Finally taking the time
Thursday, November 1, 2007 -- 4:27pm
Posted by Bar


Hi everybody,

Most of you on this e-mail list were along for the ride when Peter,  
Forrest and I were doing cancer and all that was related to it. This  
month, finally, I have taken the time off to write something about  
that experience, and to see if I can make sense of some of the things  
that I learned. I've taken an apartment at the Jersey shore for all  
of November and hope to write whatever it is that can be written  
after all of this time. I got here on Tuesday, and have been enjoying  
abnormally warm weather and am grateful for it. My place is a block  
from the beach and I have already met all of the people who work in  
the building that I am living in which makes it a very comfortable  
place to be. I spent the first day walking and getting my apartment  
set up to work. Yesterday I got to work writing first thing in the  
morning and had three several hour sessions interrupted only by meals  
and walks on the beach throughout the day. I have all of the e-mails  
that I wrote to you over those years, and I have all of your  
responses. Yesterday I began to read through them; read through some  
more today. Mostly it is not unbearable or painful for me. I am  
actually surprised at how it feels to read through all of it. Every  
now and then something catches me and I remember just how hard the  
whole thing was. I don't think I'll be using the e-mails verbatim. I  
think they are what they are and were somehow important at the time  
because of my need to write them and because what was happening was  
happening at that moment. They don't hold the same power as they did  
when we were living with everything that cancer offered. But there  
are a few stories and insights that I couldn't possibly experience or  
comprehend now without the threat of death on my shoulders. I think  
we humans have been given the gift of forgetting in the wake of deep  
grief. For this I am very thankful. I was wiser then than I am now.  
I'm hoping that I can relearn what I learned for my own sake and,  
hopefully, for the sake of the book that I hope grows out of this  
month away.

Needless to say, my thoughts include all of you today. I've felt  
compelled to share some thoughts from this day with you. I hope that  
you don't mind my indulgence!

  I'll be in touch as the month progresses. Thanks once again for  
being there.

With love,
Bar


November 1, 2007

I'm living in Ocean Grove, New Jersey this month. It was time for me  
to focus on writing Forrest's story, and so I am taking the time to  
do so. I also needed a break from my routine in Woodstock, so here I am.

The weather couldn't be better. I love the beach off season and often  
wonder why more people aren't here when the conditions are so  
perfect. I guess the only people who are able to take the time off  
are retired old people and mothers with no children. Most mothers are  
chaufering their children to and from gymnastics or orthodontist  
appointments. Me? I'm free and have no one relying on me, so I am  
taking advantage of the situation. I met a man named Bob out on the  
beach. He's a retired old person who loves to fish. About 20 feet  
from the four fishing poles he has poised for the catch, was a large  
fish head with only its spine left behind its gills. The dead fish  
was being picked and protected by 10 or so gulls of varying varieties  
as I walked by. I asked Bob what kind of fish this big fish head had  
been. He said it was a Blue, and a Blue that was too big for anyone  
to eat. He figured that a fisherman on a boat out on the water had  
caught the guy, found it was too big (too tough to eat?) and had  
thrown it back making it a target for the birds overhead.

Bob and I got to talking and I learned a lot about him and about  
fishing in a five-minute period. What I found most interesting was  
that I remembered his name. I was relaxed enough and not in a hurry  
enough, that I actually retained his name after I walked away. I  
realized that it had been years since I'd been able to remember  
someone's name even moments after they'd been introduced. I'm  
guessing that's because in social situations I am distracted and  
nervous and not completely paying attention. It felt good to slow  
down enough to listen to Bob and to really hear his name and his  
fishing stories. Hopefully I'll see him again tomorrow and I'll be  
able to say "hi, Bob, how's the fishing today?"

The other thing I noticed is that there were lots of gulls resting on  
the beach all with their heads toward the afternoon sun. They looked  
so content just lying there taking in the mild autumn weather. I  
walked along the water line where the sand is harder and less  
demanding on my shins and calfs. As I walked, I quieted down even  
more. I found I was grateful to be able and willing to spend so much  
time alone. I can't tell you how much I enjoy being alone. Sometimes  
I think I prefer being alone; other times, like when I'm doing my  
shows or spending time with people that I love, I can't imagine a  
happier existence than to be with others. Today though, alone is what  
I wanted and it is what I had and I could not have been more content.

