Between Helicopters and Lego

A story about past lives, future paths, and the space between them

A small story about a car ride, a forgotten past, and the quiet ways we shape our children.

I took my little boy, who’s not so little anymore (he’s 10yrs old), and his mate to the cinema last week. We live relatively in the sticks, so it’s about a 40-minute drive to a decent picture house. That kind of drive gives you good father-son recalibration time. A chance to tune in to where he’s at.

On the drive back, I thought the movie was terrible (Minecraft, with Jack Black), and he thought it was great. His mate had more to say about the trailers than the film itself…especially how long they were. I asked what they’d made of the Royal Marines advert.

Why the Royal Marines or the Royal Navy are advertising during a PG film, I don’t know. If I were being cynical, I’d say it was orchestrated to plant the seed of a glamorous military career in young minds. But having served in the military, I’m pretty sure it’s just the usual cocktail of incompetence and spending other people’s money without much oversight.

My question didn’t get much of a response. My son didn’t even clock the advert until I prompted him: “You remember…the guy on the quad bike in the jungle…jumping out of a helicopter…climbing a rope straight out of the sea…next to a submarine…”

Eventually it clicked.

“You know I was in the Royal Marines, don’t you?” I said.

He looked at me like he most certainly did not know. And now he was trying to square the action-man on the cinema screen, with the middle-aged bloke behind the steering wheel.

“So… you’ve done all that stuff?” he asked.

“I’ve jumped out of helicopters, sure.”

He turned to his mate in the back seat and repeated the conversation, clearly finding some peer-related social currency he could cash in. But he didn’t ask any more questions. So we let the conversation drift. Then we started playing ‘name the car badge’—a game we’ve played since he was small.

I’ve never really hidden my past from him. But when he was born, and for most of his formative years, I was a yoga teacher—about as far removed from soldiering as you can get. (Although, to be fair, there are some strange parallels in the hierarchy and rituals of both worlds—another story for another day.)

So he’s always known me as someone who meditates and stretches and tries to be present.

When he was very little, I used to tell him bedtime stories about the time I found myself in the desert, teaching a donkey not to be afraid of gunshots. He loved those tales in the same way he loved The Gruffalo or any good dragon story. We had a huge roll of paper we’d stuck above his bed, filled with symbols…a cave, a rainbow, a torch, a waterfall, some of his best buddies from school…and each night he’d choose three to five symbols and I’d improvise a story around them.

He never realised those tales were grounded in real places, real people. I liked it that way.

But now he’s older, it feels like time to share a little more. Not for the sake of nostalgia or pride, but because I want him to feel free to be all of who he is. If hearing a bit more of my real story helps with that, I’ll share it.

He’s getting curious about what job he might do when he’s older. I don’t know how best to guide him, truthfully. I suspect clarity comes through action. Trying something with your hands. I think that’s where the truth of life sits.

The mind can be a dangerous thing to encourage on its own.

Better to put your hands in the soil and follow the rhythm of the seasons. To work with animals, or shape something from clay. Use your hands to make something people can use in a kitchen. Hands keep you honest. Hands and heart are close companions.

A shaman once told us…back when he was a baby…that he would be a Master Builder. I still don’t know exactly what that means, but he’s always been brilliant with Lego. Maybe he’s not meant to build for the world, but from it. Using what’s around him. The hands are more sensitive than any machine. At least, they can be.

Touching life directly.

Maybe you’ve navigated this terrain with your own children? Maybe you remember being a confused kid not knowing which direction to take? Maybe you’re like me. Fast approaching the autumn years and still none the wiser as to how you’re meant to be showing up in the world.

What’s your advice to your 10yr old self?