We are all unique beings, but we can’t help but be shaped by those in our lives.

Lately, I’ve been having the urge to go and just get lost. The call to travel with no real destination in mind, living moment to moment in quiet solitude, is powerful. I fantasize not of the final resting spot, but of how I will make my way there. I just want to lose touch, to not carry the burden of responsibility, to fall completely off the grid and answer to no one.

I don’t have to wonder where these desires come from. My 74 year old dad and I sat outside across the street from the beach in Malibu this morning. He ate a pastry and drank coffee. I just rested in his company. During our brief conversation, I was reminded of who I am and why I’m drawn to my passions. Without his example as a child, I wouldn’t be writing this blog. That’s but a single layer.

My dad told me of his hours spent hitchhiking, working day jobs for food, living moment to moment. “You want to be spontaneous,” he said.

Exactly. If I choose left, I go left. I don’t tell anyone, I just go. Of course, I can’t do that right now. I have multiple careers, but much more importantly, I have two young men. I cherish them and recognize that this is a vital time in their development. I stay put, and I’m content with that arrangement.

Nevertheless, I still love that aforementioned fantasy and passionately want it to exist when the time comes that I’m able act on it. My dad didn’t wait for the right time. He went when I was a kid. He says my mom wanted him to check in from time so he was chained to a nearby payphone to a degree. She argues he’d just up and disappear for a while whereas he says he’d update her as to his whereabouts.

He told me of his days hopping trains. “I’d hop in an open car and just get off whenever.”

Watching him, he bounced from topic to topic as he shared his stories, which smoothly explained my love of train tracks. As a player in the minor leagues on long bus rides across the south, I’d gaze at the wooden versions out the window and long to follow them into the woods. If the tracks cross a bridge, I can barely contain myself. I see deep, explosive beauty in the mystery of their paths.

I’ve always been attracted to the works of Rudyard Kipling. My 100 year old grandfather, his father, would read pops poetry when he was a child. My dad lights up as he muses on Robert Louis Stevenson.

My dad asked me as he sipped his coffee, “What kind of apple is your favorite?”

I’m awed. All this time, I’ve claimed ownership of that question.

One of my earliest memories of my father is of him biting off a piece of apple, handing it to me, and raving about the crispness and tartness.  Today I notice history repeating itself. As I find myself smiling, singing the praises of a bell pepper to my twelve year old and he looks at me funny, I think to myself, “You’ll be doing the same thing with your son, trust me.”

Sitting with my father and taking stock of who he is and was, I discover I understand myself better. He made everything so romantic; now, I am a reflection of that romance. All of my deep desires, the things that I’m touched by, the elements of life I find breathtakingly beautiful are pieces of him. My deep love of music? He’s a pianist. My curiosity about where roads lead? He digs maps. My immersion in the study of healthy foods? He stocked our home with whole wheat bread decades before it was cool.

On the surface, these individual encounters are simply about the subject matter. A deeper exploration, throughout the course of a childhood, reveals that they are truly the vehicles for connection. My father articulated his love for me often, but more importantly, expressed that care by pointing out the elegance in nature and life.

When I was a young boy, my dad and I were on a road trip to the Sierra Nevada Mountains late at night. He pulled the car over, we got out, and he pointed up.  The sky was pitch black and the bright contrasting stars took my breath away.

Here’s how he remembers it:

We were on highway 395 en route to Tahoe–about a 10 hour drive–it was in the middle of nowhere, middle of the night and we stopped and I turned out the car lights and woke you up. We spent maybe 3 minutes looking at the sky, standing outside the car. There was no light at all anywhere, only a deep blanket of stars. No moon. Then we got back in the car & you fell asleep. We were still driving when the sun came up. You awoke. Driving up a long hill, we saw a cow off to the side of the road, dead, on its back, feet sticking in the air. We just kept going. I’m guessing you were around 6 or 7, it was the 2 of us, and I don’t remember what the trip was for.

He may not remember the impetus for the trip, but, like it was for me, the sensory emprise was unforgettable.

My young men will tell you about a drive we took in a camper to Monterey from Southern California in which we watched the most spectacular sunrise. It’s a cherished memory for them just a few years later.

I’m not a carbon copy of my dad. My mother’s influence runs strong through my make-up. My love for violent 90s hip hop and strong appreciation for contact sports weren’t spawned from either of my pacifist parents, that’s for damn sure.

However, as I sit here on Father’s Day, I find myself grateful that I have a dad who was so expressive. He wasn’t perfect, but he oozed love. If I knew nothing else, I knew I was cherished. That knowledge allowed me to let my guard down and be molded.

Many men become alarmed when they recognize the parallel behavior between their fathers and their own. If, at the end of the day, I’m like my father, my boys will be the lucky ones.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you.