As I walked, I passed big flocks of gulls who, like me, enjoyed the  
coastline where the ocean water was coming in and out. Sometimes I  
speak to animals when I am close to them, and inevitably they run or  
fly away from me when I do. I have an unfortunate tendency to take on  
a high-pitched voice when I speak to animals. It's the same voice  
that many adults use with children and which I've always thought to  
be irritating and somehow condescending. So today I experimented with  
not saying a thing and just continued with my walk as though the  
birds and I both belonged there. Not surprisingly the birds did not  
fly away. They didn't stay put either, they just made gentle  
movements to slightly increase the distance between me and them.  
There was no fear, no startled reactions. Just birds taking care of  
their personal space; making sure that there was plenty of room  
between me and them in case I turned out to be nuts and ran towards  
them. It reminded me that silence is a good choice. Silence is a hard  
choice, too. Sometimes in my nervousness, I talk way too much. I say  
things that I don't mean and I walk away wishing that I could retract  
or rephrase some awkward comment that I have just uttered. It  
reminded me that slowing down enough to be calm - especially around  
other people - is yet another choice, and one that I would like to  
make more often.

The beach is such a teacher. I love the way I feel when I get near  
the beach. I love the smells and the vastness. I love the sound of  
the ocean and the air that constantly blows by me when I walk. On  
days like this when it's not too hot and not too cold, I can think of  
no better place to be.

The Beach November 2nd
Friday, November 2, 2007 -- 10:35am
Posted by Bar


The beach is an altogether different place this morning. Hurricane  
Noel is doing it's thing up the east coast and the ocean is speaking  
out. It's loud. It's crashing. It's high. It's intense. There was  
only one other person on the beach when I walked this morning, and  
I'll tell you, it wasn't my retired friend Bob. This guy was fishing  
out on the jetty. Waves were crashing all around him and the wind was  
so strong that he couldn't get his lure out far enough to catch  
anything. Talk about living on the edge! Holy mackerel. The guy is  
nuts! I mean it's one thing to enjoy the wind and the power; it's  
another thing to go out and get yourself killed. Was I imagining it,  
though, or was he smiling the biggest smile I've ever seen?? It was  
thrilling to watch.

Thanks for all of your messages everybody.

Hope it's a good day for you too.

Love,
bar

Sanderlings
Monday, November 5, 2007 -- 10:46am
Posted by Bar


November 5, 2007

On the beach this morning, I got to watching a flock of 30 or so  
little white and black birds as they did their thing along the  
constantly changing water line. I've seen these birds many times but  
never knew what they were, so I called my resident bird expert,  
Peter, and he told me they were Sanderlings.

The thing that is so magical about these particular birds is that  
they stay together in a pretty close-knit pack all of the time. They  
do exactly the same things in unison with one another over and over  
again. When the water goes out, they follow it. When the water comes  
in, they're right in front of it never allowing themselves to be  
caught by the water an eighth of inch from their rear feathers. They  
go in and out, in and out all day long. At least they do it all  
morning. As the water moves back out to the ocean, they scamper after  
it then jam their beaks into the sand for who knows what they'll find  
to eat. I've never seen any of them chewing anything. But presumably  
they're getting something or they would have changed their  
evolutionary path eons ago. What I especially love about them is the  
speed at which their little birdie feet move across the sand. There's  
probably a scientific calculation for bird steps per minute, but I'm  
thinking theirs is almost as fast as a hummingbird's wing speed.  
Watching their morning routine is like watching a ballet. I could  
have stayed there all day.

I also saw: surfers galore, fishermen, many dogs and their best  
friends, all sorts of seagulls, freighters on the horizon, and other  
boats with lots of rods standing at the ready for the next catch. I  
walked for over an hour and was finally glad to get home to my home  
away from home. It's been a good first week of writing. I haven't  
done much else but walk, eat and write so things are getting done.

Have a good week everybody.

