tamarjacobson

As I bid my blogger friends farewell on the first night that I arrived in London before the walk, I was hoping they would write about our meeting while I was away up in Northern England. It was difficult for me not to be able to blog about it immediately afterwards. So many thoughts and feelings were running through my brain, and I was forced to put them aside to focus on traveling through Kings Cross Station up to Newcastle, meeting and greeting the walkers, including my sister whom I had not seen for a couple of years. Naturally, I wrote about some of my impressions and emotions in my journal, but, still, I wanted to blog about it. And so, I was hoping that the other bloggers would describe their impressions and feelings so that the moments would not be lost as time moved on as it does in the blogging world like a snap of one’s typing fingers.

Just before I fell dead asleep on June 23, the first night in London, I wrote a few lines in my journal:

Delightful simple Penn Club – stoic, but ample room – coffee and tea-maker – Oh the British tea is so good! Why do I drink tea in America?

Jean picked me up in the afternoon – just like her picture on the blog. We have a coffee in Russell Square garden cafe, sun shining with clouds threatening rain – so beautiful.

And then a bus ride to meet Natalie … her home full of her wonderful art! Tea and cookies, wine and humus …

[Natalie’s front door]

Andy arrives …

… and then we talk – really talk – about blogging – our secret language. A few photos and then down to the pub.

And then the photos [really] begin – flashes and flashes.

I am laughing with all my heart

– feel as if I am with a kind of family all my own – become so sad to leave them. I want to be near them always – around the corner, meeting for coffee every now and then – like people I’ve known even before all my life.

Jean takes me back to The Penn Club, bus ride and then walks me around and around. I think she might have lost the way, gently, sweetly under her umbrella as the rain starts to fall. We come up to my little room and, oh my goodness, what a surprise – she has my book! Has brought it for me to sign! I am ecstatic, honored, touched, grateful, humbled.

[All the photographs posted here were taken by Jean, Andy and Natalie]

Now, as I sit at home, in my little study in Chestnut Hill, rain falling gently on the lush green woods behind my window, cardinals pipping and Ada chirping back at them, I think back to more than a week ago, about our bloggers’ meeting.

Jean wrote in her post the next day:

So here we are in a pub dining-room in North London, close to Natalie’s welcoming, art-filled house where we gathered earlier, with too much to say, and nothing quite adequate. "You remember what you wrote 6 months ago about that? It made me cry and I thought about it for weeks." would be kind-of embarrassing. And so would staring longer than is quite polite at a smile that is wider and wryer than in their photographs …

Andy wrote in his blog a few days later:

We met as bloggers; we departed as friends … it’s been reported on any number of occasions how it is that, having first met on the pages of a blog where secrets may be shared which might never be expressed in everyday conversation, relationships get a kick-start. Much of that getting-to-know-you preamble can be dispensed with; it’s already happened. Not only the simple sharing of facts and opinions; when you lay open aspects of your heart and soul and find them accepted, a mutual trust can develop; a deep respect and caring which is all too rare in the everyday world of hurried superficial relationships …

There is no doubt in my mind that the type of blogs we have in common share our feelings and personal thoughts. Therefore, a level of intimacy was already present from the moment we entered each other’s physical space. What was also present, perhaps, was a curiosity about the reality versus the virtual other and, of course, what we all sound like. I love that I can hear their voices in my mind as I read their words now. For me, there was not one iota, not one instance of disappointment in any expectations I might have had, if I had any at all.

Just a longing to spend more time with each, in person, to bear witness to their inner and outer lives, as well as sharing mine with them. To be able to look into their eyes, hear their voice, and touch each other every now and then. For our reality hugs were as warm and friendly as any of the virtual hugs we might have sent out to one another through our words or symbols over the years: {{{}}}.

Indeed, these past two and a half years of blogging, have buoyed me up and supported my introspection, validated my life experiences, and have encouraged my growth and development as a writer.

And all thanks to people like Natalie, Andy and Jean – like-minded, like-souled.

    [click on pictures to enlarge]

Here we are – Walkers, ages 43-70: (right to left) Karen, Fiona, Elise, Reina, Tamar, Beth

We came to walk the Wall:

Hadrian’s Wall:

We started out at Newcastle, at the East coast, gathering a sharp stone from the banks of the river to the sea. We started with four of us and were joined by two more on the fifth day:

Six days and at least 84 miles later, arrived at Bowness on Solway, on the West Coast where we cast the stone we had gathered in Newcastle, into the waters of the Solway Firth (my sister and her friends have developed this ritual over the years, through six different walks. They throw the stone high over their shoulders, with their backs to the sea):

There was much to see along the way, apart from the Wall that is. Green slopes and rocky climbs. Ancient trees and wild flowers as far as the eye could see. When Karen sends me the photographs she took …

