I wrote a poem in 1986 that captured my frustration at being unable to write:

The desire to express
I was taught to repress,
Has caused me a block
I wish to unlock.

I pick up the pen
I start writing again,
I feel the flow,
And Then I stop.

In 2003, many years after I had discovered the damage from my Father, I found there was another source to my writing blocks.

It started with my Grandmother, my Dad’s Mom. When I was 8 years old. She asked me, what do you want to be when you grow up?

I said I wanted to be a famous writer.

She said, “Oh, no, you don’t want to do that?”

Puzzled, I asked, “Why not?”

“Because if you’re a famous writer, they’ll call you crazy and lock you up.”

The messages went on and went much, much deeper, and over the next several years, I uncovered why I had twice come up to the edge of publication, only to stop, walk away, and not return to the book I had written.

The memories I uncovered were very painful. Yet I also discovered that the pain of the memory wasn’t as bad as the pain of not being able to write. I got through it. The book will be called, And Then I Stop.

“OK,” he replied, “I guess to do that the best way to start is to tell you about this dream I had. In the dream I was walking down a road with a friend, and I was taking him to see my house. I wanted to show him all the beautiful new rooms I was discovering in my house. We opened the front door and went inside, and as we closed the door behind us, I knew there was something in there with us.” He stopped, paused, took a deep breath. “We began walking through the house, with me pointing out all the neat rooms and nice features. Suddenly there was a tiger with us, walking next to us. My friend was, of course, very frightened. I assured him it was a tame tiger, that I knew it, and that it wouldn’t hurt us. Then it grabbed my arm in its mouth. I could feel the tremendous power of its jaws, even though it wasn’t biting hard - just playing almost. Then I knew the tiger was not tame, I had been fooling myself. I could not control it, and sooner or later it would destroy me, and any of my friends who might be around. I got scared, and the dream ended.”

“Boy,” she gasped, “that’s pretty powerful. So what does the dream mean to you?”

“The house, of course, is me - the inside of me. It has many wonderful parts - rooms - to it, a lot of which I’m just now discovering. The tiger was my rage. Something terrible because it was uncontrollable, capable of destroying the house - me - and anyone who came close to me.”

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As they sat down at the Denny’s restaurant, what went through his mind was, “Oh, my God, this feels like an Intervention.” There were six of them, and one of him. They had gotten him out of bed that night - woke him up late - and said they wanted to buy him dinner. From the first his intuition was that something was wrong. The people who came to his back door didn’t fit together - some of them didn’t even like each other. And they wanted to buy him dinner? This late? But he had gone along with them - because he trusted them, gave power to their words - in a sense because they were family.

He had seen these people earlier in the evening at a party. He had been in a lot of pain - because of grief over his Dad’s death, but also the pain of knowing that he must move on from some of these people. He loved them dearly, but he had to detach from them, for his own well being, to save himself. So when it got too emotionally crowded at the party, he went home.

Now as he sat in the middle of the table, surrounded by these people - trapped in a sense - his thought was: listen to what they have to say. Give them the benefit of the doubt - don’t get angry and get up and leave. Trust them. They began talking. They told him they wanted to confront his pattern of backing away from people. That felt strange. Couldn’t that have waited until tomorrow? They said they were doing this out of love. As he looked at them, they looked frightened, agitated. They made statements that sounded reasonable, but in some way sounded angry. The things they said about him could have been true about them as well. It sounded like they were describing themselves, but they were saying it was about him.

Their words grew more hurtful, more demanding. They were accusing him of things, diagnosing him - telling him how sick he was. Some of them grew more angry, more insistent. It continued.

Several days later, he found out the truth about how this had all come about. He grew angry, very angry. He felt his tiger. It scared him deeply, because there was an immediate target for the rage. Something had to be done.

This was one of the most hideous experiences of my life. Why would I later say it may have been the single biggest blessing that I had ever experienced?

