Honoring the stories of 9/11
My reflections on the anniversary of 9/11 feel trivial in comparison to those of people who were there – at the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, in New York or Washington, D.C., on the planes or any plane once the news broke … and of course the thousands of lives lost and the broken-hearted they left behind. I’m sure 25 years has not made the anguish of those memories any less painful for those who experienced terror, despair or worked tirelessly to help.
All I know is that my own heart breaks every year, and this anniversary is no different. Except this year, the stories are more prominent, more visible – and ultimately more intensified rather than softened with the passage of time.
Again, my story is a small one, far removed from the actual events. Everyone has a story, and I strongly urge you to seek out the stories of the survivors, the helpers and the grieving who were personally impacted by that day. People are posting them online, sharing what they lived through, remembering loved ones they lost, describing what it was like being there on that day. Those are the stories to lift up. It’s not hard to find them and I hope you will. But sharing my own story is my way of honoring their experiences.
I was initially oblivious that day, or at least I thought I was. I was in the midst of morning meditation when a friend who had recently passed away crossed my mind. Suddenly, I began to cry. These things happen in meditation, so I didn’t think much of it. But when I finished my meditation the phone rang and a friend told me a plane had hit the World Trade Center. I said, “What a terrible accident! How very sad. I hope people in the building got out.” At first most of us assumed it was a terrible accident, but we quickly learned it was an intentional act when the second plane hit.
What’s notable about my tears during meditation is that, when I looked back, I realized I began to cry at the same time the first plane hit. I’m not saying I have any sort of special abilities. But I do believe in the power of the universe and I am convinced I felt the immense shift in energy that came to engulf the entire world – not just that day or that week, but undoubtedly forever. America and the world will never be the same.
It’s a little embarrassing to admit that because I didn’t turn on the TV right away and was only watching reports online, at first I didn’t fully grasp just how devastating it all was. Of course, I later turned on the TV and saw the buildings tumbling down, the people in the streets running from the debris – covered in dust from the rubble and destruction, literally coating their bodies in the powder of everything the buildings’ collapse blew into the air. I’ve since learned from those who lived in New York that the smell of that airborne dust lingered for days, if not weeks.
As the day went on, the stories of heroism and kindness slowly began to emerge in the midst of the horror, probably because as humans we needed some hope. I experienced some of them myself. A friend who had never said “I love you” said it that day, fearing the building he worked in could be a target. People from around the world checked in on each other. When it became clear that none of us would do any work the rest of the day, I went into town to run an errand. Silly, when I look back, but I didn’t know what else to do with myself. At that point we still didn’t know exactly what had happened, but I knew I could not watch the TV any longer.
Walking through the deserted downtown of my small city, the few people I encountered were in a daze, like I was. The woman at the store I stopped in was quiet but warm. I bought my item but then stood there and talked with her for a good 30 minutes. I think we just needed to connect with another person, at any level. We all felt lost. And we knew the losses were only beginning.
I’d had plans for that evening but I canceled them. I didn’t have the heart to go out to dinner for the birthday I had coming up. It just didn’t seem right. So I stayed home and returned to the TV, trying to make sense of what had happened, which I still haven’t been able to do, despite knowing the facts, all these years later.
As I said, my reflections seem insignificant compared to those of people who were directly affected. But then again, we have all been touched by what happened – even people who weren’t born yet have been, because the world changed forever that day, and I don’t just mean things like airport security. We are now more painfully aware than we were before of the depths of hate that some people feel and will act on.
I want to be very, very clear: What happened that day was not caused by all Muslims, and I never once blamed anyone who wasn’t a perpetrator of the brutal attack that day. It’s a lesson many people still haven’t learned, so my heart goes out to innocent Muslims as much as it does to the victims and their loved ones.
Although I will never forget the horror, I try to remember the helpers – just like Mister Rogers said we should do in times like these. The first responders, many who came in on their days off and others who traveled from around the country to help. The New Yorkers far enough from Ground Zero who offered shelter to people displaced from their homes in those first days. In particular, I think of the people of Gander, Newfoundland, and other places in Canada, who took in thousands of passengers whose planes were forced to land there when the U.S. airspace closed. The story of Gander is told in the musical Come From Away, which shines a light on the enormous kindness that was extended there in response to a devastating tragedy.
Come From Away reminds us that no matter how deeply terrible the world can be, there are always good-hearted people … and there is always hope. There are countless productions of the show being presented around the country right now, and a filmed production of the original Broadway cast is on Apple TV+. If you haven’t seen it, I urge you to do so as a comforting reminder of all the good that can come when we work together instead of against each other.
I will never forget that day or the people who suffered – nor the goodness that rose from the literal ashes. I will always honor it in my heart, even though I do it through tears every single year.
As I said from the start, my story is a very small one compared to the stories of those who lived through that day in some way, and I dearly hope you will seek out their recollections. Those are the stories that matter most, even though anyone who was alive that day has a story, and they’re all valid.
May those who are hurting find peace in whatever way they can. And may we all try to be just a little kinder, a little more helpful, a little more understanding of each other, finding our commonalities rather than looking for differences. We are all in this world together, and there is far more good than there is bad, if we are willing to look for it. Even more important, each of us can do our part to bring more goodness into the world and our communities, in ways large and small.
Photos by Amy Lynn Smith.
Lately, the yearly practice I gravitate to the most is keeping a gratitude jar. All it takes is an empty jar, some notepaper and a pen, and the willingness to pause and write down something you’re grateful for. After seeing the idea on a friend’s Facebook page, I filled my first jar in 2015. I’ve been doing it ever since, and just dropped the first note of gratitude into the jar for 2018. 
