REMEMBERING MIKE RIDDELL - Gareth Higgins
Emerson said "a friend may well be reckoned a masterpiece of nature"; in my life, for twenty-five years now, Mike Riddell has proven these words true.
And he has done the same, I am sure, for many others as well. Last week miraculous Mike left this bodily realm, in his sleep, just a couple of days after his 69th birthday. He wouldn't want a fuss, he'd roll his eyes a bit at effusive tributes, but seriously the man *was* a miracle and I don't care who hears me say it. A magnificent writer, Mike wrote a few lovely essays for The Porch, which you can find here - it was an honor to publish his words.
The evening after he died, I wrote him a note:
Mike, since our first meeting in a tent at Greenbelt in 1997, until our last email a few weeks ago, you have been the most remarkable mingling of wisdom figure & comrade, friend & advisor, and conversation partner to me. You heard my tales, held my heart, opened doors, walked through some together, invited me in. Always with magnificent Rose the most welcoming, hospitable hosts; always bringing me into the circle of family round your table.
So much laughter. So much affirmation. So much reassurance. A great deal of whiskey.
We watched and talked about so, so, so many movies together. One of them you even got made!
You welcomed me also into the evolution of JERUSALEM, JERUSALEM from an idea scoffed at by some to a piece of life-giving drama that went round first Aotearoa New Zealand and then the bloody *world*, leading to one of the most profound theatrical moments I've ever witnessed (in Edinburgh) to one of the best nights of my life (in Belfast).
Our conversation never stopped - you were the first person I ever heard say out loud that being LGBTQ+ wasn't a mistake but a thing of beauty; that love between humans could only be a manifestation of God. You were the first person I heard call me a writer, and you never stopped encouraging me. You taught me so much about holding grief and anger without harming yourself or others. So much about acceptance.
You were mightily in love with Rose, and your marriage one of the deepest, truest *partnerships* I've ever seen. Collaborators, co-conspirators, co-compromisers, hearth-keepers for - surely - hundreds of people.
You're the best writer I've ever been close to (please, folks, get your hands on a copy of THE INSATIABLE MOON); one of the best cooks; the most amazing conversation partner; and even more than a friend, I have seen how those who know best think of you as a masterpiece as a father and a husband.
For basically half my life, you've been there, and I can't imagine you gone. I know so many people are experiencing loss in these days - so many folks I know have been recently bereaved. All of our griefs need tending, all of our good memories championed, and our painful ones healed.
And I know you wouldn't want your loss to overshadow anyone else's - the very fact that you are smaller in this photo than I am is also illustrative of how I never *ever* heard you push your ego forward rather than just want to love well and do good work. I know you would want your loved ones and friends to remember how you helped us feel about ourselves - that you called forth the best in us, helped us see the possibility of humanity in even the bleakest of circumstances, and that if whatever we were up to wasn't as good as a dinner with friends in which there was always a spare place left for whoever needed it, it might be best to reconsider the plan. I smile the hugest smile at the thought of you. I miss you already. I'm sure I'll want to say more about you, for a long time to come. My love goes to your closest ones - those with whom you live and have lived for decades; and those of us who got to have you be part of our lives for however long we were so blessed. Next year, when you turn 70 in heaven, it's ok to take up smoking like you said you would. But watch over us, will ya?
