father’s hands were warm and wise. His age spots delicate. He was a gentle man. He was quiet. His impact was huge, but he was easy to overlook. I wish I could hold his hand right now.
Myra’s mother, Edith, celebrating her birthday with Mendek, 2009
