September 11, 2006: An Exercise In Optimism
It is another beautiful September day.
It is almost as if we are doomed to spend this gorgeous Indian Summer day wallowing in ultimate darkness. Each anniversary has been marked by a lovely day in which friends and neighbors say things like, "It was just like this..." and "I was planning to eat my lunch outside...". They always trail off like that. No one needs to finish the sentence because we are all stuck with images of smoke and debris in our minds.
Although I watched these events out my bedroom window, it is the images from television that I remember. What was out my window was all too real. It was much more comfortable to see it filtered through a lens.
Today people will be nodding their heads in solemn acknowledgement of lives lost. Some will glue their eyes to televisions that are dead set on peeling off the scab of September 11 and letting it bleed again. Letting it bleed all over our foreign policy and personal interactions. There is a touch of morbid fascination in me. I will be tempted to sink into overwhelming feelings of terror and despair. It is almost as if I feel that it is necessary for me to feel pain today in order to experience solidarity with those around me.
But that isn't true. By giving in to the sadness, I only create more sadness. Giving in to anger will only create more anger. Looking for hope will create hope.
Within the next couple of hours I expect one of our manarch chrysallises to split and produce a crumpled little butterfly. Our other chrysallis opened up yesterday. A soft orange and black winged creature is in my living room sucking on a slice of watermelon. Sullivan does not want to set them free. He likes the idea of possessing them and feeding them but he doesn't really want to pay attention to them. I've been trying to impress upon him the idea that the butterflies would not be fulfilling their butterfly destinies if they were trapped in a tank. Sometimes loving means letting go.
I believe that we all know what we are getting into when we are born into this world. To use a tired analogy, it's like picking out your college courses in order to fulfill the requirements of your major. Some of us major in forgiveness. Others major in acceptance and so on and so forth. Some have been called to use their lives to teach. Sometimes the lessons they teach are painful.
I always liked the story about how humans got the little dip above their upper lips. The story is that God gave you all the secrets of your being before you were born, then He put his finger right in that spot between your nose and your upper lip to seal the secrets in. Sshhhh.
There is something to be learned from every life. Its beginning. Its joys. Its sorrows. Its passing. Seeing past the grief is difficult. But so often the wallowing and the unwillingness to let go obscures the lesson. It obscures truth. Mythology exists to help us make sense of a harsh world. It exists to help us develop tools to move on and survive. Are they perfect tools? No. But we move on. We survive. We learn.
Or, at least, I hope that is what we do.
I don't want to focus on the horror of that day. I have a tendancy to sit and ruminate about how my body would have felt, how my mind would have functioned in those circumstances, how I would not have had the chance to say good bye. My sorrow that anyone would have had to experience that can overwhelm me and render me incapable of dealing with my own life. I am certain that is not the meaning this event has in the grand scheme of things. It certainly is not the meaning I would want to bestow on those souls who were lost that day. That is no tribute to their memory.
Today I will care for a pair of butterflies. I will help my son send them on their way to Mexico. They will pollenate and procreate or die trying. Their short lives will be beautiful and purposeful, as I wish my own to be.
As I wish yours to be as well.
Peace.
It is almost as if we are doomed to spend this gorgeous Indian Summer day wallowing in ultimate darkness. Each anniversary has been marked by a lovely day in which friends and neighbors say things like, "It was just like this..." and "I was planning to eat my lunch outside...". They always trail off like that. No one needs to finish the sentence because we are all stuck with images of smoke and debris in our minds.
Although I watched these events out my bedroom window, it is the images from television that I remember. What was out my window was all too real. It was much more comfortable to see it filtered through a lens.
Today people will be nodding their heads in solemn acknowledgement of lives lost. Some will glue their eyes to televisions that are dead set on peeling off the scab of September 11 and letting it bleed again. Letting it bleed all over our foreign policy and personal interactions. There is a touch of morbid fascination in me. I will be tempted to sink into overwhelming feelings of terror and despair. It is almost as if I feel that it is necessary for me to feel pain today in order to experience solidarity with those around me.
But that isn't true. By giving in to the sadness, I only create more sadness. Giving in to anger will only create more anger. Looking for hope will create hope.
Within the next couple of hours I expect one of our manarch chrysallises to split and produce a crumpled little butterfly. Our other chrysallis opened up yesterday. A soft orange and black winged creature is in my living room sucking on a slice of watermelon. Sullivan does not want to set them free. He likes the idea of possessing them and feeding them but he doesn't really want to pay attention to them. I've been trying to impress upon him the idea that the butterflies would not be fulfilling their butterfly destinies if they were trapped in a tank. Sometimes loving means letting go.
I believe that we all know what we are getting into when we are born into this world. To use a tired analogy, it's like picking out your college courses in order to fulfill the requirements of your major. Some of us major in forgiveness. Others major in acceptance and so on and so forth. Some have been called to use their lives to teach. Sometimes the lessons they teach are painful.
I always liked the story about how humans got the little dip above their upper lips. The story is that God gave you all the secrets of your being before you were born, then He put his finger right in that spot between your nose and your upper lip to seal the secrets in. Sshhhh.
There is something to be learned from every life. Its beginning. Its joys. Its sorrows. Its passing. Seeing past the grief is difficult. But so often the wallowing and the unwillingness to let go obscures the lesson. It obscures truth. Mythology exists to help us make sense of a harsh world. It exists to help us develop tools to move on and survive. Are they perfect tools? No. But we move on. We survive. We learn.
Or, at least, I hope that is what we do.
I don't want to focus on the horror of that day. I have a tendancy to sit and ruminate about how my body would have felt, how my mind would have functioned in those circumstances, how I would not have had the chance to say good bye. My sorrow that anyone would have had to experience that can overwhelm me and render me incapable of dealing with my own life. I am certain that is not the meaning this event has in the grand scheme of things. It certainly is not the meaning I would want to bestow on those souls who were lost that day. That is no tribute to their memory.
Today I will care for a pair of butterflies. I will help my son send them on their way to Mexico. They will pollenate and procreate or die trying. Their short lives will be beautiful and purposeful, as I wish my own to be.
As I wish yours to be as well.
Peace.
posted by Bree O'Connor at 10:22 AM
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