I remember you saying, “Never resign!” before I knew enough to ask for your real guidance on the matter.

I have no idea if I ever would’ve worked to get better at chess if you had lived.

When you were alive, I moved the pieces around blindly to mess up the board for you. I called it Monkey with a Rubik’s Cube. It was stupid of me not to make an effort.

I was so overwhelmed in your presence, with what we were doing, that I didn’t attempt to look out for my own pieces. I didn’t even read the ingredients on the cracker box.

Earlier this month, I realized it says right there on the bottom: Contains Milk. I stood there in the grocery store, a year after your death, thinking, God, how did he put up with me?

Weeks after I brought those crackers to your place, when the box remained nearly full, I mentioned, “I can’t believe you haven’t finished these yet.” You, protecting my feelings, didn’t say why.

Now I nearly have an anxiety attack each time I choose a loaf of bread: they almost all contain milk or honey. Except for that Ezekiel brand. So I buy that. And lots of cashews.

I stare at the huge drum of cashews at Smart & Final and remember the one you bought your last week here. You said the man you were subletting from (we called him by his last name), you said he might like the left overs.

Sometimes, when I notice a lone man on the sidewalk heading that way, I wonder if it’s him. I fantasize about calling out his name. But what would I say next?

We had fun joking about the email you thought of sending him, didn’t we? You laughed so hard – your sweet mischievous laugh. It still makes me smile remembering your face in laughter.

I try to keep those memories vivid. They morph so much, and if you were alive now, we’d probably disagree about the details.

Every single day, several times a day, I start conversations in my head with you, and wonder what you’d say. Every single day, several times a day, I know that there is absolutely no way for me to know how those conversations would go. On any topic.

I remember sound bites of things you said to me. Those memories, if accurate, aren’t indicators of what you’d say now.

There’s no resolution. There’s no peace.

Only half remembered memories . . .

. . .  that day over dinner, after you squeezed my hand too hard, was it that day? When I spoke of your departure, I said, “But really, you’ll be in Australia, pursuing happiness. That’s what I want for you.”

I wish you here to argue with me about everything we said and didn’t say.

I wish you were here for that, and for a thousand other things — mostly having nothing to do with me. And so I could apologize about the crackers.

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This is a follow up to January 25, 2011′s post entitled, “10th Day of Mourning“.

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Now that the first anniversary of his death has passed, and the first anniversary of his burial has passed, now, it feels like a new year is beginning.

It’s a mellow beginning, neither enthusiastic, nor energetic; I’m kind of pushing through living each day. Grateful, always grateful, for so much, even the sadness. I’m not resigned, but perhaps I’m making peace with a handful of the mysteries that will never be answered.

These pictures are from my walk yesterday. Our neighborhood surprises me when I keep my eyes open. Can you believe that little bird sat still? I’ve tried to photograph countless crows this past year, and none will trust me to get close with my camera.  Yesterday’s bird was such a gift.

I’ve enrolled in a new writing class. It feels like a great way to start a new chapter. Something to get me into a community of writers while I decide whether or not I want to go to grad school.  I’d like to continue posting here twice a week — 200 words on Tuesdays and 5 Things I Learned This Week on Fridays but homework’s going to come first. Plus, I’ve got some bookkeeping clients, and I must finish reading Clash of Kings before HBO airs the series in April.

And there’s my family: Andy, Ellie, Ruby. So glad the kids are not human so I can say, “Ruby, why can’t you be more like Ellie?” out loud.

For the curious few out there: my follow up mammogram hasn’t occurred yet because I’m having to operate within insurance company guidelines, and that has caused a delay. I’ve decided not to avoid blogging about this because we’re all in bodies that require care, and writing is what I do, and who knows — there might be someone who is positively impacted by whatever they read here.

Yes, I will get the test done as soon as possible — hopefully in the next week or so. In the meantime, I’m making friends with all sorts of clerks in all sorts of medical offices. When the topic doesn’t cause my blood pressure to rise uncomfortably, perhaps I’ll write a post with all the details of the run-around I’ve been getting. Until then, it’s on to the next thing.

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Even now, I still have questions about what your last moments were like. Questions I would never share publicly.

It’s an awful day; horrible, difficult, uncomfortable. I’m irritable in my sadness, too bleak to desire doing anything specific, and yet I don’t want time to move forward without some sacred action. (The beach again?)

The loneliness of my grief is wearing (“to wear: to damage, erode, or destroy by friction or use”).

It took until just the other night for me to begin to accept — not your death, I won’t accept that, no –  the solitary nature of this predicament. I’ve been craving contact with anyone who can or will tell me they understand, that they feel the same thing. Finally, I’m beginning to realize how impossible that is.

Besides, it’s not solidarity I really want. It’s your life: for you to be alive.

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“. . . he talks about masturbating all the time,” said a woman to her companions at a sidewalk table crowded with half full pint glasses.

