In September of 2005, I took this photograph of some steps at Wayna Picchu, the mountain right next to Machu Picchu. Many photos of Machu Picchu are actually taken from Wayna Picchu.
When I got to Peru the one thing that I continued to hear was “you must climb Wayna Picchu.” I had not really considered doing so; I was so fixated on seeing the ruins in the relatively short time that I would be there. However, Continue reading
What a fine week of vacation we had, in Ocean City, New Jersey. *sigh* We love Ocean City, for many reasons.
Ocean City has an interesting history, which you can read about here. Part of the history is that it was meant to be a Christian resort. As a result, Ocean City remains a dry town to this day. While I like wine with my bread, at church and at home, I am perfectly happy to stay in this liquor-store-free town. The net result of this is that unlike Seaside Heights, now infamous because of the MTV program, (*insert eyeroll here*) “Jersey Shore,” the OC boardwalk is devoid of rowdy bars and dance clubs, tattoo parlors and other such.
Now living the life I have lived, trust me – I have enjoyed my fair share of rowdy bars and dance clubs, including ones in Seaside Heights, when I was younger. At this point in my life, I am happy for a different chapter however and OC fits the bill.
Our vacation started, as many of you already know via Facebook, with a bang. As we were sitting at the traffic light that is at the entry to the island, we were rear ended. Poor Prius has had its rear end kicked, but at least it was not by Snooki! Actually, it was a teenager who hit us – a sweet kid, completely without guile who couldn’t stop saying “I’m sorry!” and “It was all my fault!” No one was hurt and cars can be fixed and our vacation proceeded without issue after that.
I had visions of writing a lot – blog posts as well as the kind of writing I long to do more of, which may or may not be published elsewhere someday. No such thing happened. There was no wi-fi (although a lurker friend on Facebook, you know who you are!) gave me a hard time about all my Facebook updates, which were mostly photos of the beach.
No – I did not write, but I walked, 5 to 8 miles each day, along the beach. It was heaven and then some. I did not stick with WW completely, but I was not crazy either; I did gain one pound back, but that is a far cry from my typical “I’m-off-the-plan-so-let’s-go-food-crazy.” That is very different for me. I did have a second slice of Mack and Manco pizza… I admit that that was hot-melty-cheesy-crispy bliss and worth every bite… The best pizza ever and I say that as a New Yorker talking about New Jersey pizza.
And I slept… and slept. That was a real joy, I can promise you. I also got to see my friend Donna Marie many times; she lives nearby. That was a real joy too! I also got to see Donna’s friend Sister Connie, RGS, who I had not seen since 1994 or 95! That was fun because Connie is an extrovert’s extrovert and I say that as a pretty extroverted extrovert! I was walking into a shop one day and I have no clue how she saw me, but from a dining terrace next door (she had to have corner-turning-vision but I did not ask) Connie came flying into the store to say hello! I ended up sittting down with her and Sister Anita as they ate their lunch.
The best part of the vacation was spending so much time with Mark and Erica. While a 53 year old woman and her 15 year old stepdaughter are like some kind of off-the-charts hormonal bookends, just ask poor Mark about that, we do have a great relationship for which I thank God every day.
We went to the beach every day, we jumped in the waves and I was reminded of an 8 year old girl who loved the waves with wild abandon and inexplicably instantaneously loved me too, as I jumped in those waves with her, in Rhode Island not-so-many-years-ago.
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| Erica and I in 2006, another beach, another vacation. |
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| And here we were in Ocean City, just last week. |
Mark and I would take a walk on the beach every day and we both relished the amount of unfettered quiet time together. It was great and I felt myself humbled beyond imagination that God should have brought us back together in this way.
One of my favorite moments together was when we rode the ferris wheel, just the two of us, on the last night. (The ferris wheel makes Erica roll her eyes… too slow!)
Mark and Erica played their nightly game of air hockey at the arcade, a longtime tradition. I admit I loved seeing her win! They also played endless rounds of paddleball on the beach, a game that is more lost on me than the air hockey!
All in all it was a beautiful journey. There were – as there always are – hard moments. Anger, tears, frustration and the like, but there was also happiness, tranquility, joy and unity in ways that we don’t see enough of, in general.
So no blog posts or chapters were written, although I sent postcards to everyone who asked for one. However, not unlike bread, ingredients were added, things will rise and will be consumed. It is in that consumption, counter-intuitively, that more is given than is taken, more is offered than is consumed and that is how we become One.
And that is why there will always be bread for me. Even – in fact, especially – in the Jersey Shore edition.
