Leah on my mind

As those of you who actually read this schlock know, the last few years of my life have been profoundly shaped by the illness and loss of Leah Ryan.   I still find it impossible to capture my relationship to Leah in words (she was my friend -- that's good enough), although I struggle almost daily to honor it in the things I produce (schlock comments aside), whether it's cranky and irreverent or subversive and commercial, high brow theory or kitsch.   Leah's writing embodies all that and more and her outlook on life remains an enduring legacy that carries me through the day.   I know I still have a lot of work to do to live up to what she offered, even if it's just the ability to enjoy life as it comes at you.   

This weekend had a lot of the usual mixture of seriously mundane annoyances and little pleasures.  The people here in Pittsburgh continue to challenge whatever tiny reservoir of patience I actually possess. (Today some parent tried to convince me that eggs were a Christian symbol that came before their significance at Passover. Skipping the absurdity of the whole debate, I think I outed myself as a non-believer when I mentioned that it's all co-opted from pagan religions anyway.  Rule Number 43: Avoid too much conversation with the natives on Sundays -- even after football season is over).   

Zoe and Esme keep making the world an interesting place, re-imagining things I'd experienced through their own eyes, whether it's fairy stories on an iPod and shared headphones at bedtime or sarcasm, the 70s, and foreign movies ("oh mom, of course i know we're going to watch the one with the subtitles. it's you, after all..").  I cooked: cassoulet of white beans, a Julia Child-like chicken with leeks, peas, and white wine, a buttermilk cake laced with chocolate and banana, and a few grilled bagels (yah, we are watching our cholesterol, sure).   I tried to put some order in our chaos, dug out all the materials to do the taxes, drove to sports and Girl Scout cookie sales and Hebrew school, and walked the dog with Zack.  I didn't do much to bring down the growing mound of unpaid academic writing that keeps me awake at night (book reviews, article outlines, a paper I have to give on Friday in Baltimore that is still superficial and fragmentary). But if it weren't for Leah, it'd be easy to see it as a few days in the loss column.  In fact, just thinking of her helps me jettison that whole approach.  

I miss you, Leah: the candle's still lit to celebrate your day and there are a whole lot of us here still holding on to the tail of your star.


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