Surrender

This year Dad made the decision to fly to Hobart for Christmas. The plan was for me to travel with him on the way down, and mum to join us on the way back. After a bit of back and forth about how to best handle the logistics of the journey, I ended up driving to Gordon, spending a couple of hours with Dad having lunch, checking the letterbox and putting final touches to his suitcase before I drove us back to my place and then organised an uber to the airport. 

Throughout the various journeys, Dad pointed out interesting landmarks or points of curiosity. We passed more than one Bunnings, a diverse array of street art and quite a range of petrol prices. 

All went smoothly until we went through security with our carry-on-only bags. We wondered if his hip, or belt, or like last time a small crumpled piece of fishermans friend wrapper, would set off the alarm. But, happily, Dad went through with ease. However, we were pulled over and the security staff lifted from my handbag my house keys complete with the engraved swiss army knife that I’ve had for almost 20 years. 

“You could check it in”, the kind woman on the other side of the bench said “or you could surrender it”. I looked at Dad, not bearing to make him trudge back out to the check-in counter with me, and then bear witness to the expense of checking in a very small item when no checked bag had been booked or alternatively be an accomplice in me hiding it in a pot plant, a trick that had worked about 15 years ago. 

So, reluctantly I surrendered the pocket knife and Dad and I continued with our relatively incident-free journey. Later, Dad asked me if I felt sad about losing the knife, and I honestly replied that I felt okay. I had accepted it. As the week continued, I kept going back to the word surrender. Usually associated with battles, I couldn’t help thinking that it was a strange word to use in relation to a small pocket knife, and yet it was fitting for broader questions of letting go. 

In recent battles of an interpersonal nature, I’ve struggled to find the balance between backing myself and seeing the other person’s perspective. When do I choose to go into battle on behalf of myself or others who have less power, and set clear boundaries and expectations of behaviour I will not accept? And when do I choose to surrender for the sake of harmony, acknowledging my part in how things might have escalated? 

There are insights from the arts and spirituality. The serenity prayer reminds us to know what we can change and what we can't. The song "the gambler" talks about knowing when to let go, how to make the most of the hand you're dealt and choosing to be careful with your vulnerability. 

There have been several moments, both during the Christmas trip and before, when Dad has modelled surrender to me. On the physical front, he has surrendered his license and car, and happily lets other people drive him places, graciously saying “thank you” when they help him with his seatbelt. During the Christmas trip he wanted to know in advance what will be happening, but other than that tended to go with the flow, surrendering control over decision making to others. 

But perhaps the most important lesson he is teaching me is a deeper surrender. As I watched him gazing out the airplane window, intrigued with how things look from above and pointing out interesting cloud formations and the changing landscape, I realised with a lump in my throat that he is savouring all of these experiences. I remember his reply when I asked how he feels about his diagnosis. He can’t do anything about it, he acknowledged with a shrug, so may as well accept it. Surrender again.

My journey with surrender is slightly different to Dad’s, and yet there are similarities. For me, it’s about letting go of certain outcomes, and choosing to live with some decisions even when I don’t fully agree with them. It’s also about accepting that none of us can control the way people see us. Let them misunderstand me if they want to. I know who I am and what I stand for. 

And, most importantly, the past couple of years have been a gift for me. My relationship with my father is stronger than ever, and we've shared some hilarious, beautiful, and poignant moments together. I know he has appreciated this time as well. If he’s taken away sooner than I’d like, he will teach me how to surrender to that too, and I will remember him fondly as he wanted me to do.