Remember 9/11

Never forget.

Almost 3,000 souls were lost, between the World Trade Center, First Responders, Four Commercial Flights, the Pentagon, and a field in Pennsylvania.

I woke early, as I always did, so I could go out and take care of my horse, before picking up my work. Living on the opposite side of the country, it had already started, and I didn’t know. I groomed and grained my horse, like I did every single morning, for the previous four years. I was usually out there alone. Most of the other boarders came out in the evenings or on weekends. I enjoyed having the place to myself.

This morning, one of the other boarders arrived and asked if I’d heard about the plane flying into the World Trade Center. I thought she was joking, and in very poor taste. I didn’t believe her. It was absurd. Ridiculous. Impossible. Then the owner of the property came out, and told us that the Pentagon had also been hit. I stared first at one and then the other and back again, finally asking, “You mean it’s real?”

I started a prayer of pleading, in my heart, and didn’t stop.

After I finished taking care of my horse, I slid into my car, still trying to wrap my mind around what I’d been told, and not entirely believing. Not yet. I rolled down the window. It was still warm in the mornings, promising more heat later in the day. I turned on the radio. The station played the same thing, over and over. Two planes had flown into the Twin Towers, and one into the Pentagon, and possibly yet another. As I drove to pick up my work, other cars passing me, going both ways, also had their windows rolled down, an unheard of occurrence since A/C was the preference. It was almost as if we were trying to connect to each other through the air. We all had our radios on, listening to the same thing. Total strangers, sharing the road in separate cars, all listening to the same thing, and we all knew it.

As I picked up my work, at two different locations, I kept hoping which airlines were involved would be mentioned. But they weren’t releasing any details of any kind. By the time I was on the last stretch home, I found myself screaming at the radio for the names of the airlines.

One of my friends is a pilot. The last time we’d talked, the month before, he’d told me that his route was in the northeast. How could I be sure he wasn’t involved? If he was safe? I was desperate to know which airlines were involved, and felt guilty for hoping my friend was safe.

When I arrived home I turned on the television. Still, no specifics of any kind were offered. The same thing repeated every five to ten minutes. I didn’t own a cellphone, yet. I called from the landline, expecting to reach his cellphone. He answered. I remained absolutely calm. We were really more acquaintances than friends, but I needed to know he was safe. I felt guilty for being relieved and grateful he was okay. His route had changed, that month. (I did finally learn his company wasn’t one of the ill-fated airlines.) He had been grounded, along with every other airplane, as he was preparing for departure. He didn’t feel like he could complain, since the city he was in was lovely. I’m still glad he was safe. A part of me still feels a little guilty.

Then it was reported that a plane had crashed into a field. While the media debated its significance, I knew. I didn’t need confirmation. I knew the passengers had done something. I knew, without doubt, that the passengers had made a decision and followed through on their choice. I wondered what I would have done in their place, and hoped I’d be as courageous.

Months later, our family learned that a cousin was scheduled to be at a meeting in the WTC that morning. He didn’t make it because he was taking his parents to the airport. So many lives were spared that day because of being late, taking a child to school, or some other small, seemingly inconsequential event.

So many lives were lost. They were on time, doing their jobs, being where they were supposed to be. Then the responders were there, doing their jobs. Many of them had been going off duty, but recognized an emergency and the need for more help. They were being who they are.

Fathers, mothers, grandmothers, grandfathers, sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, nieces, nephews, wives, husbands, coworkers, friends.

I changed. In a day.

All my life I had been punished for interrupting the news. I hated the news. I never watched it. On that day, I had the television on, all day. I only turned it off long enough to go to sleep, and then I was up watching it again. Even when I was working, it was on. My parents wouldn’t turn on the television. They didn’t want to hear anymore. I needed to know what was happening. I needed to feel connected to the rest of the world. I felt alone in the house, and a part of the whole world.

I changed.

I wanted to do something. Donate blood. I discovered I was no longer eligible. The day before, on September 10, a new ruling had passed. Because I had lived in England, for three months, I could never donate blood again. Then again, it wasn’t needed anyway.

That first day, I remember thinking that the hospitals would be inundated. But they weren’t. It was eerie. Waiting. Then the realization that either you made it relatively unscathed, or you didn’t. I didn’t know anyone, but I had friends who mourned the loss of many friends, friends who had called NYC home.

I would never be the same.

I hadn’t recognized the shock for what it was, until much later. I hadn’t realized how much the event changed me, yet.

A few months later, I saw Fellowship of the Ring. I discovered that 9/11 had entirely stripped away the protective wall I’d built around my feelings. I felt everything. The flood of emotions was overwhelming, confusing, frightening. I had moved from a world of muted grays to one of vibrant, flashing colors of every tint and hue.

I would never be the same.

I never suspected that my need to connect, on that day, would open a world I never imagined. I did connect. I connected with people through the internet, where I found an amazing and remarkable and vast circle of friends who shared my need to connect and share who we are. And we’ve been sharing the journey ever since. The circle has shifted, a little, expanding to include new friends, while others moved in their own direction, but always the rule has been the importance of discovering the connectedness we share through our experiences, regardless of where we live.

I still cry for those cruelly and needlessly lost. I still marvel at the miracles that occurred, and find myself in awe of all those strangers who helped strangers for the simple reason that they were good people, so it was the right thing to do. The heroics of those who died and those who lived to help others fills me with wonder at the strength and courage of the human spirit to rise above evil. Evil tried to strike a blow, but goodness and love and courage and strength and compassion shine brighter and clearer, burning away the darkness.

I will never forget.