The Unexpected Bond: Finding Connection Through My Late Father's Hobby

It's been a year and three months since my father left us without warning. He went out for a casual Sunday cycling trip with friends but never returned. This story isn't about triumph over sorrow—because I haven't achieved that. Nor can I rationalize the untimely loss of someone who should have had many more years. It remains a puzzle to me. Instead, let me share the tale of creativity—his art, and the art I've newly embraced.

My dad, a doctor adored by countless patients, filled his life with much more than medicine. He had a passion for astronomy, a knack for kite-surfing, a sharp mind for chess, and a soul of an artist. One spontaneous decision led him to pick up painting, a self-taught venture aided by YouTube and a heap of practice.

His paintings found their way into exhibitions and were sold as prints. His subjects were diverse—landscapes, historical landmarks, people, animals; he explored them all. Each time I visited, I'd find another of his projects occupying the dining table. Despite my near non-existent experience with painting, I never sought his guidance.

A Shift Towards Creating

My journey into art began by cherishing my father's artwork. He had amassed a trove of paintings. Together with my mom, we chose pieces to adorn our walls. I selected his artworks depicting Eilean Donan and the Roman Colosseum—two destinations that meant a lot to me. Another painting depicted a beach scene with silhouettes that reminded me of shared moments with him.

For months, I found myself captivated by these pieces. They captured moments from his life. His hands, his brushstrokes, his eye for color—all immortalized on canvas. Should I ever need to evacuate my home urgently, his paintings sit atop my list of must-rescue items.

A couple of months ago, I enrolled in a watercolor class marked 'Suitable for Beginners.' I spent hours inspiredly painting a flower. Encouraged, I joined another class to paint Tuscany's landscape. I later dived into oil painting, appreciating the obstacle of a new medium.

A Newfound Connection

Typically, when I embark on a new pastime, my impatience demands perfection, and I'm quick to give up. Painting stands apart. This time, patience is key, guided by insights from both real-life and virtual mentors. Mistakes are made, but these missteps are part of the journey, aided by my dad's old brushes, some still salvaged from his less-than-meticulous cleaning habits.

I've heard that losing a parent leaves a certain lingering ache, a homesickness that persists. It's a poignant description of grief I've found. Taking up this hobby has fashioned a tenuous link between us, not alleviating the sense of loss, but rather stirring it like rinsing pigment from a brush in water.

Some days, embracing this sorrow feels right. I grip his brushes, resonate with his chosen music, and engage in an activity he cherished, conscious that we'll never share this experience together again. In that moment, his presence guides mine, and together, we create.