We do not exist for ourselves alone, and it is only when we are fully convinced of this fact that we begin to love ourselves properly and thus also love others. What do I mean by loving ourselves properly? I mean, first of all, desiring to live, accepting life as a very great gift and a great good, not because of what it gives us, but because of what it enables us to give to others. Thomas Merton, No Man Is an Island
Yes, I am still alive. I have really and truly neglected this little bloggy piece of real estate and I am so sorry. Is anyone even out there anymore? Yoo hoo!
I can’t blame anyone for leaving, I have essentially ignored you. But not on purpose! If you are still here – thank you, thank you!
What a strange year this has been… One full of grace, yet one full of – well full of all the things that make grace. The gifts have been many, but the road to get there has not been smooth.
One year ago I was generally feeling unwell and in early July I entered the hospital, via that oh-so-fun-at-2am ER route. Good Lord, what was I thinking? Not in going to the ER, what was I thinking in ignoring my health and the pain I had been in?
That ate up most of the summer and then poof- it was fall and I was taking two grad school classes. Let’s file that under the “mistakes were made” file because it really kicked my you know what and I was not really recovered yet. Add to that other activities, the women’s retreat group at St. Edward’s, general life matters and so forth.
It’s ok, I’m cool – that is what I was thinking anyway.
Then the holidays zoomed by and I really felt sad about not fully enjoying them as I might have. It’s ok, I’m cool. Did I really think that?
I did.
Fine, now it is January and I’m going to get it together! I have somehow (foolishly) registered for two classes again. After class #1 of the first class, I knew I would not do well in it, so I dropped it. (I was not, as the saying goes, “feelin’ it.”) The very next day I drop the class… awesomeness!
Two weeks later my sister-in-law, Mark’s sister Olga, has surgery.
Then everything changes… she is going to die.
It is at this point that I really began to abandon the blog, which is understandable. What I also abandoned however, was my writing. What’s wrong with me? One needs nutrition, sleep and exercise. In my life, I also need writing.
As some of you know, Olga died in March. We have continued to deal with this, an event which has had enormous reverberations, practical, spiritual, emotional, financial reverberations, in an on-going way. We do so clinging tightly to one another. Remember that grace part I mentioned at the beginning.
So here we are, slightly out of step calendar-wise but totally in step with otherwise, the Easter journey. Life, death, resurrection, new life. Lather, rinse, repeat.
About that Thomas Merton quote at the top. Isn’t that what life is? If I have learned anything in this past year it is this – life is more about what we give to others. That sounds pretty simplistic. It is anything but.
So I am going to try to work my way back here. I am still over-committed, but working on whittling that down. Priorities must be re-established. I need to try to remember to breath. I can do this.
But I can’t do it without you. I hope you are still there. Signs of life from here… are you there? I’m still here, I know someone is there. Thanks be to God!
“If we take our vulnerable shell to be our true identity, if we think our mask is our true face, we will protect it with fabrications even at the cost of violating our own truth. This seems to be the collective endeavor of society: the more busily men dedicate themselves to it, the more certainly it becomes a collective illusion, until in the end we have the enormous, obsessive, uncontrollable dynamic of fabrications designed to protect mere fictitious identities – “selves,” that is to say, regarded as objects” – Thomas Merton
Carnival has begun. In this tradition, masks are donned for a period of time, typically before Lent. The whole thing culminates on Mardi Gras or Fat Tuesday, when the last burst of over-indulgence is expressed just as Lent starts on Ash Wednesday.
I remember being in New Orleans a number of years ago (not for Mardi Gras) and learning that the “success” of the Mardi Gras celebration was measured by how much garbage was collected. I’m not sure if that is true or apocryphal, but what a metaphor for the hours before Lent begins!
In any case, I read the words shown above this morning and was struck by what they say about human dignity. The dignity of the human person is unsustainable unless we choose to cooperate with grace and to be the very people that God loved into being.
That sounds nice, doesn’t it? Pffffft…. Yes it does. Doing so, living it? Hmmmm…. not so much, I’m afraid.
When I read the history of Venetian Carnavale at this link, I was reminded of the
etymology of the word carnival and its meaning of “farewell to meat.”
Lent is a time when we say “farewell to meat” or at least for part of the time. Lent is a time of stripping away, taking off the masks of our daily lives, not to mention the carnival masks. We all wear masks, whether we realize it or not. Being who we truly are is not a task for faint hearts.