Ironically, as I passed by, at the moment her words floated into my periphery, I was thinking about how entertaining overheard sound bites can be.

In fact, the phrase I’d just overheard that had inspired my thinking about sound bites was, “. . . English? I always thought she was Australian.” And, as coincidence would have it, the woman who spoke about the man who talks about masturbating all the time was at a pub speaking with a British accent. Or was it Australian? Thank you, Gods of Eavesdropping, you funny bastards!

All of this happened in a matter of seconds, and was enough to cause me to doubt this new blog feature. Perhaps, instead of “Five Things I Learned This Week”, I ought to be listing “Five Things I Overheard This Week.” That’d be much easier. Plus, it’d force me to get out with ears on.

But what do I value more? Snippets heard from random strangers? Or knowledge gained?

Knowledge gained, of course.

As I went through the last five days, I repeatedly asked myself, “What have I learned today?” “Did I just learn something?” More often than not, I realized I wasn’t learning anything new at all.

It became clear to me that making observations, having realizations, and forming opinions (no matter how snarky), are not the same thing as learning.

I realized that if I intend to blog about learning five things each week, I’m going to have to actually learn five things each week. And actually learning is going to require some intentionality. Did I learn this? I think it was more a realization.

Anyway, here are the things I (accidentally) learned this week:

ONE

The roots of the word “nostalgia” are “return home” and “pain”. Yes, this not-so-fun fact also appeared on my gratitude list this week. We’re all just going to have to endure a little overlap until I get the hang this.

TWO

Walking home drunk is less safe than driving drunk. Okay, this is from the Freakonomics podcast which someone mentioned in conversation. It’s short and compelling — check it out. Summarized: if you get drunk, stay put. Incidentally, this statistic came to my attention from the same person who mentioned the etymology of “nostalgia”.

THREE

Baby bats, so tiny, they fit on half an adult human’s finger, can be nursed back to health. A q-tip dampened with warm water, rubbed on the baby’s head, simulates its mother’s lick. It drinks from a foam tip soaked in milk. There is at least one website dedicated to communicating all about this.

FOUR

I’ll quote the dictionary on this one: recalcitrant means “having an obstinately uncooperative attitude toward authority or discipline.” I encountered it — for the first time ever? — whilst reading Katha Pollitt’s essay “Learning to Drive” from my copy of The Best American Essays 2003.  She uses it to describe stuck jar lids. The essay is lovely.

FIVE

Katha Pollitt is someone whose work I must read more of. This sort of falls into the observation/realization/opinion category; but I’ll allow it.

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The self help gurus are quick to point out that what we focus on expands. In light of that, I’m glad I’ve put my attention (and intention) towards learning rather than eavesdropping.

Otherwise, just think, some guy’s wanking would have been a focal point of this post rather than merely a cheap hook.  BTW, does he talk about it all the time or do it all the time? Or both?

What did you learn this week?

What do you intend to learn next week?

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I knew when the receptionist (who sounded all of twenty-three) sweetly called me Sweetie, that the news wasn’t going to be good.

“The radiologist wants you to come back in for another look.”

She didn’t add, “And whatever you do, for god’s sake, don’t fucking blog about this call.”

That sort of thing goes without saying. Because then readers will want to know, “How did the tests come out?”

And if there is something wrong (with my left breast — she specified that, it’s the left one) and I decide I want to keep it private, this post would have blown all chances of that.

But it’s eight p.m. on January third and I’d planned to start this year with habitual postings twice a week: Tuesdays, with 200 Words, and Fridays, with 5 Things I Learned This Week. I really wanted to follow through.

Here at eight p.m., I’m not feeling the inspiration to write about anything.

Instead, I’m thinking: bang out 200 words.

And I’m not worried about the tests, other than the fact that I wanted my Christmas gift money to go towards writing classes, not mammography and ultrasounds.

Listen to me begrudging potential early detection. I hate the phrase, “First-world problems.”

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This is the photo I took the morning of his last full day of life.

It is a sad time of year in an already sad year.

Here are some of the pictures I took.

These aren’t the best shots, not even the most interesting ones. They don’t tell the story of where I went (not far) or what I did (not much). They are, instead, a sampling of where I pointed my thoughts during the last twelve months.

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~a picture from Christmas past~

It was another lifetime when I made that ornament featuring li’l’ Lil.

In this, my most isolated year (and much needed so), I’m feeling more removed than ever from the all the holiday fuss. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

We didn’t put a tree up this season, are not traveling east like usual.

Because we’re rarely separated from extended family on major holidays, we have yet to develop our own traditions. I have no motivation to start any time soon. Besides, kitties don’t care about Santa Claus or religious myths or even presents. Ruby just wants free grazing rights of whatever we’re eating whenever we’re eating it. (It’ll never happen, Ruby. Mommy’s got a heart of stone.)

