Onward

The world—the whole world—feels heavy today.

I struggle to remember where I was 19 years ago. One day blended into the next, I suppose. I piece it together. 2001—in our blue house on Wildwood, flanked by lilies, hardy mums, and yew bushes growing above the window line. No Little Tykes play equipment taking up residence yet; no aging Ford Windstar in the driveway. A quiet morning, maybe with coffee in hand?

Maybe Marc called from work in Dayton to tell me to turn on the TV. Am I creating a new memory? The details have been lost. I only remember watching and feeling as though it couldn’t be real. Why would anyone want to fly a plane into a building? Who does that? Did the pilot have a stroke? Are we sure it wasn’t an accident?

Then the second plane hit, erasing any doubt.

Who could want to punish innocent people? Just to invoke terror?

“Terrorist” became a buzzword. President Bush declared a war on terror. But how do you defeat an entity that can’t be quantified? Terror is perpetuated by people. But it is also a feeling of unsurpassed dread and fear. How do you eradicate that fear? A war on terror was an irrational goal that served on an irrational day.

Nevertheless, we began the theater of stripping down at airports. After all, the hijackers used planes as weapons. How could we prevent that from happening again? How could we control the uncontrollable? By all means, removing shoes, belts, jackets; passing through scanners and metal detectors; ensuring that all liquids were in small quantities so as not to be mixed to create a bomb—all of it has since been labeled security theater.

And now, on this 19th memorial, we face another farce—hygiene theater. In 19 years, if we’re around, will we look back at these social distancing, grocery wiping, mask-wearing times through a similar lens? Will we criticize our own fear—our own terror—with a twenty-year perspective? Will we dismiss the attack on COVID the way we today denounce the War on Terror, as a reflective panacea meant to calm our minds?

(In the absence of any perspective or answers, please wear a mask and wash your hands.)

Today is heavy. A nineteen-year anniversary. Wildfires blaze and turn our skies orange. Ash falls. Hugging outside the bubble is a huge risk. Masks are the new normal.

We rely on the almighty internet to make connections for us—at work, at school, at book club, during game night.

There are no answers. There is no true path to healing.

Today feels Sisyphean—another day, another boulder, on and on, into next week, month, and year.

I recently read that if you write about a problem, you should also delineate a solution. I have no solutions to today’s heaviness.

I only have coping mechanisms: deep breaths to work through deep emotions, a warm puppy who knows nothing of 9/11 or COVID, the secure embrace of immediate family. That’s it.

Onward…