Impermanence

By Shannon M

He’s been there to love me since the day I was born.

He was there to drive back and forth between the hospital and his house multiple times a day to deliver milk to me when, as a newborn, I was recovering from a surgery and my mom wasn’t permitted to stay in the hospital with me.

He was there to deal with my screaming and whining when I was a toddler—and a hellspawn of a toddler at that.

He was there to watch as I outgrew that stage of my life, as I looked more and more like my mom with each passing year.

He was there to pick me up every weekend so that I could stay with him for a couple days, and then send me back to my mom’s.

And he—my dad—would always say, “Cherish these moments, because they’ll be gone and you’ll miss when you could spend time with your family like this. Time flies.”

Yet, I took our time together for granted as it continued to dwindle.

When I was in the 8th grade, during the year of distance-learning, my dad rushed to move to the town of Los Gatos. He did it so that I could attend Los Gatos High School, a ‘prestigious’ school that would supposedly increase my chances of being admitted into a decent college. Living in the town itself was unaffordable, so he managed to strike a bargain for a house in the mountains instead. And so, he and his family—my stepmom and my three half-siblings—had to adapt to living away from the comfortable, convenient suburban life they were all used to. For me, and only for me.

As planned, I attended Los Gatos the following year as a freshman. Ironically, I didn’t see my dad any more often—it was easier to stick to the routine of living with my mom on weekdays and going to my dad’s on the weekend, even if my daily commute to school was a hassle.

Two days to see my dad every week fell into one day every other week as I prioritized other things above our visits. And inexplicably, I didn’t want to return sometimes, not to his home in the mountains where little siblings meant no privacy and remoteness meant nothing to do. Because although I wouldn’t admit it, a weekend with him wasn’t a weekend to myself.

Around the middle of the first semester, I was informed that the entire concept of “better high school equals better college” no longer applied, because public universities had shifted their focus onto students from schools with less resources, who had to put up a bigger fight to get where they were. In other words, if I graduated from Los Gatos, I would be nobody special to those universities and would therefore have the odds against me. And so it was that my dad, for all his painstaking effort and dedication, had moved himself and his family for nothing.

The worst part is that, at the time, I really couldn’t find a reason to say it was worth it. Not only was transferring schools an unnecessary hassle, but I was also distanced from someone dear to me who was attending YB. It was both infuriating and heart-wrenching whenever it was mentioned—“I moved here so you could go to a better school,” is what my dad would say, but why did it have to be for absolutely nothing? Why did it have to be because of me?

Then the school year ended. I enrolled into Yerba Buena High School as a sophomore. It was almost as if the previous year had never happened. And it didn’t have to, really.

My dad says it’s fate.

Just like it’s fate that he would move again.

It had only been less than two years since he stepped foot into his new home in Los Gatos, yet he was planning to move even further away with his family to a small town named Ukiah three hours away while I would stay with my mom and brother in San Jose. This time, it was for my half-siblings’ education; they’re barely entering elementary school, and his wish was to have them attend school at a Buddhist temple, where they would be taught virtue alongside academics. And because my dad has always been a do-er, not a say-er, I knew by the first word that this was it, that I had failed to cherish our time and that there was none left for redemption.

My deepest regret is that I had listened to him with my head but not my heart. Every conversation we had ever had—around the dinner table, on long drives in the car, in my room on calm nights—I had understood his advice about cherishing those moments, and yet I failed to be truly present. I’d nod whenever he’d remind me that time is short, yet I wouldn’t give it a second thought when it came to the time we had together. One of the things he’s always emphasized most is “the only permanence is impermanence.” Everything is temporary, for good or bad. That’s why, he says, we cherish the positives in life and let go of the negative.

And so, that’s what we’ll do. I’ve made grave mistakes, and I may only get to see my dad once or twice a month, but we’ll make those times count. I know I’m extremely lucky to still have these chances. I also know that less time with family is an inevitable part of growing up. The importance of our time together is not in its quantity, but rather, its quality. And what he passes down to me, I will uphold whether he’s present or not.

He will still be there as the harbor to my ship, no matter the distance or time.

For the Warrior Times, this is Shannon Ma.