And there is the rub… being who we are in Christ means being who we are. No – who we truly are. (**shudders**) What a messy business that is. If I am who I like to be, then I am a classic overachiever, an over-do-er and all around I-can-handle-it-all type. Oh sure, I say all the right words and I even think that I believe them a good deal of the time, that it is God in me doing the work. I’m just cooperating.
Hah.
I’m considering what my mask – let me rephrase that – what my masks are. It makes me highly uncomfortable. What makes me more uncomfortable is the removal of those masks.
The stripping away. The letting go. The saying farewell to meat, both practically as well as spiritually.
We embed ourselves into our masks and objectification is the end result. I am who my mask says I am… Anyone who has read this blog at all knows that I loathe, rant and rave about labels. The whole, “I am choose one” notion of I am a (fill in the blank), Republican/Democrat/Liberal/Progressive/Conservative/Orthodox/ProLife/ProChoice/Vegetarian/Meatatarian/Libertarian/TeaPartier/Fundamentalist/Traditionalist/Revolutionary…
This causes me particular angst when I read about how those of us who are Catholic divide ourselves up along these lines. It makes my head spin. That is why I want to eschew all labels except for that particular one.
Yet that too can become a mask of sorts if I do not really live as God asks me to.
Too many masks makes for objectification. Objectification makes for dehumanization. There is no dignity in that.
These are some thoughts on my mind as we approach Lent. I guess that is what I might give up this year… if I can.
My mask.
(this post might get revised… just wanted to put it out there for now.)
I write this post from Wilson UHS Hospital in Johnson City, NY. My sister-in-law, Olga Szpylczyn (Mark’s sister) is asleep in the bed a few feet away from me. At her side I can see various containers that collect bodily fluids. At least one of them, connected to a tube that goes into her chest, is not pretty. The changing texture and color of that bag makes me want to scream. If I could scream, I would simply repeat the words, “Stupid effing cancer, I hate you and your ugly magic.”
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One of my tasks is to find a home for Skittles, Olga’s Jack Russell Terrier. Skittles is 8 and very cute, but she is also a Jack Russell Terrier. Read: She is highly energetic. In the good days, she had Olga out and walking, getting regular exercise. When Olga had her first bout with the stupid cancer in 2009, she wanted Skittles to go. I persuaded her otherwise and she was later grateful. That dog helped fuel a recovery.
Now I know that persuasion has no point. If you live within 3 hours of Albany or Binghamton and you even remotely think that you know someone who would consider this dog, it would be a mercy that is much required.
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Olga was very interested in being an organ donor. She has that kind of civic responsibility gene, the desire to do the right thing. The other day, when she was much more coherent, she suddenly looked at me and in her inimitable style she said, “The organ donor paperwork!” I was startled… She simply said, “Well, I don’t think so!” And then laughed a wry laugh. I joined her, sometimes laughter is the only way.
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The other day Olga fell into a deep sleep at about 5:30pm and remained in that deep sleep. At the same time, she also began talking in her sleep. Talking in what turned out to be A REALLY LOUD VOICE. And her talking did not cease, and I mean, it did not cease for about 16 hours. It was crazy, seriously.
What did she say? She spoke in Ukrainian, her native tongue. (Or as Mark aptly puts it, the Ukrainian spoken by people who live in Ukraine and are aged 85 and older!) She said most things in English and a lot of it was gibberish.
At one point she said very clearly, “Wait til Christmas, they’ll miss me alright, they’ll miss me and my gifts!” I cried. And not because of the gifts.
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In another bout of sleeptalking, Olga began to speak in what I remain fairly sure was Latin. Now Olga does not speak Latin. I don’t either, but I am pretty sure that this was Latin. She went on at length, then paused and began to pray the Our Father in English. It was very strange.
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On Monday night I had a call from Olga’s friend Doris, this was about 8:30pm. I had spoken to her surgeon earlier in the day and he had confirmed the utter gravity of the situation to me. Doris called because Olga had called her at home, they both live in Binghamton, and wanted Doris there, stat.
Why? Because she was afraid.
You’d have to know Olga, but this was far from standard operating procedure for this strong and proud woman.
It scared me enough to call the hospital. The nurse put Olga on the phone and I asked her what was wrong. She told me that she was scared and wanted Doris to come. I asked her if I should come too and without any hesitation she said, “Yes, come right now!” Within 10 minutes, amidst me grabbing a toothbrush and some undies, with Mark, Erica and I all in tears, I was out the door and in the car. It is a journey that I will never regret.
