Grief, Performance, and Memories

It's Ruddy's birthday today. And a week since the second anniversary of his death. 

I knew it was coming and braced myself for it, as if the day would hit like a tidal wave. 

But the day came and went. I taught class and I worked. I thought of him often. I considered practicing his favorite pose on his mat and posting about it. 

But posting felt different this year. To post because it was his anniversary – to conjure up something "for the gram" – felt performative. It wasn’t what I needed to be with my grief. 

I've watched a handful of posts come across my feeds, and each time I've felt more guilty for my silence. Should I say something? What will people think if I don't? Am I honoring Ruddy's memory more by posting, or by privately processing? 

I don't really have an answer to that. But a week later, I'm feeling like it will support my grief to share how I feel. And maybe it will bring some comfort to anyone else who is grieving. 

• • • • • •

To be honest, a part of me still doesn't believe that Ruddy is dead. How do you snuff out a light so bright, so full of life? Dead doesn't feel like the right word. He's just gone. Somewhere else.

And I think about him in this way, all the time. He is somewhere else. I wonder what he would think about the world today, about last summer, election season, the Capitol Riots.

I wonder what he would think of our wedding. I think he would love so many of our friends.

I think about him when I read The Ethical Slut and reminisce on our conversations about polyamory, long before Jay and I started dating. When I see articles about how a local omnivorous diet is more ethical and ecological than vegetarianism. When I play board games and actually listen to the directions – and of course, when my eyes glaze over and I zone out. I remember giggling and making jokes with Ruddy while our friends discussed the nuance of the rules, and I smile at the truth that Ruddy didn't really care about the game. He just wanted to be with his friends.

Ruddy taught me a lot about being authentic and kind. He had a way of holding me in place when I wanted to flit about, my head full of to-dos and obligations.

He would ground me, gently coaxing me to be still and be present, even when it felt like a nuisance. I hate to name it, but it's true – how many times did I chat in the halls with Ruddy, impatiently waiting for a break in the conversation so I could jet off to accomplish some arbitrary task? I feel guilty about it sometimes, wondering if Ruddy could see my impatience. But I honestly don't know if Ruddy knew his affect on me – how, ready or not, those conversations disrupted my productivity mindset and shook me into the present moment. I think Ruddy lived his life on his terms, at his own pace, and everything around him adapted. Ruddy was the boulder at the center of the stream. At least, that's who he was to me.

I feel guilty for all the time I spent wishing he were different. A little more timely, a little more professional. I eventually came to see it it – the beauty of his ways, how he would not change for anyone. How he lived exactly as he wanted. It felt the polar opposite to how I lived, and it's one of the things I loved most about him.

If I am air, Ruddy was the earth. Rock. Soil. A mountain. Steady, calm, and supportive to a fault. He was molasses and honey. Warm, rich, nurturing. Complex. If I was the wind, he was the sail - he would catch me and hold me, ever patient, until I finally settled. He was a root that kept my feet on the ground.

Sometimes I find myself caught in a memory of him. Dancing at Howl at the Moon, lunching at the Reef. Dinner with his mother (oh, how you loved her cooking!). Me, sitting on the roof of the ferry, watching him hurry across the plaza, bagel in hand, making his way to the boat less than a minute before departure.

Sometimes I have the urge to grab a notebook and write down every memory I have of him, just to make sure I don't forget. I go to his Facebook page and watch videos of his GOT talks, refreshing my memory of his voice. I can still hear his laugh, his silly sounds. Snippets of conversations that haven't slipped away.

He are still so real to me, a consistent presence in my life. A mirror to reflect on my actions and my self. A metronome, a North Star. What would Ruddy think? How would Ruddy respond? I bet Ruddy would love this.

So it doesn't feel like he’s gone at all. Just somewhere else, still making the world a better place. Still showing me how to be soft and warm, strong and cool, grounded and light.