Love,
bar

PS When I got back from my walk this morning, I had coffee with some  
of the other guests who are staying at the inn where my apartment is.  
One of them is a Hungarian violinist who is here with his new  
American wife. We've decided to have a little concert in the hotel's  
living room tonight. There's another singer in the house and there's  
an out of tune piano, so it should be fun!

writing
Wednesday, November 7, 2007 -- 10:44pm
Posted by Bar


Wednesday, November 7th, 2007

The thing I'm learning about writing is that it's hard to be  
organized. I've written a lot this week but I am clearly not writing  
a story that starts at the beginning and goes to the end. My strategy  
has been to write whatever I'm inspired to write on any given day. I  
have no agenda about how it gets written or when it gets written or  
how whatever I've written might fit into a bigger project or book. In  
the meantime, I am reading all of the e-mails that I wrote to you  
over the years, and trying to wrap my head around whether any of that  
writing can be extracted and woven into a more concise and effective  
book. There's so much information and so many thoughts and styles and  
moods that it's hard to keep it all straight. I have new admiration  
for anyone who can write an effective novel or an engaging memoir.  
For the moment I am not making any judgments, but eventually I will  
have to make some decisions and I guess I'll know when that time  
comes around.

Many of you have asked about the impromptu concert that we did on  
Monday night. All I can say is that it was unique and fun and highly  
entertaining. The hotel management decided to make an event out of  
it, so they invited all of the guests at the hotel as well as some  
local friends. When I arrived at 7:00, there were candles lit  
throughout the living room and tables covered with plates of fruit,  
wine and cheese. 15 of us showed up. It was an odd assortment of  
people and I loved every moment of it. I spent all day yesterday  
writing a short story describing the characters and the evening that  
we'd had together. It's not quite done, and I'm wondering if it might  
not fit somehow into the book that is brewing in my mind, but when  
it's done, I'll post it so that anyone who wants to read it can do  
so. I'll need to get permission, of course, or at least change the  
names of the people I've described. It was a great exercise and I  
learned a lot by doing it.

The weather continues to be perfect. Lots of wind, which I love, and  
lots of sun, which I need.

Have a good sleep,
Bar

Jeremy and John at the beach
Saturday, November 10, 2007 -- 9:43pm
Posted by Bar


November 10, 2007

It's been a strange afternoon here in Ocean Grove. 

I decided to borrow a book from the hotel since I'd finished the only one 
I'd brought with me last week .  My thought was to grab the first thing 
that caught my eye knowing that the hotel's selection was pretty much the 
dregs of the summer beach-reading variety.  

When I bent over to look at the 20 or so books they had on the shelf, the 
book that jumped out at me was a book that I've always wanted to read: 
Death Be Not Proud.  I pulled it out, put it in my knapsack and headed off 
for some lunch thinking that it was a novel that had something to do with 
the military or the police.  

After I ordered my soup, I opened to the first page and saw the 
dedication: 

In Memoriam
John Gunther Junior 
1929 - 1947

The author's son. 

I was about to begin reading the story of John Gunther Junior's life 
having died from a brain tumor in his senior year of high school.  

I debated whether starting this book was a good idea under the 
circumstances, but having been drawn right to it only 15 minutes earlier, 
I thought it best to carry on.  I've only read 23 pages so far, but 
already I can feel the depth of the father's love and I recognize the 
admiration that he felt for his son's short life.  John Jr was a very 
sweet, and gentle young man.  He was cautious, careful, intelligent and 
handsome.  It sounded like his father was describing Forrest.  It made me 
wonder whether that theory about the good ones dying young had some truth 
to it.  I'm looking forward to reading their story, and oddly enough, I'm 
interested to learn how cancer therapy has changed in 78 years.  

After my soup, I decided to head down to the beach again.  The weather had 
calmed down since this morning, so I thought I'd take a longer walk.  At 
the place where I step off the boardwalk and down to the beach, I noticed 
an over-turned lifeguard stand that was covered with flowers.  When I went 
to investigate, I learned that a young man named Jeremy had died.  There 
were pictures of him at the prom, and of him with a baby in his arms.  
There were tons of flowers and personal messages and a black flag blowing 
in the wind.  I had noticed a smaller memorial for this guy on Thursday 
when my parents were here for lunch.  It made me wonder who he was and 
what had happened.  When I got back from my walk, I noticed a bunch of 
kids taking pictures of surfers near where the memorial had been put up, 
so I went over and asked them what they knew.  They told me that Jeremy 
was their friend and that he had died on Tuesday morning from throat and 
lung cancer.  He was 25.  The baby in the pictures was his niece.  I told 
them how sorry I was and kept walking.  