This is all so hard on Mark by the way, truly hard on him in so many ways. Please, please pray for him most of all. Olga is ready to go to God whenever God is ready for her. Erica has more grit than anyone ever realizes and while she is in pain, she will be OK.
Olga and Mark’s parents came here from Ukraine and there are no other living relatives, so this carries a heavy burden for him. Olga was at once older sister (by 10 years) and a bit of a maternal figure too. He is really hurting.
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It is an awesome and terrible thing to be asked to hold someone’s hand, literally and figuratively. It is actually the greatest privilege in life if you ask me, albeit a painful, painful privilege.
Olga and I have had a challenging relationship. We are both very strong willed and opinionated. I’d like to think that over time we wore each other down in the best ways, with our sharp edges getting softer and rounder, like sea glass after a good pounding in the surf.
So to have her ask me to undertake this role is a true gift. I pray that I carry out her wishes accordingly and that I am here to hold her hand and either talk or remain silent, as needed.
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The whole “it takes a village” concept is not lost on me. I could not be doing this without the love and support of so many people. From people I know in real life to people that I know from blogging and Facebook, I am awash in tremendous kindness.
As I have said many times these days, I am sustained by friendship, love, caffeine and grace.
Mostly grace.
Thank you all for your friendship and support.
More to follow.
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PS – The staff of this hospital is great. I am particularly grateful for the nurses of Tower 4 South… they are amazing, shining stars in the dark, dark, night.
Things have been a bit hectic and I have not really blogged here very much, as regular readers know. In any case, I am trying to refocus and came across this poem at Inward/Outward today, which really seemed to be speaking to me.
This poem can speak to us all, can’t it? Live Slowly! It is such good advice, in fact, it is essential to good living, yet seems antithetical to how most of us do live.
You may or may not know that my primary email includes the words festina lente in its composition. This means “make haste slowly.” I actually do take this seriously and while it may not seem that I live like this, it is always my plan to do so. In my deepest heart, this is what I believe God asks of us.
I’m considering how I can live more slowly today. What about you? Will you join me on the path? All any of us can really do is ask God to help us slow down and then try to cooperate with what God is already asking us to do, always helping us to do.
by Michael Leunig
I know. I’ll be back! Enjoy the silence, it is a rare but a necessary thing.
If there is one thing I love, it is blogger meet up time. I have been very blessed to have met numerous blog friends over these past 3+ years. To see but a small bit of this chronicled, you can refer to this post from August.
When I first started blogging in May of 2007 I would write about my faith, but that was not really the focus of the blog. Mostly I blogged about politics back then, but I did find myself soon thrust into the midst of a wonderful world of Episcopalian/Anglican bloggers. So much of who I am and what I do out here is because of this diverse group of people. If you did check out that link from August, you will see me with a few of my Episcopal friends.
Yesterday I had the chance to meet yet another one of them, Brian Ralph, who authors the blog Noble Wolf. For those of you who do not know Brian, he is a retired teacher. He was living in the Blue Mountains, outside of Sydney, Australia, who recently moved to Dunedin, New Zealand. He is in the midst of a pretty significant around the world trip and his travels brought him through Albany for a day. Speaking of all of this, I do urge a visit to Brian’s blog to read about his amazing trip through Europe, including Germany, the UK and Scandinavia.
It was a great delight to meet this lovely man! After picking him up from the train station, we went to his hotel in Albany so that he could drop his bags and off we went on a sunny afternoon. I got to see parts of this city that I never see!
As with so many blogger meet ups, it was an easy connection to just start talking. We already knew a fair amount about each others lives, including faith, family and travel history! Brian has the most engaging smile and a very warm heart.
Our first stop (but of course!) was a church, St. Peter’s Episcopal. We walked all around the Capital, Empire State Plaza and in and around some of the city streets. This is The Egg, a famous Albany performing arts venue and visual landmark. We tried to see the Roman Catholic Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, but it is still undergoing renovations and was not open.
Honestly, I have spent almost no time in Albany – seriously. How sad is that!? I have not been to The Egg and I had never (hangs head in shame) walked around Empire State Plaza before. For the record, I have also never been to the Cathedral before either – I know, go figure!
So it took a visit from a gentleman from halfway around the world to get me there!
It was so easy to talk with Brian. We talked about many things – his trip, our blogging roots and connections, his recent move from Australia to New Zealand. We spoke of many common blogging friends like Grandmere Mimi, Fr. Bosco Peters, Doxy, Paul, Jack and Mad Priest. We talked about people who don’t really blog any more but who we think so highly of, such as Alcibiades and Dan. (Dan’s blog is not there anymore!)
