Today is as good as any, to resume writing on this Blog to Nowhere. Today is Bob's birthday—he would be 46, in earthly years. But, where he is now, years don't count. Nor do so many things that we deem important here on earth. I know this in my heart, have finally accepted this, in the deepest recesses of my bones, in the folds of my brain, the valves of my heart . . . I'm still not okay that he's not physically here with me, but I'm kinda getting over that (and by kinda, I mean, never. But hey, that's just my silly earthly self getting in the way. . . )I don't get too choked up on "anniversary" dates, never have, quite honestly. Perhaps a character flaw of mine?—maybe I lack the gene whose job it is to remind one of birthdays, anniversaries, holidays . . . I do know that Bob knew how damn lucky he was, as he never caught hell from me, for lack of roses on V-day, or jewels on our engagement or subsequent anniversaries, or {{fill-in-the-blank"}}. I honestly didn't (still don't) care about such things. We'd usually pick a big project for the house—say, remodeling the kitchen, or take a trip (that little tradition was just starting, when Bob had his first heart attack, nearly six years ago), and then say to each other, "Well, happy birthday and anniversary!" I know, incurable romantics . . .
On my "f'n journey," it's specific events—as in: locations, or settings, or physical reminders, or sounds or smells or sights. Which give no reprieve. The glance of someone in a crowd who "looks kind of like" Bob, a Bob Mould or Steve Vai song that wakes me up at 3:28 a.m., an intensely detailed dream, a sunset, a stand of birch trees, the hoot of an owl, a bag of Tootsie Pops in Target, the "voice" at a parking ramp that repeats, Please insert your parking ticket. Please insert your parking ticket . . . (Hadn't heard that one in so long, till this past weekend, when walking past a parking ramp in Mankato . . . it so startled me—a mechanical voice just like the one at Bethesda hospital—almost tripped on my own tears . . .)
Anyhow, today is Bob's birthday. This morning, I received a phone call from my sister, Jill—actually, it was the sweet, precious voice of my beautiful niece Amelia, who told me she and her family woke up and started their day by honoring Bob with singing happy birthday to his photo (which, I had to admit, was more than I had done, yet). Another call, from Bob's mom, Penny (she and Jim are still in Montana for the holidays, with Bob's sister, Nancy and her beautiful family), to tell me that Nancy made a giant Hostess Ho-Ho cake, and that they were all getting ready to celebrating Bob's birthday by digging in (one of Bob's fav junk-food indulgence was—you guessed it—Hostess Ho-Ho's. Considering they—Hostess Ho-ho's—are no longer even made, made this event even more, ummmm. . . well . . . poignant? profound? Toxic?!? hmmmm . . . not quite finding the word I want . . . ;). My mom called earlier, we talked a bit about Bob, among other things . . . how much more beautiful can that be, for loved ones to remember and vocalize the remembrance of one who, though physically gone, was—is—so loved . . .
As I said, birthdays, anniversaries—earthly markers of time passing by—barely phase me, regarding Bob's death (or, at the risk of sounding callous—most life events. For the record, I'm trying, by syncing all my "smart devices" with each other, so I have everyone's birthdays and anniversaries at my fingertips and with daily reminders, even. Which has thus far proven useless, because let's be real—you gotta remember to enter the dang event into a device in the first place), and makes me wonder how my great aunt Ellen remembered everyone's birthdays, anniversaries, holidays—decades ago—without a computer or cell phone, much less "syncing devices" or blah blah blah . . .
I so ramble (another reason this blog is just too hard to keep up) . . . it's the endless ethereal moments, the indescribable feelings that pass through me, the esoteric "deja vu" moments that come from nowhere, the "coincidences," the non-stop "strange happenstances"—that are more evident every day . . . there must be an actual word for this phenomenon. They are so numerous, so prevalent, they are a huge reason I stopped writing months ago. . . I can't keep up, have such a hard time processing what it all means. . . but something is compelling me to start. Again. (Though I won't promise that I'll keep it up. It really is very hard . . .)
Yesterday, the day after Christmas, my mom and I attended a most profound event, the 150th anniversary of 38 Dakota men who were hanged in Mankato (following the US—Dakota War of 1862) in the largest mass execution in American history. To memorialize the day, horseback riders rode 330 miles, over the course of 16 days, from Crow Creek, South Dakota to the hanging site in Mankato, to honor and remember the 38 Dakota (plus two more, who were hanged at Fort Snelling, two years later). This ride, which has taken place since 2005, was a vision quest of Jim Miller, a native spiritual leader and Viet Nam war veteran, who dreamed of this ride, though he himself, a Native American, had not known of the executions, prior to his dream. I can't even come close to doing the event justice by trying to explain the complicated series of events that lead to the mass execution, but suffice to say, it's a blight on our state and national history that has yet to be fully acknowledged. But hand it to the Dakota, to be the first to present a true peace offering (with this ride, among other events) . . . there were also runners, who came from Fort Snelling—90 miles—to honor and remember the 38 . . .
I was moved beyond words, witnessing yesterday's events—layers upon layers deep—first and foremost with the main premise of the ride, which was to commemorate the men who lost their lives 150 years ago, and secondly—though not less important—for an entire Nation that was forced out of Minnesota, an entire Nation—destroyed. Then, the fallout of that event, which spread like ripples on a lake, to affect everyone and everything connected to it . . . which, in essence, is everything . . . and 150 years later, the reverberating message—the essence of the ride, spoken again and again—the absolute necessity of reconciliation, forgiveness . . . again, I am such a poor narrator of such a profound, epic story . . .
And how does this tie in with the birthday of my beautiful husband? I don't really know. . . for as long as I've known Bob, he had told me, "I feel things, Jen, so much deeper than most anyone I know . . ." He never said those words with arrogance, or distain; rather, more with puzzlement, with reverence—desperation, even—as though he didn't know what to do with such intense feelings, the immense insights of his life experiences, and struggled immensely, with such knowledge . . . whenever we'd go camping at Blue Mound State Park, or hike around the Jeffers Petroglyphs, for instance, Bob would take off with his cameras, for hours on end, and come back and tell me, "I know it sounds crazy, but I feel so at home on the prairie, almost as if I feel Native spirit in me, as though I've lived on the prairie, in another life . . ."Yesterday was a whirlwind of emotions, past, present, future . . . layers upon layers, generations upon generations, deep . . . I still don't know what to make of it all, except that it had a more profound, emotional impact on me than any church service ever has . . . xxoo to all . . .
