My father was a good looking man, over 6 foot tall, very athletic. In his twenties he was a champion sprinter who won every national competition he entered. He grew up in the roaring 40's, his mother Greta was a gorgeous looking, blue eyed, red haired beauty, she was a dancer, who enjoyed her night life to the fullest. My father "Grant" had two brothers, fathered by two different men. In that era it was very risque. The boys at a young age would be left for many evenings sitting in a bar waiting for their Mum. Little is known of his father. My grandfather died before I was born, he was never spoken about.

My Father met my Mother on a sheep station in the Australian outback. Yvonne , my Mum was a book keeper. He would have seen in Mum what eluded him in his childhood, a kind, dignified beautiful looking woman , blue eyes and black hair with a heart of gold. Mum saw in him , a good looking man with the eyes of a lost child. They fell deeply in love and were married in the 50's, they had 4 children, one boy, died at birth. My fathers drinking became prominent in the early years. He carried his own abandonment into adulthood and his wound would never heal. When I was 12 years old, Mum finally left him after years of heartache.

I still looked for him in my dreams, for his approval, his attention, his love, it was always elusive.

In his mid 40's, we heard he had re-married a woman the complete opposite to my Mum, someone to share his demise. They had a little girl, her name was Mandee Jane who was tragically killed , run over by a car in the driveway of their rented apartment, more tragically, as they sat drinking on the veranda, witnessing her death. Mandee would die there in my fathers arms, blood streaming from her little face, she was 4 years old. I would often think, what chance she would have had , born into a world with two aging alcoholics.

When I was a very young woman I located my father in a Sydney Hostel for the broken, the lost, the unwanted. I will never forget the pain in his eyes..He stood out on the grass and looked up to the sky and cried "Help Me, Help Me".

Some would think his life was self inflicted, and maybe so. In every human being there is a beautiful heart , waiting for the rain, waiting to bloom, but this journey takes effort and it is a fine line between heaven and hell on this  earth. My father came into this world with nothing and that is the way he left. He suffered his entire life without understanding the peace he so desperately craved for.

I visited him just before he died, I stroked his face, held his hand tightly and told him that I loved him ....I will never forget his eyes full of pain and longing...A journey over.

My father left me a gift, he taught me forgiveness and compassion. He died at 72 years old in a broken down nursing home. Luke and I were the only ones at his funeral. During his Service there were several crows squawking outside. Black crows visit me to this very day...they sit squawking outside my window and hold an essence of my Dad.

Thank you to Prem Rawat for teaching me what I most needed to learn....and giving me the heart to see...