Brian and I spent a lot of time talking about how important our faith is to each of us and how there are many challenges to our faith practices. I expressed how grateful I was to be here in the Roman Catholic Diocese of Albany and how my current job and grad school pursuits are truly the work of grace. Brian talked about the hypocrisy he encountered and his experiences among the Sydney Anglicans and how different it is to be in Dunedin. He also spoke at length about his work and how accepted he was among Catholics when he taught at a Catholic school in Sydney.
What a strange and wonderful thing this all is and I am very grateful for all the people that I have met via blogging and Facebook. The irony of all this is that I was supposed to have coffee yesterday with another person I met online and who lives in Albany, Maureen. I had to postpone that because of Brian’s visit. And I consider that I am still figuring out how to have a meet up (although we did meet briefly) with Mary DeTurris Poust who lives locally. And how that even though we have tried, Dan Sloan and I have yet to have a proper meet up… He lives 3 hours away, Brian lives almost 9000 miles away! Brian did not realize that Dan was in NYC or he would have tried to connect with him too.
Well I have rambled on and on here. In summation, a fine time was had and I continue to consider social media my mission field. I’m not here to convert you, but I will say, you – all of you – pretty much always convert me.
What a gift! Happy and safe travels Brian!
When I was in high school, I was very involved in our theater program. This would have been either in the fall of 1974 or the spring of 1975 specifically. My involvement trictly behind the scenes, I must add! In any event, our drama teacher, Mr. Nemeth, did not want us doing watered down, lighthearted high school fare, and this spring was to be no exception. We were presenting Arthur Miller‘s All My Sons, not exactly high school fare for that era.
The reason why our teacher was so impassioned about us doing this production was that he was obsessed with what would become of our generation. He truly believed that we were headed for some kind of banal, moral and social vacuity in our adult lives.
Now you have to understand, this man was no finger-wagging moralist in the sense you might imagine. In fact, I believe that he may have been Jewish, I know now that he was gay and that he was simply a truly good man and teacher.
He clearly wanted us to understand that our every act resulted in something and that our hearts as well as our communities would be best served if we realized the implications of our choices, both great and small. I clearly remember his saying to a confused group of teenagers, “what will become of you?!” Not that I understood at the time, but I have thought of his prophetic speech many times since.
The play is about a man who owns a factory during WWII. His plant produces less-than-quality parts which cause war planes to crash, killing many pilots, possibly including his own son. The rub is that he knowingly did so, which seemed small at the time. He ends up lying about it and compromising his entire life over it. Small things and great things – we must act in honesty, prudence and communal concern.
Today’s readings remind us that we all must be concerned about such things, no matter what the era we live in. The opportunity for us to go astray is always present, no matter how good the good old days may seem. The theme of God calling us back is ever present.
In the first reading from the prophet Amos we hear this:
Hear this, you who trample upon the needy
and destroy the poor of the land!
“When will the new moon be over,” you ask,
“that we may sell our grain,
and the sabbath, that we may display the wheat?
Amos is being pretty clear in addressing those who trample the poor and needy! And yet, so much of society is set up to do that very trampling. The pyramid-like structure of capitalism is meant for us to aspire to more and greater. No – I am not saying capitalism is bad; I am saying that it might require the counterbalance of prophets and of moral acts, in order to make it function with justice.
We all trample over someone with our endless need for more and cheaper things. And we ourselves are trampled over by someone else.
In the second reading from St. Paul we hear:
First of all, I ask that supplications, prayers,
petitions, and thanksgivings be offered for everyone,
for kings and for all in authority,
that we may lead a quiet and tranquil life
in all devotion and dignity.
This is good and pleasing to God our savior,
who wills everyone to be saved
and to come to knowledge of the truth.
That we might live quiet and tranquil lives… and that God wills everyone to be saved. Everyone. That is something to bear in mind when we consider trampling and/or being trampled; we end up participating in both more often than we might imagine.
And then of course, our Gospel from Luke…
Once again, we are offered long and short versions. This passage catches my eye and my heart:
I tell you, make friends for yourselves with dishonest wealth,
so that when it fails, you will be welcomed into eternal dwellings.
The person who is trustworthy in very small matters
is also trustworthy in great ones;
and the person who is dishonest in very small matters
is also dishonest in great ones.
Have we not just come through and continue to come through a period of dishonest wealth in our country and in the world? Well, if we think about it, all eras of history have this problem. If you don’t think so, please refer back to our reading from Amos.