Anyway, to whomever might skim this post . . . Happy Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Solstice . . . Enjoy.

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I’ve got to tell you something. Last night felt good.  Not I-think-I’m-In-Love good. Not even Damn-That-Was-Good good. No, merely, I’m-Taking-Deliberate-Action-For-Something-Important good.

What deliberate action?

I took to the streets carrying a sign inked with my very own Sharpie declaring in bold letters, “Indefinitely Outraged“.

I held it in the air and thought about the people who have been in prisons (sanctioned by leaders I voted for, paid for with my very own tax dollars) since 2001. I thought about the people who may be rounded up at any time and also held indefinitely. I kept my facial expression set on outrage (except for when the cute bald guy in the great jacket offered me cookies, at which point, I smiled my declination before resuming indignation).

Where did this stern-faced sign carrying take place? At one of Occupy LA’s rallies against the passing of the National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA).

Unlike the time I joined the march to the Fed downtown, last night’s event was a protest over an issue I’ve been following.

As my favorite political writer, former Constitutional and civil rights litigator, Glenn Greenwald puts it, “while the powers [the 2012 NDAA] enshrines are indeed radical and dangerous, most of them already exist. That’s because first the Bush administration and now the Obama administration have aggressively argued that the original 2001 AUMF already empowers them to imprison people without charges, use force against even U.S. citizens without due process (Anwar Awlaki), and target not only members of Al Qaeda and the Taliban (as the law states) but also anyone who “substantially supports” those groups and/or “associated forces” (whatever those terms mean).“

So, if the new bill maintains the status quo, why protest it? Because the status quo is a repudiation of the rule of law. And also, how does that old quote go? “First they came for the communists, and I did not speak out because I was not a communist . . .”

Last night, I walked from one corner of the intersection to the next (and the next and the next) advancing each time the traffic light gave me the go-ahead, holding my sign the whole time. I did this repeatedly, forming countless squares, making eye contact with as many drivers as I could.

My fellow protesters asked the drivers through closed car windows, “Have you heard of the NDAA?  GOOGLE IT.”

I learned, from the yells of those around me, that the Department of Justice considers someone a terrorist threat if they have more than 7 days of food stored.

I also learned that people missing fingers and those who pay for hotel rooms with cash are suspects. And suspects can be locked up indefinitely. Because this bill codifies preventive detention of those who are potentially belligerent.

I can imagine some readers thinking, “Better safe than sorry; this bill is designed to protect us.”  Define “us”.

London police have already declared their Occupy movement as being among terrorist groups. The Occupy London camp’s response articulates a message Americans need to be reminded of:

“Activism is not a crime and the desire to participate in democratic decision-making should not be a cause for concern for the police in any free society.

“An institution that confuses active citizens with criminals and equates al-Qaida with efforts to re-imagine the City is an institution in grave danger of losing its way.”

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One of the drivers I passed last night sat inside a vintage Rolls Royce. The license plate frame said, just as you might guess, “Beverly Hills”. I, already well aware that the particular cross-walk I occupied would allow an ample 55 seconds to go six meters, moved slowly, staring inside to see who was behind the wheel. It was a handsome white guy in his fifties. Beautiful head of hair. He looked right at me. So I looked right back, thinking:

The nerve of him,  Ruth,  How can he be seen in that thing?  Ruth, don’t judge.

I’m not so simple minded as to turn this into an Us vs. Them issue; I’m really not. But I had a Code Pink “I [heart] the 99%” sticker on my vest for god’s sake. I held my sign right over his flying lady hood ornament and kept staring at his face as I walked. He crouched a little lower in his seat, truly, he did, and then he offered a thumbs up gesture with a smile. It didn’t appear sarcastic, either. So I mirrored his actions and kept moving.

I have no idea what he meant to communicate, but I enjoyed the encounter. That man knows a lot more about my values than I know about his. Perhaps he was driving his mother’s car home from the repair shop. Or perhaps he’s a shrewd business man who pays all of his taxes and donates tens of millions of dollars every year to Feed the Children. Or perhaps he’s an anglophile who bought the car on ebay for nineteen thousand dollars. And maybe he’s missing three fingers and has two weeks worth of lentil soup stored in a suspiciously large pantry.

Whoever he is, I don’t think having seen me and my sign-carrying-cohorts is going to change a damn thing about him. I don’t think having seen us will really change any of the people who drove through that intersection last night.

So why did I do it? Why will I do it again (despite my father’s opinion that because I’m no longer a teenager, I ought to stop attending such gatherings)?

Because standing up for what I believe in changes me.

I’m not living in a tent for my ideals, but last night I was able to rest knowing that I did not accept defeat as I watched the United States of America legalize indefinite detention.

And this morning I got out of bed knowing that I’m the kind of woman who shows up, fully present, embracing her power — her responsibility — to say, ” . . . . .”

Well, anything I want to.

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