I had said some hurtful things to my Father. But he had been dead for three years. How do you make amends after they're gone? It wasn't perfect, not like him being there, but I was talking to him anyway. Just making up a conversation in my mind, inside my spirit. And answering for him - what I thought he would say. No, that's not quite true. Some of the things my Dad had said to me, but I could not hear them at the time, or at least could not receive his words.

My Dad had owned 5 acres of land out in the country that he was planting in pecan trees. We had been out there one time, with me clearing trees and brush while he grafted pecan trees. While we were resting, he'd been telling me stories about the good old days, like he always did. I told him that with any other adult male I would get up and leave if the stories got too much, and so I would with him. God, how that must have hurt.

And now I felt bad about it. I imagined us now out at that land once again, sitting in camp chairs under the large oak trees, resting in the shade. I was saying now what I couldn't say before.

"Dad, I know it must have hurt you, what I said when we were out here that time; that and some other things I did."

He answered me. "Yes, son, that did hurt. I never knew you didn't like my stories. I didn't know what to say." He paused. "What other things?"

"Dad, I guess it was mostly me provoking you, arguing with anything you said, rebelling. Putting you down. I did a lot of subtle stuff. I didn't know why I was so angry with you. I've learned more and seen where all that anger was coming from. But that didn't make it right what I did." It felt like my words were all rushing out, stumbling over each other, eager to be free. I felt awkward, like I was saying it poorly, now that I had the chance.

He replied. "Yes, it did feel like whatever I did wasn't good enough for you at times. Almost like I couldn't live up to your expectations. But Cowboy, I know I hurt you, too, many times. And I think that's where your anger started. I didn't ever remember - I was too drunk. But now I know more."

We sat in silence for a few moments, reflecting.

He spoke again. "It's real sad, but I guess it happens a lot. My Father was there for me, and then when I was 12, he left. He turned his back on me. I felt hurt, and abandoned, and like he didn't love me any more.

"And I can see now that I turned away from you when you were the same age. I began punishing you. I was really proud of your writing, your speaking, your acting. But I made stupid, ugly comments about them all - I can remember now - over here we see a lot of things more clearly. And I know I hit you, abused you. I guess it was because you were daring to develop your creativeness - and I had never been able to. But that's no excuse."

There it was. What I'd always wanted to hear, wanted him to admit - I hadn't realized it would be this hard to accept. I was having trouble catching my breath. We sat for a long time, not speaking. I spoke again, feeling my words. "Thanks, Dad, for saying that. That's the way it felt for me, too. But the things I said to you were wrong, no matter what you did to me. I blamed you for all my problems and played victim and all that shit. I have to accept responsibility for what I did after I was grown up. I apologize."

"Me too, Cowboy. I apologize, too. The sickness and the disease we carry with us makes us do hateful things, things we would not do if we were in our right minds. I never intended to hurt you. I was very proud of you. But when I was in my sickness, I couldn't always let it show."

"Thank you, Dad. I do know now you were proud of me - you told me before, but I couldn't hear it." We sat in silence, hearing the breeze whistling through the trees, the birds singing in the upper branches. I drew in a deep breath.

"Dad, there's something else."

"I know, son."

"I have to leave. I have to separate from you, and be me, be Dan. I have lived for 20 years trying to be what I thought you wanted me to be, not who I really was. I hope you understand I mean no disrespect by leaving."

"No, Dan, I don't think that way, not at all. I don't know if you remember, but I encouraged you to go out and be whatever you wanted to be, and I'd support you."

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, I meant that. If you want to be a writer, I support you in that. I am glad you are happier being that."

"Thanks, Dad. But please know this. I will take with me the gifts you have given me."

"Gifts? Like what?"

I started choking up. "Well, like when I saw you have the courage to come home and put our family back together after you sobered up. And even though it took 10 years, you got back your old job. And the guts to stick to it, even though it would have been easier to leave. Staying sober for 20 years. You modeled for me perseverance. And courage. You gave me my love of literature, of reading. My writing ability came from you. You know, I've always been real proud of you. But in my sickness, I couldn't tell you either."

