Celebration of Bob

Yesterday was our big send-off for Bob. In deference to the pandemic we kept it small and outdoors, but I have to say I think it's exactly how Bob would have wanted it: at his son's Petaluma ranch, not too much fuss, no hired help, just those of us who loved him working and sweating and laughing and creating something special in his honor. A few of us rode to steal flowers from private property and poppies from the roadside as he loved to do. So I got to get him flowers one final time after all.

Hard to describe the mix of joy, grief, and magic of the day. I've spent a week stuffing my feelings down most of the time, focusing on logistics and event details and checking up on others. And then yesterday morning it just felt like he was with us - there was this lightness about moving around on the ranch, hauling furniture and making things beautiful under a huge open sky. I thought about Bob a lot, but what kept rising to the top were my memories of his fearlessness.

Bob might not have been showy with his feelings, but his emotions were fierce and fearless. He wasn't capable of self-consciousness, and I never once saw him nervous or scared. He just faced life with a strangely indescribable openness and acceptance that few would probably see underneath such a gruff exterior. And, feeling him with me, I suddenly felt fearless too. Maybe it won't seem like a big deal to those of you who aren't familiar with my fears of, well, everything - but I shifted out of my normal self and found comfort in nature. I reached through cobwebs, snuggled with my temporarily-adopted pit bull, wiped dusty hands onto my clothes and hair, rode in the bed of a pick-up truck, didn't recoil from frogs or mice or spiders.

But most of all, I didn't recoil from the waves of grief. I sobbed with complete abandon and fearlessness, Bob-like lack of self-concern, onto the friends that arrived later in the day. Our NDC organization family who we've traveled to DC with and spent so much time among - they came from near and far. And, despite our masks and caution, they held me tight and let me cry my grief into their arms, and the pastors who I most love - we prayed together and I clung to them gratefully. I've never said "I love you" to so many people so easily, so fearlessly.

Part of what's been hard through all of this is not having the proper word for what Bob means to me. We have shorthand in life, labels like "boss," "father," "friend," and we need those so that we don't have to speak a poem of what someone means to us when we introduce them to a stranger at a party. But in situations like these, I'm bereft, because it's hard for people to understand, and I just want so badly for my love of Bob to be understood. So to be surrounded by these people who absolutely get it - who saw us together and how well we worked together, how much we teased and challenged each other, how much damn chocolate we ate together - it filled me up even as I felt empty.

And now that I've had a moment to come up for air, I can see too that even some of you who never met Bob have taken the leap of faith to understand my love for him. I haven't needed messages from anyone, but the unsolicited ones I've gotten from friends and acquaintances and even a few strangers have trusted in that love and made me feel understood. And that love has also connected me with others who I didn't even know loved Bob so dearly, and forged an instant bond. Bob's fan club. Adorers of Bob. His fellow giraffes (they stick their necks out). The few people that could see beyond his tough hide and professional accomplishments to his deep reservoirs of hope and optimism and fearless love - we got him and now we get each other.

When everyone left the ranch in the evening I just wasn't ready to go. I pitched a tent on an empty field and crawled in with the leftover food I had never eaten, chewing disinterestedly on a forgotten sandwich as the sun set. I walked into the dark stable with the horses shifting quietly in their stalls, piled on some layers, and made my way through the darkness back to my field, my tent, talking with Bob all the way. And the crazy thing is, I felt him with me. Everyone else close to him had proper bedfellows so I think it makes sense that he was willing to spend some time with just me, alone, and I told him some reassuring things and asked him for some things and, being Bob, he already made good on some without a lot of fuss. I'll keep my ends of the bargain too.

I woke up alone in my tent to the crows of distant roosters and peered out into wet heavy fog, and felt changed, deeply changed. Even though I know there will be more tears to come in waves, something shifted, and that helpless panicked "what do I do now?" grief felt deeply soothed. I haven't before lost someone that I was so actively, personally, deeply connected to, and I never expected to be the type of person to feel someone with me like a spirit, a sense of him nearby, the quiet reassuring voice still there. The voice telling me to be brave, to not overthink, to just love others fearlessly. So here I am, quieted, sated, and smirking a little at Bob's unique ability to always have more to give and more ways to challenge me, even now.

I love you, Bob.