Even though I felt the desire, I couldn’t bring myself to write about the anniversary of September 11th, 2001 yesterday. It was just too painful. The memory was aching inside me. I refused to turn on the television, listen to the radio, or read Internet news sites. To do so would break my heart all over again. Instead, I had a quiet day to myself. Now that I’ve had time to reflect, I’m ready to say something.
My first and only visit to New York City was in 1991. I went to visit a friend living in the West Village. After flying into Newark, I took a bus to Manhattan where my friend met me. After a short hug and welcome to the Big Apple she led me upstairs to the street. My first steps into the city were at the World Trade Center. In the bright summer light, I looked up briefly (not wanting any criminal to know I was a tourist) to see the towers reaching high above, welcoming me. Ah, New York. It was one of the most memorable trips of my life. I went to the Met, the Frick, MOMA, the Statue of Liberty, saw an Off Broadway Play “Six Degrees of Separation” with Stockard Channing (before the film!), ate a salami sandwich piled 6” high at a Jewish deli, went to a couple parties, and so much more. The city was vibrant, intense and so deeply inspiring.
Now, I keep coming back to that memory of stepping into the city. The very place where 10 years later the thunderous roar of death echoed across the earth with a million voices screaming in despair. For that short visit, New York was my city, and the towers were a part of its magical hold on me. I mourn the loss of so many, a world forever changed, and my naive sense of security.
September 11th changed me. Suddenly I could no longer stand to watch violence in movies, I had seen enough. I developed anxiety, which I have learned to manage. But most importantly, I became grateful for all I have, especially the people in my life. The folks going to work that day didn’t know that in a few hours they would be jumping from a burning building or their plane would be crashing to the ground. We never know what the future holds or when we will breathe our last breath. So now, when things get bad, I remind myself to savor every moment, for even the hard times are part of the joy of living. My husband and I started the tradition of a hug and kiss before parting, leaving each other with the memory of our love, because you just never know. I finally realized how short life was and began to pursue my dreams of being an artist, teaching art to children, and living a creative life.
I wish I could say I feel relieved and peaceful after writing this, but no such luck. It’s not that easy. So I will continue living the best way I know how, loving what is, and remembering.
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| New York City, 1991 |
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