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On finding peace, solitude, and solidarity at the 9/11 Memorial

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I began blogging well after the terror attacks on September 11, 2001. Even though the focus of my blog is Postpartum Mood & Anxiety Disorders, I have always tried to post something in remembrance of this day each year. It’s a day which will always replay in my mind, a day which replays in all of our minds. A day on which, we all came together as Americans swallowed whole by grief and yet spurred forward filled with intense renewed resolve not to allow our country to falter in the dreams of our forefathers.

Sure I know where I was that day. As do we all. I don’t want to rehash where I was, what I was doing, how I watched the second tower hit live on TV, the first tower fall, and then the second tower. We all know where we were with intense detail. What I want to share with you today are two separate events – one involves a road trip last September 11, the other involves my visit this past December to the Memorial Site in NYC.

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I’ve already blogged about the road trip because frankly, it took my breath away. But I’ll rehash it here. I was on my way to Georgia to visit with my kids. I had NPR on because they were broadcasting the services from NYC and then from the Pentagon. As I listened to this coverage, the requisite moments of silence, I drove. Not a tear. Not until Spartanburg, SC.

In Spartanburg, SC, patriots gathered on the first overpass over I-85 with all the American flags and then some they could find. They stood on that overpass, waving their flags at all the passing traffic, covering it on either side with the symbol of America’s enduring freedom.

I lost it. Tears poured forth at this raw yet powerful show of patriotism, a stark reminder that when it comes down to it, we are ALL AMERICANS.

Then, as I turned off the interstate, I pulled off to the side of the road for a motorcade of motorcycles riding in memory of 9/11. I stayed there for a good 10 minutes, out of respect for their ride and the day at hand even as other vehicles raced past me. I sat there, blinkers on, quietly respectful.

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This past December, while visiting a friend in Northern NJ, we planned a day of sightseeing in NYC. He advised me to think about what I wanted to see while there so we could plan our travels across the city. As I thought, long and hard, I realized there was nothing I wanted to see more than the WTC Memorial site. How could I be in NYC and *not* visit?

Once I decided to visit the site, I braced myself. You see, I have this knack for sensing emotions and feelings when I visit places. Given that this was a site of such tragedy, such heartbreak, such…..darkness, I had no idea what to expect so I began to steel myself against the barrage of what I was sure would be negative emotion as early as I could.

We arrived at Penn Station early in the morning, ate breakfast across the street at Europa then booked over to the site. We walked by and he, assuming I’d be like everyone else he’d taken there, thought we were done. I said, no, I want to go in. So we stood in line to get our tickets. (They’re free, by the way, donation suggested but free.) Then we killed some time until the first available “tour.”

Walking into the site is a somber, somber experience. Everyone is quiet. Sure, some people are talking, but their tones are respectful. We move toward the entrance to the site. There are no less than 4 security checkpoints, one which is Airport grade, requiring you to remove jackets, bags, etc. You have to keep your ticket out at all times to prove you are supposed to be there.

Once we got into the site, we walked quietly for the most part, talking a bit here and there. I was taken aback completely. Not by the beauty of the monument, but by the sense of peace and beauty filling the space. I prepared myself for an onslaught of anger, frustration, sadness, and god knows what other negative emotions. But instead, there was peace, love, acceptance, solitude and solidarity, completely blowing me away.

You can search for names at kiosks on the far side of the memorial. We walked around both towers. I couldn’t help but reach out and trace some of the names etched into the memorial. Families milled about, people by themselves, friends, etc. In that space, just as on September 11, 2011, we were all Americans paying respect to lives lost in what my generation and those not alive for Pearl Harbor will remember as one of the most atrocious attacks on American Soil in our lifetime.

I am glad I went. My friend thanked me for wanting to go inside as he’d never been even though he lived just 30 minutes away via train.

New York has done right by the victims of 9/11 with the memorial. Sure, there are people who argue they haven’t or will criticize other issues surrounding 9/11 from a political standpoint. But the enduring peace and solidarity I felt inside that memorial space is all that matters to this American.

Thank you to the first responders who rushed toward the towers as they burned. Prayers and thoughts to the families and loved ones of the victims lost that day, to those who survived the day. Thank you to those who rushed to sign up to fight for our great nation and defend her honour. Thank you to those who worked tirelessly to clear the rubble after the towers fell. Thank you to those who worked endlessly to ensure the memorial site was a respectful one, as you succeeded.

May God bless America as we continue to heal from this tragedy. May we never, ever forget and always, not just today, but every day, be grateful for the freedoms we hold dear in this country and always be ready to fight to keep them.

We are ALL Mother Superiors

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According to Wikipedia, a mother superior is an abbess or other nun in charge of a Christian religious order or congregation, a convent or house of women under vows.

She is not defined as a particular ethnicity.

She is not defined by her language.