"Thank you, son." We sat quietly for a time. "So can we be at peace with each other?" my Father asked.

"Yes, Dad. At peace. I am a man, now, and I want to shake your hand - man to man."

We shook hands, solemnly, firmly, slowly. "You certainly are a man, Dan. And a very remarkable one. Go for it. All the way. Let your writing go as far as it will - and that's a long way."

"Thank you, Ben. I will. I will remember you always, treasure all you gave me. You are part of the story I have to tell. You are one of the greatest men I have ever known." I paused. "I'll check in with you along the way. Goodbye, Ben."

"You do that, Cowboy. Goodbye. Vaya Con Dios. Go With God."

So continued the journey of forgiveness.

As the Symbolmakers inspired my healing process with my Dad, I had begun to write a story about the time when my Dad disappeared. He had lost his job, lost his family, lost everything; he had reportedly gone to work on the wheat harvest, which he had done in high school. He returned to Fort Worth, and after fumbling around for a while, sobered up in AA, and eventually got a job in his old industry, put the family back together, and had altogether a different experience than I would have expected when he disappeared.

The missing piece for me was that I had no idea what it would be like to be on the wheat harvest. I mentioned it to the guys at dinner one night that “someday, if I’m ever going to finish this book, I have to go work on the wheat harvest.”

Pat said later that I had mentioned that three or four times before he said anything. In January of 1991, he quietly said to me one night, “Someday, if you ever want to go work on the wheat harvest to finish your book, I have relatives in Oklahoma who work the harvest every year. I could probably get you on with them.” I did a huge mental gulp at hearing that, and reacted like I usually do when I’m in shock, sat there with a stunned look on my face, saying nothing. I thought about that for a long time, because I felt like the spiritual ante had been greatly upped on this whole book project.

I told several of my friends about it, and all were in support of it. One night I told one of the guys from my Sunday School class about it - he was an accountant, very well grounded, a very solid person. He was totally enthusiastic for me. I later realized I had secretly hoped he’d call the idea very unreasonable, and try to talk me out of it.

Time to take a leap

The momentum built, and by May of 1991 I had quit my job, driven to Oklahoma, and was living in a trailer with 6 high school farm kids, learning to drive a grain truck. I knew it was a turning point in my life, which proved true. I found my story eventually, but more importantly, I walked in my Dad’s shoes. I imagined what it would be like working your way north on a harvest crew, and at least in his mind, thinking you would never return home. Heartbreaking.

Dumping wheat onto a grain truck.

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It had been a magical summer in many ways, but tough. I had worked in the oilfields for a couple of summers, but it was not nearly as hard as the work I encountered on harvest. When the wheat stayed ripe and rain was on the forecast, you might work until 3 AM, then get up at 7 and do it all over again. Not to mention the fact that I was a 41 year old man, trying to keep up with high school kids. (My Dad would have been 40 when he went on harvest)

But now it was August, 1991, and I had gotten through the worst part of it, and actually felt like I mostly knew what I was doing. We had followed the wheat north, and now were on a dirt road outside of Rapid City, South Dakota, heading the back roads to Sturgis, our next stopping point. I was driving a longbed grain truck pulling a combine on a trailer. I was entranced by the long flowing vistas of hills and prairie grass as we drove, and the land started looking eerily familiar. We pulled up to a T intersection, and I could see that the rig ahead of me had turned left, to the west. As I stopped at the intersection, I was struck by the thought, “This looks like the scenes from Dances With Wolves.” I was facing a long flat vista to the north, gently sloping down to a tree lined valley far, far away and below. It was awe inspiring.

Shot from the truck, looking down at the valley where Dances With Wolves filmed.

The next day, in Sturgis, I found out why the scene had looked so familiar - I had been looking down at the valley where the Indian village scenes were filmed in Dances With Wolves. The very one. Later, I even got to tour the movie location. It was just that kind of summer.