… I should imagine there will be fields of poppies to show. Knowing how much I love wildflowers, she directed my attention away from blistering feet and exhausted muscles to the fields of red and orange poppies along the way. I would stop for a moment, lean on my walking stick that Tom had given me for my birthday this year (with a compass on the top of its handle to guide my way), and gasping for breath look out at the poppies, thankful for the sight, getting my mind away from physical pain. The rain poured, dripped, showered and dribbled, day in and day out, falling down our backs, dripping into our eyes, lashing our cheeks, and filling shoes with pools that soothed and buoyed my constantly forming blisters with cool, soothing waters. And on and on we walked. For hours. Sometimes chatting and laughing, telling our life stories and sharing anecdotes or jokes. At times we fell silent, contemplative or just silent, meditative, minds at rest following the fields, the hills, or sky. Once, at the end of a long day, we broke into a brisk run, and jogged into the village as evening fell. I could not believe what was happening, as just minutes before that I had been hobbling along gingerly, taking care with each step, aching and exhausted. One afternoon during the longest walk of all, I even broke into dramatic singing, which helped spur me onwards and onwards, keeping up with these strong, forceful, dynamic and unyielding women. When I would joke about finding the nearest bus, calling for a taxi, or even calling out and up to an overflying helicopter to come and save me, my sister-walkers would become serious and determined, refusing me that option, and telling me glorious tales about feelings of achievement and satisfaction with completing the walk at all costs. One day, walking through a small copse, the skies blackened, lightening flashed and thunder roared and pellets of hail began to rage down on us as we huddled together against a wall of a nearby farm. We were way up coming upon the highest point of the wall, and the weather seemed as close to the sky as it could ever have been. Scrambling down rocky inclines and walking over a tall bridge were challenges for me with my ancient fear of heights. My sister grabbed my hand and talked me through some of these moments with a firm, gentle voice that calmed and strengthened me. I guess I will always be her little sister. I was grateful to overcome those hurdles. When I would become excited about an easy patch as we walked briskly down a road, my sister would caution me softly,

Remember. What goes down must come up …

And, indeed, up we would go, as sheer and steep as an incline could be, straining the calf and thigh muscles in ways I would never have dreamed possible.  Each time I arrived at the top I would whisper to myself words of encouragement and amazement that I had made it. Each time was as exhilarating and exciting as the first. In fact, it seemed like a miracle that I made it at all!

Walking, nay sinking in, the mud, sometimes mingled with huge, watery, cow patties, was quite the challenging experience. Sometimes I thought I might have to leave my shoes behind, but presto, out my foot accompanied by walking shoe, would pop, squelching and sucking through the thick brown substance into the air, only to fall way down into the next boggy mess once again until we found our way to a firm piece of ground or grass.

But at the end of each day, a charming Bed and Breakfast would greet us with floral drapes and hot cups of tea, warm showers and comfortable beds. Following a cheery evening meal at a pub nearby, and perhaps a game of "speed scrabble," I would flop into bed exhausted, aching into muscles and bones and fall into a deep sleep, only to rise fresh and clear, ready to start again. Early in the morning, I would stretch into yoga postures, ironing out the creases and wrinkles of yesterday’s pain, do my breathing exercises and over and over again would miraculously discover renewed strength each and every day to do it all again. And each time I would marvel at the resiliency of the human body.

One day, I wrote in my journal comparing my psychological development and maturation with the walk:

… after fifty seven and a half years of learning how I came to be who I am. Gathering strength, knowledge, validation, support along the way, growing and maturing, analyzing, redefining, self-altering. A struggle at times, excruciatingly painful – just like the walk – full of moments of tremendous fear. But, at the end – a great and uplifting experience. One full of a feeling of achievement. Emancipation. Individuation. Discrimination between I and thou …

Early this morning I described my trip briefly in an e-mail to Joe-from-Philly:

The security at Gatwick was fine – strong but not too intrusive. I arrived there with plenty of time to spare so was not affected by the terrorist stuff. What a week to be in Britain though – new Prime Minister, flooding (it rained every day but one while I was there!), and then terrorist attacks! I spent the whole time pretty much oblivious to it all though – just walking and walking through fields and slopes of sheep, cows and mud! However, Hadrian’s Wall was impressive and the most important thing for me always is human connection and there was plenty of that with all the women walking together – ages ranged from 43-70!

[near Carlisle – taking a rest]

Quote of the day:

So, whatever you want to do, just do it….Making a damn fool of yourself is absolutely essential. Gloria Steinem

[at the end of the walk – 84 miles – Bowness on Solway]

Yes, you’ve guessed. I am home. 90-100 miles of walking later. Lots to tell and reorganize. Hang in there. I must catch my breath, clear up the last remaining blister and clean the bathrooms. And then … I will have tales to tell.

Did you miss me?

P.S. Check in at Jean and Andy for their reports of our Bloggers’ meeting.