When a father smirks by Leah Subar (Guest Blogger)

My father had a smirk. His smirk generally accompanied a statement that accused his subject of being wrong, dishonest, or hypocritical. And the unnerving part was that my father was always right.

Except regarding my life’s path.

I was his youngest child and only daughter. When I became Torah-observant, my father was beside himself. He didn’t understand why I had to do it; why change my life and embrace the ancient traditions his grandparents left behind?  Why spend a full year forging new relationships with old texts and those who adhere?

My decision came not from intellect. It came from my gut, from someplace so deep I couldn’t translate it into words that made sense. I didn’t have reasons; I had feelings. 

And so his smirk told me I didn’t know what I was doing; that I was making the biggest mistake of my life; that I was too afraid of dorm life and enormous study halls and academic pressure and so… just running away from it all.

But I knew my father loved me. It was the way he held my hand; the cadence in his voice when he called my name.

And his love followed me everywhere -- including over the ocean where I eventually set up my home in Israel. But his smirk followed me as well; I was a chronic self-doubter. 

When my youngest child started nursery school I went back to school, too. Eventually, I entered a graduate program and became a dance/movement psychotherapist. Naturally, I shared my career decision with my father -- but not with enough time to fully describe my dream because as it turned out, my father was quite sick. I lost him one week before orientation day.

As a dance therapist, I pay attention to the body -- and especially how the way we hold our bodies contradicts the words we say, or adds a certain nuance. I have a client, for example, who sometimes flicks her nose with her index finger in such a way that seems out of place in sessions and in her real life. After reviewing the videos of our sessions and doing collaborative work with my client, we discovered she flicks her nose whenever she feels threatened; anytime she feels pushed out of her comfort zone. 

And because I video most sessions, not only do I learn about my clients’ use of body -- I learn about my own. 

I discovered I smirk. 

The first time I saw this I was shocked. I recognized that face; it was his. But it was mine. 

I studied more videos  I didn’t smirk with every client; mostly, my smirk surfaced during sessions with one particular client. She was my most challenging one; the one who stretched me to my limits; who forced me to stay on my toes and keep calm; the client who caught all my contradictions and made me wonder why I ever thought I could do this. 

But the precise moment the smirk escaped was usually after I'd made a subtle yet astute comment that served to shake up my client's reality. I smirked whenever I felt I'd come on too strong. My normal expression would disappear and the smirk came to lighten the effect. It came when I wanted her to get my message, but didn't want it to hurt. 

Not every smirk comes to soften; each gesture is delivered within its own context, depending on its owner. But in those moments that I tracked my own smirk and felt it in my own body, I knew something about my father.

I knew something about him that nobody else did.

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Leah Subar is a dance/movement therapist in Jerusalem and Petach Tikva, offering one-on-one consultations and ExploreMovement workshops. Leah helps women get back their ZEST by engaging the transformative power of emotions and body experience. Join her list and receive a monthly post about living at your emotional best: leahsubar@gmail.com

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This blog post was curated and/or edited by The Ardent Reader, Esther Hofknecht Curtis, BSOL, MSM-HCA. The views expressed in this blog post are those of the guest blogger. Visit Esther's page at www.parrotcontent.com for more information.