How strange is all of this?  Why do I see these things?  Why did I pick up 
that book?  

I figure that I'm seeing things because I have time to see them.  They're 
probably happening all of the time, but because I'm here with nothing to 
do but see things, I see more than I would in my regular life.  It's hard 
for me to imagine or remember what Jeremy's mother is feeling right now.  
I hope that she finds out soon enough that she will survive.  

Peter called this morning to tell me that he is enjoying his trip to 
Texas.  He's seen more birds than he did on the same trip last year.  It 
was good to hear his voice.  We've both been enjoying our solitude.  I 
think he needed it as much as I did.  

Be well everybody.
Love, 
bar 

Sanderlings and other things
Wednesday, November 14, 2007 -- 10:55am
Posted by Bar


It's only 10:05AM and it's already been a busy day.

I saw another flock of sanderlings this morning and was very drawn to  
them. Something was unusual about how they were moving along the  
waterline. Their movements were not graceful today. The birds were  
hopping vertically rather gliding horizontally the way they normally  
do. As I got closer, I could see that out of 40 or so birds, at least  
30 had only one leg. I couldn't believe it! How could that be? How  
could they feed themselves? How could they possibly survive? I  
worried for the next part of my walk how this could possibly have  
happened?

On my way home, I came across the same flock and sure enough they  
were all still standing on one-leg. It was very disconcerting. As  
luck would have it, they were startled by a dog and flew down the  
coast in the same direction that I was walking so I got to observe  
them one last time. I was glad to see them flying as beautifully as  
ever and watched them land up ahead of me. As I got closer, I could  
see that, in fact, they were all still on one leg. I stopped and  
watched them again trying to make sense of their awful predicament. I  
could see that they were all well-fed. None of them seemed to be weak  
in any way. They weren't moving a lot, but clearly they were healthy.  
They were just one-legged. I started to watch a single bird to see if  
I could identify anything specific that might help me explain this  
strange phenomenon when all of the sudden that bird scratched his  
head with another foot! The longer I waited and watched, I realized  
that these birds were asleep! Their heads were turned at 180 degrees  
and were tucked into their feathers behind them. My guess is that  
they sleep standing on one leg! How weird is that?

I've put an e-mail out to a shore bird conservationist group in  
Florida to see if they can confirm my suspicion. Couldn't get a hold  
of Peter to see if he knew - which I'm sure he does. But I was able  
to finish my walk with some confidence that all was well with the  
sanderlings. Marie, if you know the answer, let me know!

One other thing happened that really effected me:

It sort of began yesterday at the end of the day when I was walking  
on the same beach. I noticed a little boy learning to walk on the  
grass just beside the boardwalk. His mother had let him take off on  
his own, but she was nearby and this was clearly one of his first  
days on his feet. It was extra cute and I couldn't help watching and  
enjoying her love and his courage and determination. I noticed to  
that she was wearing a black scarf around her head.

This morning I saw them again on the boardwalk with the little guy in  
a stroller this time. That scarf that I'd seen on the mother's head  
yesterday and that I thought looked so pretty in the wind was a burka  
gently covering this woman's face and her eyes.

Having said hello to them yesterday and admired the little boy's  
progress for her, I wanted to say hello again. So I did. "Good  
morning", I said, And she responded with something in arabic but the  
last word I caught was what I thought was Hebrew: "Shalom". I  
responded with "Shalom" not knowing if that was a major error on my  
part, or if she would hear it with the intention that I had said it.  
I was wishing her well. But as I walked away, once again I admired  
their courage - hers this time. What a bold thing to do! Here we are  
in Ocean Grove, NJ - a town that was founded by the Methodist Church  
and which, as far as I can tell, is a pretty conservative place to  
be, and she has the courage of her conviction to walk on the  
boardwalk in her burka! Wow! I was really moved by it, and naturally  
I got to thinking about the notion of wearing a burka and about how  
I'd actually responded to it.