This is exactly why I was reminded of the play, All My Sons and my teacher’s prophetic cry for my generation. How right he was!
I will focus on our current time but these things are sadly timeless… How do we not focus just on our own wealth and good? And how do we make sure that even a seemingly small “adjustment of truth” does not grow into a greater one, a truth that comes with a high price tag.
As Catholic Christians we live a faith based on our communal salvation. That is what St. Paul is pointing to and what this Gospel reminds us of. We are all sons, daughters, brothers, sisters. What happens to one, happens to all.
We cannot serve two masters, yet most of us serve at least that many. How can we be more aware of what this means to ourselves and to one another?
The Gospel that we are called to live, meaning the Gospel at large, but this one in particular, means that we must find ways to be responsible for ourselves by first being responsible for others. Even, and perhaps even more importantly, starting with the small things.
I am reminded of how often I rationalize an act or a decision – whether it is to use a paper plate at the risk of the environment, to shop at a store or buy a product that I know marginalizes employees or those who manufacture. This is carried forth if I make decisions that impact my family and/or community by investing my time, talent and treasure in that which does not serve the greater good.
In acts small and large we contribute to the Kingdom, literally re-membering the Body of Christ. And in acts small and large, we might also be likely to do the opposite.
It is not a destination, this choosing, it is a series of lifelong acts and actions, both great and small. And thankfully we have God and one another to help us along this way, so that all might be healed.
Oh how I wish I could find my teacher again – and thank this most unlikely of prophets for something that has been seared onto my soul by him and brought forth in this Christian life of faith.
If you read this yesterday or the day before, you saw this, if not… read on. I published this on my old blog, in 3 parts leading up to 9/11/2007. I have decided to republish them here. A few words on this… One, like much of my writing, this was an act of healing and catharsis. It is selfish. If you think that it is long, boring, self-focused, you may be correct. I wrote it for myself and put it out here. If you wish to read it, fine. If not, fine. Also, I wrote it at a different – very different – time of my life. Please factor that in when you read some of it and hear a certain tone. Your comments, as always, are welcome.
Finally, 124th Street and my destination appeared. My friend’s school offered an unusual and prayerful oasis. It was, as I mentioned a Catholic boys’ academy.
Many of the students were on scholarship, a great deal of them were there due to the hard work and sacrifice of their parents. It was quiet, calm, orderly- switching classes was in motion upon my arrival. There was no relationship to the madness and chaos, just 10 miles south.
The rest of the day was spent there- I guess I arrived about 1pm. While school carried on I sat in my friend’s tiny office, with its window looking southward, watching the sky. It was such a dissonant sight… Bluest sky- bright and clear; blackest smoke-thick and heavy. I surfed the Internet, listened to news radio, emailed friends from around the country and the world.
Clearly other than planes flying into the WTC and the Pentagon, then Flight 93 later in the day, much of the rest of the news was distorted and histrionic. How could it be otherwise?
My friend from London was emailing me quite a bit and I felt like it was so weird that she seemed to have more information than anyone in the U.S. I had a business friend from El Paso, TX who was definitely very conservative and very much in the “kill the bastards who did this mode”. We had a lively interchange that I think embarrassed us both in the end; me with my cries for peace and understanding and his for revenge and retribution.
Thoughts of the Oklahoma City bombing came to mind, when everyone figured that people of Arabic descent were involved only to find a true-blue American boy in Timothy McVeigh. Maybe this would be the same?
At some point however, the specter of fear returned and gripped me in a way that was both intimidating and intimate. That may have been the PTSD talking, but my shock slowly turned to a fear that had feet of lead. And those feet were planted firmly in my abdomen; its arms enveloped my heart and my lungs. Those feelings and their impact would follow me for the next few months in ways I could not imagine.
It was around 4pm, school was over and we had a brief prayer service with the Brothers who ran the school and a handful of teachers, a couple of students. We went back to A’s office and turned on the radio… The upper level of the George Washington Bridge was going to open very soon. We are out of here!
Making haste to A’s car, we got in and zoomed to the Harlem River Drive. Another TV movie moment while we were the first and almost only car on it. This road is never empty. Ever. And in an even more surreal twist, we were one of the first and only cars on the George level of the bridge. (The bottom level is called Martha, are you surprised?)
Please bear in mind; the sky is still the bluest blue, the clearest blue. We were giddy with excitement to be getting out of Manhattan, not knowing what would happen next; not really even knowing what had happened!