She is not defined by her skin.

She is, however, defined by her beliefs.

She is defined by her practice of those beliefs.

A Mother Superior is in charge of a household.

She rules the roost. Expects things to run in a particular order. HER order.

HER order may be perfection.

It may be defined by acts.

It may be defined by compassion.

It may be defined by dedication.

It may be defined by achievement.

It may be defined by satisfaction.

It may be defined by mood.

But ultimately, it is HER decision to decide how to rule her roost.

Not the decision of any other Mother Superior. But HERS.

As Mothers, in a home, we are all our own MOTHER SUPERIORS. We rule the roost. We call the shots. We ensure our philosophies, ingrained within us by our own Mother Superiors and HER Mother Superior and her Mother Superior and her Mother Superior and so on, are also ingrained within our offspring. Or not.

In each of our own private Abbeys, we rule.

Our children gather together at schools, at churches, at public events, at parties, play dates, and museums.

Enter the beauty of Chaos.

Our children play together. They learn together. No matter what our practice or beliefs, they play and learn together.

Or not. They play together IF they are allowed to play.

They will grow up to rule their own roosts one day.

Do we want them to grow up to do this as judgmental cynical women?

Do we want to encourage them to judge every move they make by the achievements of others? Should we do this? Should they?

Why is it in our nature to compare ourselves to the Mom down the block? The overachieving Betty Crocker? The PTA Mom who works tireless nights? The ultimate attachment, co-sleeping, EC training, breastfeeding, home birth mom who has done everything perfectly compared to us? Are we ready to send our own daughters helplessly down that same road? Are we?

Do we want them to grow up thinking that they have failed at Motherhood simply because they are the wrong ethnicity, the wrong class, the wrong everything?

Do we want our daughters growing up to think they have failed at Motherhood because all they can manage to put on that day is the same pajamas they have had on for two days?

Or do we want them to realize that a LOT of moms are exactly like that? That life happens. And sometimes? Life is depressing. Sometimes life requires we work harder at it to be successful.

I am not ready to sell my daughters down Keeping Up with the Joneses Lane. Not ready to ship them off to Just Keep Smiling Circle or Snap Out of It Drive.

I’m ready to send them soaring down Robert Frost’s Road in a Yellow Wood – urging them to discover the path not taken and make all the difference in the world. I want them to be Free to be themselves, not the vision I have for them. I want them to amaze me. To blow me away with their own dreams, their own passions, their own realized wisdom and growth. I want them to be happy. Happy and Free.

I want them to know that some of the best things in life don’t require awesome grades. They don’t require the bank account of Donald Trump. I want my children to value life. To value family. To realize that the best things in life cannot be bought. For any price.

I tell my daughters on a consistent basis that they can be anything they want to be IF they work hard enough at it.

I also tell them I will always love them as long as they are working to the fulfill their potential. If they are slacking, yes, I will chide them. But not to the point of derision. Not to the point of sleepless nights. Not to the point of bordering on abuse.

I will love them when they get a B.

I will love them when they decide to skip college.

I will love them.

I will love them because they are my children.

I will love them and hug them and squeeze them forever, successful or not, I will love them with all my heart.

If that makes me a Slacker mom, then so be it.

My kids, I think, are okay with that.

Sweet Freedom

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The first lesson I have learned this past year is never ever to take anything for granted. The second? To truly hand over the reins of life to God. As long as He is in control, doors will be opened.

I had no idea how much my life would change when my car glided so gracefully in the mist into another vehicle at 10:00pm on a dark March night.

But it did change. My husband’s addiction was exposed. Lies and dishonesty was brutally served up on a broken platter that had been gilded with gold but was now covered in dust and cobwebs. Once again I very easily could have found myself in the depths of despair, dirt beneath my fingernails, struggling with every shallow and panicked breath to reach the top for fresh air. Instead I swallowed deeply and exhaled, strengthening every fiber in my being to stand planted firmly in my faith and my belief that this beast would not knock me down as long as God’s compassion and support remained on my side.

The beast may have won some skirmishes but it did not win the battle. My resolve, along with God’s strength, are no match for whatever may come at us through life.

Today, this particular battle ended.

My retribution has been paid. My probation has ended. I am blissfully a free member of society and no longer under the shadow and ever attentive eyes of the criminal justice system. Man it feels good to be free. One of my college professors oft quoted that one truly cannot appreciate joy until one has experienced the burst of sour grapes upon the palate. What an applicable quote for today.

I am also reminded of a bible verse which instructs us to put things in the past behind us and move forward – remind us that this is true wisdom.

photo courtesy Pezlet of Flickr

photo courtesy Pezlet of Flickr

So this is me. Putting it behind me and not looking back. Much like a butterfly freeing itself from the cocoon in which it has miraculously undergone so many changes. It’s my turn to fly away.