[The Urge To Do...Something]       [Heaven and Biscuit]

The Urge To Do...Something

In the wake of the attacks on September 11th, almost every overwhelmed and deeply saddened survivor shared the same feeling: I've got to do something.  Men and women jumped into their cars from as far away as Virginia and Florida, drove to NYC to volunteer any way they could. There was the story of the dog-handler who couldn’t wait to be dispatched from Nova Scotia and went to Ground Zero without his captain’s orders; he felt that couldn’t wait, that he had to do something. Surely the firefighters who climbed the ninety some flights to rescue those caught in the utterly compromised Trade Centers represent the deepest of human desire to assist, to help, to lend more than simply a hand. They gave their lives in the effort to save others.

Perhaps it is their actions that so directly press us toward action. But what kind of action; what will actually help? Many of us want to be wary of too-quick action. This is often is re-action, is retaliation, and violence would likely be the result—complicated and unnecessary violence. Mahatma Gandhi said, “An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind,” and instead of retaliation, Gandhi practiced pacifism. He guided people, as the Dalai Lama does, with words of peace and with the physical observance of meditation; this observance is not a simple “observation” as some may think, but a “practice.” And it is on this word—practice—that I would like to focus.

The events that changed the world leave us feeling “out of sorts,” “ unglued,” according to many, and in need of action. But perhaps the most important action we can involve ourselves in is that of practice, of ritual, and of routine. Whether that practice is one of teaching, of preaching, or of attending church services; whether that practice is one of building homes or taking photographs or trading stocks; whether that practice is caring for young children or cleaning homes or bussing tables for others, it is important to resume some of the rituals and to honor the possibilities of daily life simply by living it.

The poet laureate of the United State, Billy Collins, talked of observing and honoring the common events of daily life as a way to respond to the inhuman acts of terrorism . He read his poem “Morning” on National Public Radio and spoke about daily life, daily activities.

Perhaps it seems frivolous or self-centered to allow our lives to resume as usual, or to begin practicing the rituals again. Nothing, after September 11, will be usual, will be normal as normal was. This is true. However, the tragedy of the terrorism lies not so much in the magnitude of the numbers of the missing as in the individual lives that were lost. It is not that “thousands” died as much as that each of those thousands was an individual, that each of those lives was connected to a complex network of family and community. The tragedy of September 11th lies in the loss of each train ride, each breakfast prepared and shared, each simple detail of life. These men, women, children—mothers, fathers, clergy, physicians, firefighters, elevator operators, chefs, attorneys, financial traders—has left behind those who loved them, those who shared coffee or a morning jog or a lifelong commitment with them, those who fully anticipated seeing them again. And again. And again. 

Therefore, those of us who want so desperately to do something, those of us who live a great distance from New York and DC, can begin to “do” something right in the context of our own homes, our own careers, our own communities. There has been much talk of “Homeland Security” in these last few weeks, and that talk has conjured up varied opinions and in some cases much fear. But if our homeland truly begins with our homes, then each American citizen can practice the work of securing the homeland by teaching our children to be strong. By teaching them to listen well, to make themselves more aware of the world around them,and to practice caution along with curiosity. But may we never lose the curiosity—may we never choose ignorance over education. Let us educate ourselves not only in the details of the terrorist attacks but in the geography of Afghanistan and the people who inhabit that country. Let us teach the children patience and compassion, teach them to abhor bigotry and to replace hatred with action--especially if this “action” begins in the heart: sitting together for tea; writing poetry or writing letters; connecting with family; coloring with other children: running or hiking
or walking or singing. These are examples of ancient practices made new by daily living; these are the details that encourage our children to believe in the future, to believe that there is a homeland to secure. Resuming these rituals is not only a valid response to the tragedies of September 11th; it is vital to the strength of our nation. 

Heaven and Biscuit

In this household where two small children inhabit every crevice and open circle, there are only fleeting chances to "observe" a moment of silence--a moment, perhaps, but not a solid minute, never that, especially if you try to plan for it, try to create it. So on Friday, September 14, the national day of prayer and mourning, I sequestered myself into the kitchen at 12:25, after putting on a video for the children. I sat, head bowed, trying to allow myself the space of silence, but I couldn't help listening to the words of songs as they trilled into the room where I sat.

I had been scheduled to get on a plane that same day at 12:47. I had made the reservation so that my 23 month old son and I could be in NY to see my great aunt-dying of liver cancer-Auntie Mae (for whom my daughter was named) and also so we could attend a family wedding, where the bride and groom were both nearing forty. 

It may have seemed to my family a bit crazy to fly clear across the country, to fly so far away from my eldest-only 4 years old-and from my husband, who had just started a new position this fall. After all, Auntie Mae was 103 years old, and the medication was making her more than drowsy. But I see now that the two "draws" for me were the two constants in my life that were about to be transformed: Auntie Mae, who even at my birth and in my early years of memory was an elderly woman, who had lived in three centuries and two millenia; and Uncle Charlie, who has always been a bachelor, a loving, generous single uncle all of us cousins shared. This weekend marked the passing of time, and although change is inevitable, this was the end of an era, the end of a generation. 

The same day we sat silent, or tried to, I heard the news that Charlie and Nancy were not only newlyweds, but were expecting. I was thrilled! I embraced the idea of change and it filled me. I gathered Liam into my arms and lifted him into his car seat, kissed him on the forehead so many times he laughed from the tickling, and we drove out toward Maeve's school to drop her off. Liam sat in the back seat, singing the names of the two goats who live in the yard outside the preschool. "Heaven and Biscuit, HeavenandBiscuit," Liam sang, dragging the words together as if the two could not be separated.

Maeve never knew I had planned to take Liam away for the weekend. The attacks in NYC and DC halted our plans and let me be OK with being home, so far away from many I love, yet so close to my children and to my husband. Maeve interrupted the moment of silence on the 14th to ask a question about all the helicopters overhead. Liam interrupts anything anyone is saying to report that "Heaven" and "Biscuit" are there in the grass, just where they should be, whenever we approach the school. "Heavenanbeescut" he calls, pointing. The only time he separated their names was today, when he called out, "Heaven, I yuv (read "love") you" then, after a pause, "Biscuit, I yuv you!"

Why do I think of all this? Why on the day when so many are mourning? Because the sun insists on rising; because there is zest in a two year old's joy; because the heaven and the bread are not separate; they share the dirt and the sunshine of a schoolyard. Perhaps they share a small stable, a simple field of grass, and perhaps they are enchanted, as I am, by the love that exists, that persists, in this world where so much has been destroyed.

I am sad today, sitting here, as Auntie Mae is being buried in Queens. I am sad because her long, full life, a life in which she could always count on loved ones surrounding her, stretched so far into the new millenium that she may have witnessed the smoke and ash and sorrow that rose so profoundly into the Manhattan sky. That from her window she could have seen such destruction. But in the same moment I am heartened by the songs of my two year old, interrupting any planned silence, to bring me news of heaven and earth, of the two bearded goats who so fully occupy his sense of the world, a world where grass will feed them, where children will pet them, and where a newlywed couple are right now anticipating the rhythm of a heart beat, only detectable with special instruments, but nevertheless, there. There and audible and real.

I do believe that peace is possible, but it, too, may be so small in its presence these days that we need special instruments to detect it. Let us be listening, though. Let us be listening.