And then I glance southward… The sight of the Ground Zero was stunning. My friend almost stopped the car, which would have been fine, given how few cars were on the bridge. It seemed as if I was looking at the most beautiful vista with a huge whole blown through the center of it. That was what I was looking at. We fell silent, giddy no more and rode home without speaking another word.
Upon arriving at his house, we found A’s partner just home from school in Westchester. We all hugged each other and cried. We prayed. We prayed a lot; that was our life together, very bound together by prayer and what seemed like love. We ate dinner, we reveled in each other’s company, we watched TV, we discussed the madness of the day. Finally I went home; home to a house I had just bought and I wondered what would happen.
Things would never be the same again.
Post-script:
If you can believe it I followed through on having a planned housewarming the following Saturday. I wasn’t sure if anyone would show up and if it was even appropriate to have a party. However many people came and I think we all drew consolation from being together and having something to celebrate. One of my guests had lost a very close friend, but he came anyway. People were searching for connection, for meaning, for life.
There is a Temple near my house and in the coming days there were two WTC funerals there. It was alarming to see the many cars and attendees. This very real vision of the impact was happening, literally in my back yard.
Speaking of Temples, my cousin had just been installed as a rabbi in near-by New Jersey. I went to the formal installment services on a Friday night about 2 weeks after 9/11. This congregation (reform Judaism) had lost 4 people in the attacks. I couldn’t imagine how a new rabbi would cope with this, even one as good as my cousin. It marked his whole time there I believe. Watching all of this unwind was surreal.
My office building in mid-town Manhattan was plagued with bomb threats about 2-3 times a day. Me being me- even at the depths of depression realized it was not real, but it was really annoying. However it created an extra heavy layer of fear for so many. And having to leave your desk, walk 2-3 blocks away 2-3 times a day created problems of its own. Finally they let people decide to leave or not during the scares. I ususally stayed at my desk. That is one sanity point that I could grab onto. (It turned out to be a disgruntled mailroom employee at another company in the building.)
During the subsequent days, weeks, months – I became very physically ill with asthma and breathing problems. In my opinion there were multiple reasons for this. One was that my weight, which was very out of control at that time, got much more out of control. That is one of the worst things for asthma.
I was also an emotional wreck at the time. Ironically I had started with a new therapist on Monday September 10, 2001. Our work would be in a modality called EMDR in order to heal my remaining PTSD. What can I say- great timing indeed. Frankly, some weird karma had me re-open every trauma wound I ever had via 9/11, which I think facilitated real healing.
Why did I suffer from PTSD? As the saying goes, another story for another day, but the theme remains the same… no matter what happens, I lead the most graced life. All evil is counterbalanced by an abundance of good. What can I tell you? It is how it is in my life.
Additionally, I think and we know some of this to be true, the air was completely screwed up. No I wasn’t right there, but particles traveling 5 miles is nothing. It also did not rain for some time after 9/11, which no doubt added to what was blowing around.
As if that were not enough, I was traveling every week on business. It was only a fluke that I was not on a plane or somewhere else that day. I know people who were, as you might and their stories are remarkable. The stress of travel at that time was off the charts. I got so sick so often it was not funny. While it was not diagnosed at the time, I do believe I also had sleep apnea; again weight and breathing challenges contributed to this and stress, stress, stress!
I will add that my first travel after the event was on Monday and Tuesday, September 24-25. Flying over the then still-smoking ruins was horrifying.
If moved to do so, I could write a rather hilarious post about travel nightmares in the first 6 months or so that followed. Of course those days were nothing compared to today’s draconian lunacy of security. Everything from having my breasts seriously patted down by a zealous security guard, a woman at Tampa airport, to having my suitcase get opened after sloppy packing and having all of O’Hare see my dirty panties. It was a mess.
Easy for me to look back and laugh. I have a close friend who is Jordanian but has lived here for 25 years… His life has become a living nightmare and this man travels all the time. He is one of what are many stories of profiling and discrimination run amuck.
While I work less than a mile away from Ground Zero now, I can tell you that I have only been there once. That was in December of 2001; a friend came over to visit from London and she wanted to go. I felt like I was ready. As if one could be ready for such a thing.
It was very cold and bright that day, probably December 26 or 27, 2001. The sky was the same kind of blue as 9/11, which freaked me out. We got off the subway at City Hall and began to walk closer. I could feel my stomach contract in pain and fear. Uh-oh…
The closer we got to the area the more anxious I felt. We came upon St Paul’s Chapel, which was a place of refuge for rescue workers, who were still toiling. Seeing all the posted signs and pictures on the fence, brought me to tears.
