Remembering 9/11

I finished my morning run on the dike, and walked to the car under deep blue skies.  The air carried the first smells of fallen leaves.  I unlocked the door, got in and took a drink of water before starting the car.  The radio greeted me with a special announcement rather than the music of Mozart or Beethoven.  This was the before moment.  Then there was after.

A plane had hit the World Trade Center.  No.  Two planes had hit the World Trade Center.

My cellphone rang and I answered, relieved to ramble with my brother about the certainty that these were terrorist attacks.  Who? What? Why?  And as we spoke, he cried, “Oh, my god! Something just hit T.C. Williams High School! Oh, my god! I will have to call you right back!”  And the phone went dead.

I drove home, in stunned silence, the radio serving as my companion through the next fifteen minutes.  National Public Radio hosts reported the Pentagon strike, and I thought of my brothers, the one coping with hearing that explosion on his way to work, the other already in some building near the National Mall.  What now?  Were they safe?  Was there more to come?

Oh, my god!  Perry! In New York’s financial district! I checked in with my sister-in-law…he was so far safe.

I got home to speak with my house painters, who found it hard to concentrate, and then the plane went down in Pennsylvania! They finally just climbed off their ladders.  We took turns sharing what we knew, breaking to call more family as we thought of one more person that might be stuck in DC or New York or Pittsburgh, and then sharing where everyone was and how they were.  And then…

Silence in the skies.

It was still that perfect blue sky, with wispy clouds, sweetly fragrant with first fall smells. But it was so still.

My son called home to report that he had forgotten his trumpet and the band instructor would just KILL him if I didn’t bring it down real, real soon.  That was my moment of Can Do: we must be resolute, take this in stride, aid those who are hurt, show our children just how we Americans handle disaster.  I picked up that trumpet, got into that car, and headed into town, through the mountain pass along Toby’s Creek.  The valley opened up with those beautiful Poconos on the other side, the highway straightened out, cars picked up speed.  Just as I hit that 55mph there was a highway construction sign, the kind that can be programed for all sorts of alert messages.  Today instead of providing a heads up about construction it flashed:  All Roads to NYC CLOSED.

Up to that moment some part of my brain still said that this morning was a dream. That we had all just misheard the news.  But that pixelated message struck me with a ferocity.  We have been attacked.  We must learn to live and create now in fear’s midst.

I didn’t see the towers fall, I was too busy being resolute and determined to act with courage and be a rock for my children.  The trumpet was delivered and my child stayed in school all day.  Just like any other day.  My daughter stayed in school, with her classmates slowly being pulled out by anxious parents.  While they went through the motions of normality I found the nearest Red Cross Bloodmobile and joined dozens of Back Mountain residents giving blood for New Yorkers, who would never need it.

I continued the normal routine, which included cello lessons, and the children and I talked a bit along the way about what had happened and what we were feeling.  Keep going, I thought, just keep going.  Cellos get played, get packed up–clack, clack, clack, clack went the latches of their cases.  We piled into our van and headed into the dusk.  The car seemed to drive itself to our church; I certainly had not intended to go.  But I had a sudden, overpowering need to be in community.  No one noticed or cared that we entered the crowded service very late.  We were all together, that is all that mattered.

The sun had come up and crossed a brilliant blue sky, and now it set in the same place as before.  East was still east and west was still west. But our moral compass as America had just been put to a huge test.  How would it survive?  How would we survive?

We were together.  We are together.  That is all that matters.  Still.

My Happiness Project: Get Old AND Get Happy

Happiness is not a goal; it is a by-product.

Eleanor Roosevelt

I borrowed my kids’ childhood to be happy; to be curious, silly, and grown-up. To ride horses, play soccer, blow bubbles, and paint faces. To see wonder and awe, to hide from fear and cynicism.  I borrowed their school days to provide structure, and their games to connect to sports my body no longer allowed me to play. I borrowed their friends’ mommies to create circles of support and their teachers to introduce new concepts into my aging brain.

No wonder that my children’s ascent into adulthood coincided with my descent into a dark maze, complete with dead ends and unexpected connecting paths.   Only now, two years into the journey of life-after-children do I have a sense of purpose, a goal, to shape my decisions: Get old AND get happy.  As Eleanor Roosevelt so succinctly pointed out, happiness is a by-product of what one does, thinks, creates.  Taking cues from Benjamin Franklin’s Chart of Virtues and Gretchen Rubin’s Happiness Project Challenge I have created dkays Happy Is As Happy Does initiative, a five-pronged challenge to structure my time, energy and resources in ways that produce a happy me:

BE a 3G Network: be gracious, be generous, be grateful.

Out of clutter, find simplicity: de-clutter, design, delegate, discover.

Get serious about play: lighten up, loosen standards, enjoy failure.

Capture the story: write, camera, action.

Live a sustaining, sustainable life: connect, enjoy, create.

Still a work in progress, I have nevertheless begun to use these guidelines to shape a day’s routines, to reshape expectations and even to monitor how I converse with my children.  My assessment tool is just a simple chart, my goals to the left, which I mark with a flourish at day’s end.  I am aiming for a page of waahoo!s and yippee!s, not Ben Franklin’s virtuous clean slate.  I haven’t thought out too too much about the specific resolutions that constitute success for each goal, finding it very satisfactory to take it weekly or seasonally.

For instance, capturing this story for this blogpost counts.  I am forced to practice my craft, and fine-tune this nebulous but profound project.  Great big yahoo! tonight.   Another example, cutting my lavender:  the seasonal delight of harvesting goodies from a garden, mine or a nearby farmer, counts for “Live a sustaining, sustainable life”.  I am learning the routine for Dance Day, July 31, sponsored by Dizzy Feet Foundation; I am not learning very fast or dancing very well, but I am having FUN!!! Yippee for play!  The mantra “be generous, be gracious, be grateful” is beginning to just melt into my breathing. Soothing, liberating, and contagious,  I hope by nightfall  to put lots of checks next to my “BE a 3G network.” Next, away from this computer, lies the clutter that awaits simplification.

Ah! I do, therefore, I am –happy.


Life in the Gutter

For weeks I took the stairs softly, mindful that a Mourning Dove couple had seen my stairwell’s sheltered gutter as prime nesting real estate.  In amazement I watched the changing of the doves, ensuring that eggs and nestlings always had cover.  In awe I witnessed the chicks’ persistent pecking of the adult beak, and watched it then open and regurgitate dove deliciousness into the gaping baby’s mouth.  The clamoring feathered chicks seemed oblivious to the nest height as they teetered on the gutter edge afterward.

Today’s gutter is empty, the feathered bundles of Mourning Dove fluff are out in the big beyond.  I hear the soft oo oo oo, echoed by a softer, higher, tentative, oo  oo oo.  Parent and child, carefully keeping tabs on one another.  It is a beautiful duet, plaintive, hopeful, loving.

I am here.  Yes, I am here, too.

That duet is one I repeat with my newly fledged adults.  Wee text messages, brief Facebook messages, short emails, even shorter phone calls.

I am here.  Yes, I am here, too.