How ashen my father was under the harsh fluorescent lights, I thought,
as I pulled a chair up and offered to help him with the small computer
I’d just restored. I knew that he needed the computer for his work
tomorrow and that he was under a lot of stress. Yet despite the
strains of the day, his voice was gentle and thankful, so different
from the harried voice I’d heard on the phone earlier – so different
from the impatience and grumpiness that frightened many of the
employees.

Even as a child I had always seen him with a vivid red sunburn from
days spent exploring the world and taking pictures. When he removed
his watch or his eyeglasses, you could see pale strips of
porcelain-white skin – part of his Chinese heritage. He lived like
that, too – fantastic adventures coupled with a surprising gentleness.
He glowed with the incredible passion that filled and sustained him:
his photography. My father encouraged us to pursue our dreams. He
lived his, and that gave us hope. He loved photography, getting up
early and working late into the night creating beautiful images. Of
all the people I know, he was the one most passionate about his
dreams.

Today… today was different. The color seemed to have drained from
his face. There was an unaccustomed sadness in the voice that had so
often told me exciting stories of wild adventures. Today his words
seemed to come from very far away. He asked me for such small, simple
things. And because he asked so gently, I wanted to do everything. He
was so grateful when I got them to work. Sometimes I couldn’t. Instead
of becoming cross, he simply smiled and said that that was okay.

We finally got the camera and the computer to work together; all that
he needed for the next day’s. My father let out a sigh and began to
confide in me, unfolding his frustrations and his fears. We talked of
passion and frustration, of plans and pains. He was worried about my
sister and about the company. Their indifference sapped his strength,
undermined his confidence. I looked at him closely. Suddenly he seemed
so very old and so very tired. I wanted to throw my arms around him
and cry.

How I wished I had been the one to follow in his footsteps, but my heart
is in another field. I learned something important: fire feeds fire. I
must always be near other people who are passionate about something or
my soul will die as his seems slowly dying.

When the next day brings with it the thrill of the shoot and a system
that works, perhaps he will rediscover his passion. I can only hope
that the people around him realize how important they are to him.
Their incompetence can break him. Their interest can inspire him. His
work is important to him. He is important to me, both who he is and
what he stands for.

May the world never break my father’s spirit nor quench his passion.
In a world of dim lives and mediocrity, he blazes with a light that so
few know.

(2004.01.12 Update: Looks like Dad’s fine again. Yay!)