Then I looked up and in the place where the Twin Towers had occupied the sky for many years, all I saw was clear, sparking blue sky. That same damned blue sky again! My soul collapsed in that moment; I fell apart.
My knees began to give way and I started to shake uncontrollably. I felt fairly certain that I would vomit or faint, although neither happened. The amount of people in the area alone was overwhelming, but I could not process the location and the information.
One feeling that overwhelmed me was a feeling that I had when visiting the Dachau Concentration Camp near Munich, Germany…. I pretty much lost it there- oh who am I kidding, I fell apart at Dachau. Anyway what I felt in Dachau and what I felt in lower Manhattan were the same… The oppressive weight of a place where many people died violently. That is how it struck me anyway and it felt more than I could bear at the time. The presence of souls not at rest maybe, I don’t know.
My friend wanted to get closer, but I simply could not do it. Off I went to nearby Trinity Church, a place where I had found comfort and silence before (I have a slight case of Episcopalian envy, all those velvet kneelers and pillows in the pews!) and fell to my knees. I heaved, I wept, I prayed. My friend came to find me a bit later; I had calmed down, but was not the same for the rest of the day.
Why haven’t I been back since? I just don’t want to go. From time to time I ponder a visit to the Century 21 Department Store, which is/was right across the street from the WTC site. However, I always decline. Is a bargain really that important?
The sky always seems empty when I drive downtown on the West Side Highway. Or when I look out the windows on that side of the building from my office. Very empty and strange indeed. It is a void. I never liked the way the buildings looked you know; however I do miss seeing them.
The thought often comes to me that someone who worked in that building may have been fearful and xenophobic, thinking that they wouldn’t travel outside the US, so that they could stay safe. And then the macabre thought follows that they looked up from their desk and before they could process it, a 767 flew in their window. A dark thought maybe. It is why I don’t want to live in fear; anything could happen anywhere, anytime.
From the second floor of my house I can see the Hudson River. For many months after 9/11 I felt tremendous bursts of anger when taking in the view. Yes, I hated the hijackers for using the river as a visual guide that they were on their way. They stole my river is how I felt.
From my front porch, I can always see the “Towers of Light” display that is done to commemorate the event. As you might imagine, I am not much one for this sort of thing, but this one is different for me. It actually looks amazing and no matter what, a lot of people died that day or thereafter, that did not deserve to. I stop and say a prayer for them. And think of all the people (have you seen Sicko?) who still suffer today after giving their all to try to help. Oh no, I feel an anti-Giuliani moment coming, I am moving on.
Somewhere in the spring of 2002 I very slowly started to come back from around the dark side of the moon. In its own crazy way, 9/11 was a gift. That gift was a key and the key unlocked the trauma that had dogged me most of my life. It hurts my heart to see that this is how the gift came, but I have had to make my peace with that. And I have been compelled to pass the gift on in the moments that I can. It has taken me to almost right now though, to be in a really good place.
Today I am about 50 pounds lighter, but still have weight to lose. (Special thanks to someone who is reading this and who helped me get started on that journey. You know who you are. Mwah, I love you , my ***-aleh.) Weight is a huge life challenge for me; luckily I am otherwise very healthy and try to keep it that way. The 50-pound reduction helped a lot though. I will keep at it.
Speaking of 50, I will turn that age in about 10 weeks. That piece of information delights me completely and I am grateful not only to be alive, but also to have the life I do. To me it is a remarkably blessed and graced gift, this life.
In April of this year I married a man I have loved in one fashion or another since 1978. We had a hiatus- say from 1980 to 2003. It is a great story about timing, fate and love. Or what is called in Yiddish, beshert. I could not be happier. I never had a child of my own, which was very much by my own choosing. That said, Mark has an incredible daughter whose life I get to share. When she tells me I am the best step-mom ever, tears fill my eyes. Frankly I never saw that one coming and I love it. What a reminder to keep the heart wide open.
In these years I have been able to travel to the Middle East not only once, but twice. Life has blessed me with great Muslim friends and I have a unique window into that world. For me it is all about building bridges. Reconciliation is my goal on many levels from the most personal to the most global. I struggle with my love/not-so-love relationship with Israel but I know I will return to that place, which is very special to me. In fact, if I could go to Israel tomorrow, I would go without hesitation.
The PTSD is pretty much behind me and I have been graced with healing that is so profound and deep that I almost can’t find words for it.
The words I do find relate holistically to my life, my heart, my spirit and the words are always exactly the same… Thank you God.
