New England Writers III

We seem to have a way of bending time. How can it be possible that we left New Jersey at sunrise, traveled up through the progression of fall colors into Massachusetts in time to meet Jessica, Brooke, Lauren and Onyx? How could we see Great Barrington as if it were a town we'd always known, see Melville's house and have time to pick apples from his trees and throw chestnuts at each other (without any official scoldings!), have an inevitable "where are they?" hiatus, a long afternoon snack in the honeyed October light, and still have time for music and somersaults at the lake, a Hawaiian luau replete with saucy waitress and grass skirted coconut training braed girls, and manage to drink down the milkyway, all in the same day. It appears that to live fully in the moment, letting the richness of the colors, the tastes, and the company sink in to you, must allow a stretching of time. Whatever it may be, thank you all.

I felt we all needed this weekend in a way we probably couldn't articulate. At least I know, I did. When I planned a trip two weeks after September 11 and no one (but noble and valiant Leigh!) wanted to come, I felt badly. I did recognize though, that it was all too close then, and that we were all in a period of trying to learn how to get on with our lives again. A month later, I felt the need to reconnect with our community so we could all start to make sense not only of September 11, but the responses to it. " We will spread the peanut butter of justice with the knife of the almighty..."

For me, the day was very much about words (and hugs). Since September 11, one of the things which has fascinated me most is the ways in which people have responded to the wordlessness of grief. Initially, in the aftermath of the attacks, people told stories of where they were and what they were doing when they found out. In the days that followed, as a grief mixed with fear, I spoke to people who had gone into working on projects that didn't need words - painting closets and livingrooms, plastering walls and building labyrinths, baking pies. I don't know if it was because we were tired of the barrage of words from the media and government (infinite justice? Come on!) or if we were afraid to find words to name some of those feelings, but either way, I noticed a hush. A wordlessness.

Into that quiet space creeped the words of the president in his speeches. The mayor in his speeches. I found myself being increasingly concerned by the ways in which words are weilded. The pregnant power in them. The taunts and invocations.

It was so good to gather with all of you and hear you talk about words. Even if the words were the etymology of dork (who knew it meant whale penis? Moby Dork?) or a wonderful exchange of silly renditions of Rip Van Winkle's rhyming brothers (Rip Van Ginko Biloba is still my favorite). It was more than that, though, as Brett played us wordless songs at the lake and Jess and I talked about the fear of naming feelings and relationships. Damian, not being able to decide what to eat at the Luau because the names all looked good, or exploring the language of the president's latest speeches with Brett and Damian and Jason. Standing in a field under a blanket of stars, it was a wonderful thing to hear people articulate what that expanse of universe made them feel. Small and insignificant, fully connected, out of perspective, glad to have an equal view of the universe. In trying to articulate that mixture of feelings of coming to understand something so enormous and something so personal, I felt that we were getting to the heart of words and how they can move through us.

I am forever grateful to know you all because you are the faces of my geography of hope. To hear Brett talk passionately about his latest story and film projects, or hear Heather's enthusiastic explanation of the historical maligning of Richard III, is to let me be privy to the beauty of creativity in all of you. I love seeing Leigh sitting up against a chestnut tree in the sunlight, little bits of her hair showing around the edge of the tree. Watching Julie, Hiroko, and Erel play "ha" in the tall grass, going on the quest for the perfect brownie with Brooke, and sharing rich conversation with Lauren at a place called Uncommon Ground, I felt whole again. Our guide at Melville's house oozed the kind of zest for life that left us all smiling (and hey, if a few people happened to get photos of themselves wearing Herman's top hat…oh well. Better than Walt Whitman's underwear!) I loved seeing how quickly Jason was enfolded into the group and in the darkness of the car to hear first the "hey, is that your hand down my pants?" Wait!" Is that a walkie-talkie down my pants" as we were entering Lee, was priceless. Only a pint of chubby hubby (but not hubdog) could make it all right. I loved the smile that Damian brought out in the waitress, the conversation about eating apples from Melville's tree, and better yet, the reprises of conversations that had been alive for a year. You have no idea what a wonderful thing it is for me to hear you, in the middle of a starry field, say, "I forget. Who wants to be buried?" and then after discussing that and a response to want to be sent to the wind or space, to hear,"What? No lucite case? No adoring public?" A nod to the day when we drew pictures of our funerals. To know each other's feelings about death and to know that we are keepers for each other, seems to be one of the strongest threads of our community.

To lie in tall grass and talk about the process of change and what it means to be an adult, is a gift. To have been with the same people as they chased each other through Herman Melville's yard only to land in a tumble and giggle in the grass is to see hope in action. When you name those feelings about what it means to be an adult, you also give yourselves the power to change those definitions. Play one of the most essential elements of being alive. All animals play and the more we play, the more we create possibilities. How else could Lord Chowderfoot, Baronness Sloatsburg (a.k.a. Lady Smallbladder), Lobster Bisque and Crikey Von Blimey ever exist? To play creates a field of trust to which you all participate. I think that the reason we can share our thoughts on death, on growing older, on love, on relationships is because we know that Rip Van Winkle has a brother named Rip Van Tinkle, or that there is everything right with a world where Julie can think "Piggyback ride" and Hiroko can hear that loudly enough to oblige. Always a good sign when the most respectable member of the group is a standard poodle (Who looks vaguely like some art teacher's husband...). Where else can you discuss whether or not you believe in time, with the same people who are models for the NYPD sock company? And I'll even forgive the fact that there might be a club for "People whose first word was 'light'" and that the co-presidents happened to both ride in the Brettmobile on a starry night through upstate New York.

I agreed with Damian's complaint about our tour guide at Melville's. They didn't have parlor conversation, they talked about what mattered. We already knew Hawthorne from his yard and his trees, and now, having eating from the tree of Melville, do we know any better the nature of our world? I guess we knew the difference because our parlor conversation is about what matters and it's about finding the smiles on each other's faces. How else could you know the political machinations of New Hamsterdamn? (Did you all have stuffed who were slavish followers of the socio-political climate set by a hamster? I thought everyone played like that…see, back in the 70s before there were video games…

The day has a soundtrack for me thanks to the Lord Chowderfoot music studio. Nick Drake will forever be autumn leaves and the news of more cases of anthrax and phones going out. The music from Kronos so much the music of the stars. Profokiev in Great Barrington, "So What" for the spaces in between, and Django and Stephan for the beginning and the end. Music to take us full circle.

You're all asleep as I write these words. Jasper's trying to resist the urge to snuggle into the pile of sleepingbags on the floor. A wafflemaker with connected hearts waiting for you to awaken.

Carry this weekend with you when you go back to that world of dangerous words and unnamed fears. Carry the color of Melville's orange tree, or the red-orange tree we saw on our detour in Stockbridge. Carry the sound of the guitar by the lake, the image of four pictures taken almost at once with a little blue camera, and try not to drive over the speed of Erel (67.5). Carry that starry field, those constellations just waiting for you to connect the dots. And if you get the chance, remind people that one of the bravest things you can do, is to continue to be who you are. Hopeful.

Much love and safe travels…I'll see you all in January, but please write me your thoughts and I'll put them and the pictures up on the web. Start saving for spring in England, too! (LVG)