The 11th of September

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Its been a few months since the 11th has carried any real significance. The significance of the date has faded, just becoming another day on the calendar. But every so often, it rears its ugly head.

August 11th. November 11th. September 11th. Days set aside, either privately or publically, which cause me to contemplate mortality.  To remember. Days set aside which draw attention to the frailty of the human existance.

I remember much of the first September 11th after Kurt died very clearly. It was nine years after the planes hit the World Trade Centre.  It was exactly one month since he had been gone, and one of the first days I really remember in my post-funeral grief process. I remember watching the public outpouring of emotion at anniversary gatherings, the attention given to it on the media, and actually being envious of those who had lost their loved ones on that day, years ago. Thinking how their private grief had been allowed to mingle with a public grief – how they were allowed to grieve, how the world shared, welcomed, and in some ways understood the reason for their pain. It was at a time when my grief was very fresh, very raw, all consuming.  Unwelcome and/or unable to openly express it, it was already silently eating me up inside...

I look at those thousands of people very differently today. While I still wish I had a community to lean on as they often do, I no longer envy their experience, their pain. After speaking to multiple 9-11 widows, becoming friends with a handful, I have come to understand that as public as their story is, their grief remained just as private as was mine. A private pain carried out on a global stage.

Every minute of every day, someone dies. And to those who loved them, their loss is no less tragic, no less life altering, than a global tragedy that affects millions.

I admire the women I have met who have a connection to that fateful day. In the 12 years that have passed, many of them they have managed to find in the rubble the foundations to build a new life. And today, they live a happy satisfying life. They show us all that death can bring about new life. Happiness can come from despair. 

 On anniversaries such as this, we tend to concentrate on the bad that happened, the lives that were lost. But we are remiss unless we also pause to recognize those left behind, and celebrate the glory which can rise from the ashes. As a widow, it is that glory that I too seek. No amount of public outcry or memoriam will bring back any of our husbands, our loved ones. But us continuing to live is the greatest monument possible to their lives cut short.

Life is fleeting, and fickle. Time is tenuous. Nothing – our freedom, our security, our happiness, our lives – is a guarantee. Its not the good and bad experiences you have which makes you who you are. Its what you do with them.

And so I sit here today, thinking about all those who died, that day in September and in the days before and after. Thinking about the lives that were lost, and the lives that were shattered. And hoping that all of them – all of us – find our own version of peace....

"For me and my family personally, September 11 was a reminder that life is fleeting, impermanent, and uncertain. Therefore, we must make use of every moment and nurture it with affection, tenderness, beauty, creativity, and laughter." -Deepak Chopra

Image can be found here...