My first thought was to be a little frightened. Why was that? I  
realized that I'm always a little frightened by anything that is  
hidden, and her face was hidden so it scared me a bit. Next, I  
thought that I'll bet she is really beautiful under there! Every  
woman I've ever seen in a burka has the most exquisite eyes and I  
wanted to see if hers were too. I thought to myself that if a burka  
is meant to spare a man and a woman the temptation of attraction, for  
me at least, it was having the opposite effect. I wanted to see her.  
I wanted her to take the burka off and share her beauty with me and  
the rest of us!

The last thing that came to mind is that I am glad to be here.  
I love that this woman could walk down the boardwalk in Ocean Grove.  
I'm sure she's endured her share of bias and strange looks, but she's  
here and she can do whatever she wishes to do with her faith. That is  
a great thing and I am proud of that. As I watch the news every night  
while I eat my dinner, I am saddened by so much of it. The  
Palestinians are so distressed. The Pakistanis, the Turks, The  
Iranians, The Iraqis whose lives seem to be ever-so-slowly coming  
back to something that provides hope. What a world this is. So much  
going on. So much to worry about, to think about, and wonder. It's  
the wonder of it all that I am drawn to.

Thank you for being with me on this journey. It's a pleasure to have  
company and I am deeply grateful.

It's beautiful here today: warm, sunny, still. Enjoy it wherever you  
are,
Bar

Thanksgiving
Tuesday, November 20, 2007 -- 12:01pm
Posted by Bar


Good morning everybody,

It feels like ages since I wrote to you. Time has a way of standing  
still at the beach - or maybe it's that I'm on retreat and pretty  
much on my own. It feels like I've been away for years.

Every morning I've been walking on the beach before I start to write.  
I walk southward about 2 miles to a drawbridge that crosses over a  
canal. I wish I knew the names of the bridge and the canal, but alas,  
everyone I've asked doesn't know and I haven't gotten to a map yet.  
Generally my 4 mile loop takes about one hour and 15 minutes. I walk  
on the beach so it's slow going, but it is totally invigorating and I  
absolutely love it. This morning, though, it took me nearly 2 hours!  
The wind was coming up from the south and I could hardly move forward  
as I started out. My full-length down coat was acting like a sail  
pulling me backwards as I tried to walk forward. Needless to say, no  
one else was on the beach. The wind through the night must have been  
intense because the beach was completely level. There were no prints  
anywhere and as I walked along I was very much alone. I could see  
lights on in so many of the houses looking out over the beach. I  
wanted to call out: "Come on, everybody, it's fantastic out here.  
You'll see. Just put your coat on. Wrap yourself up. Come on. Once  
you feel it, you'll never be the same!", but I didn't. I did make a  
few rather loud noises - kind of like squeals of delight. Last night,  
before the sun went down, I actually tried to do a handstand on the  
beach! What has come over me? Am I losing my mind? All I know is that  
the wind and the water wake me up and there is a part of me that sees  
that I'm a little nuts. And the beauty of it is that I don't care  
anymore! Hallelujah! I'm old enough now that I simply don't care if I  
think I'm nuts or anyone else thinks that I'm nuts. It's so much more  
fun being a little crazy!

On Tuesday last week , after a long day of writing (because I am  
actually writing all day except when I'm going bonkers on the beach)  
I really needed a change of scenery. I had spent the day (or a couple  
of days) writing down everything that I could remember about  
Forrest's last couple of weeks and by the time I was done, I was  
exhausted and spent. So, I thought I'd go to the mall. Now THAT is  
nuts! Let's put it this way: in three weeks, I have used only half of  
tank of gas and that includes my trip from Woodstock to Ocean Grove.  
I haven't gone anywhere. I walk in town (3 blocks away) to get a bowl  
of soup at lunch, or to mail a letter. I go to the grocery store (by  
car, but nearby) every 4th day or so, but mostly I have stayed in  
this very isolated town and not been in the "real" world since  
October 28th. I drove the 6 miles to the Monmouth Mall, got out of my  
car, headed inside, walked the length of the building, saw all of the  
things I do not need and never will (and wondered if anyone ever  
really did) turned around, got in my car and drove back. It was too  
much. Too much stuff. Too many lights. Too many people. Too much  
money for everything. Too much temptation. Too much. Too much. Too  
much. I was so relieved to get back in my car and away from that  
place. Thankfully, believe it or not, I did see some people that I  
knew! That made all of the difference. Three of the men that had been  
at our concert at the hotel the week before were headed to a movie.  
They invited me to join them, but I just couldn't. It was all just  
too much. I told them my goal was to get out of that mall without  
buying an Annie's pretzel with butter on it. They told me that they  
weren't going to even try to stop themselves. It was nice to make  
human contact in an otherwise life-less environment.

