I just stood in the exact place where I was standing on 9/11 when I watched the first tower fall.
I’m not much for reliving the events of that day. I was there, it was insanity, I prefer to live in the here and now, thank you very much. But here I am, still working at the same job, in the same building on Broadway eight years later, and I guess the day just wanted some acknowledgment from me.
It started with looking at some amazing photographs of the Twin Towers pre-destruction. (I am in love with one shot that must’ve been taken from an airplane, just above the blanket of clouds, the tippy-tops of the towers barely poking through, piercing the heavens in all their glory.)
A short conversation with co-workers later, we had all agreed that New Yorkers (ourselves included) are not necessarily hard-hearted, but rather just generally too busy with whatever we have on our plates today to stop for a full-blown memorial celebration every September 11th. It’s not that we don’t care, we’ve just moved on to the next thing. That’s what New Yorkers do.
Later, I was having trouble focusing on my work, and thought the project I was working on could be more easily accomplished if I took pen to paper, rather than sit in front of the glowing computer screen any longer. I grabbed some coffee, a notebook and some colored pens, and headed up to the Greenhouse: our company’s cafeteria, complete with ceiling to floor windows looking out on a beautifully-landscaped roof terrace, overlooking southern Manhattan.
As I sat down and uncapped my blue pen, I turned to look out the windows on this blustery, grey day and realized that this is where I was. I am in the same place, again. This was the same view. Well, almost.
Suddenly, I feel compelled to go up one flight to my old digs on the 12th floor, where I spent my first few years at this company, to stand at the same place where I stood with co-workers in disbelief, in fear, in arms, in hands in tears in screams in confusion in compassion in hope in sadness on that day eight years ago.
Walking down the hallway of the 12th floor, there are empty offices and unfamiliar faces sitting at the desks previously occupied by colleagues and friends, until I reach my old cube at the farthest end of the hallway, which is now empty, abandoned, dark. This was where I sat when I received the flurry of concerned emails – punctuated by my mother’s miraculous phone calls (nobody was getting through that day) – on that September morning.
I don’t linger at my old desk for long, and instead make my way to the windows near the elevators, the spot where I stood as the first majestic tower disappeared before our eyes, before we were evacuated and left to wander the streets until we were able to figure out what to do next.
And as I stand there, looking out the window, I remember.
A few minutes later, peering out the rainy window and trying to conjure up the image of what the towers looked like, my vision brings something else into focus: two twin water towers, just beyond this window, standing side by side. Nothing spectacular, certainly not in comparison to magnitude that was the WTC, but there they are, and they’ve probably been here the whole time.
And so I am back, in this moment, on this day, seeing what is in front of me now – the mundane, the easily-overlooked – with wonder at how easy it is to miss it all. How easy it is to think we have it all under control, to believe we know what’s coming next, to fantasize about our future lives, future loves, future accomplishments, and to miss what is right in front of us, how blessed we are to have this moment, this life, this day.
As my mind rolls around with questions of how to balance presence in each moment with finding meaningful ways to honor the past, a tear escapes and rolls down my cheek and I have my answer.
Then, another memory: I remember learning of the Hopi Indians’ belief that when a person dies, their spirit is carried up to the clouds and falls again as rain, bringing moisture and new life to the land.
Here, in New York City, it’s been raining all day.