With Thanksgiving coming up, I realize how very lucky I am.  This time 
away has been incredible.  I don't know if it's for everyone, but I highly 
recommend this kind of solitude.  If nothing else comes of this time, at 
the very least I will finally have done the internal work that I've so 
wanted since Forrest died.  My writing has been focused, I think.  It's 
not a blow by blow account of every detail of our journey with Forrest.  
Everyday I've just sat down and asked myself what I would like to write 
about.  Each day turns out to be a vignette, more or less, of some piece 
of the trip we were on.  I hope that eventually it will all make sense as 
a collection of some sort.  I've enjoyed falling in love with Forrest all 
over again.  In our everyday life now, we've naturally forgotten him on a 
certain level.  We have moved on and we have had to forget certain things.  
But this month has given me an opportunity to reacquaint myself with this 
remarkable little boy that I once knew.  He was something, and the ride 
through life with him was an honor.  

I hope that you all have a restful holiday. Peter is on his way here  
Thursday morning. Looking forward to having my buddy around for a  
couple of days.

Be well,
Bar

Home Again
Wednesday, November 28, 2007 -- 5:40pm
Posted by Bar


It's Wednesday, and rather than being at the beach in New Jersey, I
am in the Catskill Mountains at the Woodstock Library. I guess you
could say I'm suffering a rather deep culture shock! The first
problem is that I no longer have hi-speed internet at my fingertips,
so doing anything by computer is now extremely frustrating. In order
to do my work on the internet, I need to go to the library (or Panera
or Starbucks). It's maddening, and Peter and I have not been able to
find an alternative because of where we live on the side of Overlook
Mountain. So, I will fade out of your e-mail life again now......I'm
also hiding a bit since I haven't been here for so many weeks. That
will change tonight when we begin rehearsal for a show on Friday
night. It's good to be home, though, and great to see our house and
remember the smell of it and the feel of it and the light through the
many windows.

I did want to tell you that I was home, though - that the month away
was intense and good and hard and wonderful. I wrote a lot and I have
re-read everything I wrote a few times now. When I went for my walk
this morning, I realized that the reason I am heavy-hearted today
(and these last couple of days) is that I am actually re-living a
pretty intense period in my life. Oddly enough, it's not Forrest's
illness or his death that is making me heavy. What's getting me is my
looking at my self and sort of evaluating how things went and how I
might have done things differently. I'm seeing my weaknesses and my
darker sides and I'm beating myself up for not being better or
stronger or clearer. It's nuts, I know, so don't worry about me. I'm
not going off the deep end, and I know that this heaviness will pass.
But writing everything down and then reading it for punctuation, flow
and grammar and all of that has allowed me to see my own patterns and
to wish that certain parts of my self were better developed. I've
thought about stopping. A part of me is aware that re-living this
thing is pretty nuts for my own health. But another part of me needs
very much to look at it all again and to tell the story. Telling it
seems as important to me now as my e-mails to you back then were.
They took on a sort of like-saving urgency for me that this new
writing seems to have too. There's a lot left to do, I think. I'm
assuming that the winter will revolve around getting this writing
done. I'm looking forward to finishing it; trying to do a better job
of pacing myself so that I don't get weighted down.

It's funny, too, that a couple of weeks ago when I arrived at the
beach I was so energized and so full of what I could do if I set my
mind to it. When I'm low, like today, I sort of laugh at my
cockiness! Wonder if I'll ever get back to that place of acute
living. I remind myself on these days that life is an emotional
roller coaster and that I am on it.

Good to have you in my car!

With love and best wishes for the holiday season that is brewing
already!

Bar