R
rod
Two years ago today I watched the World Trade Center attacks and their
aftermath on TV, live as they happened.
Earlier this year I visited "Ground Zero" ... "The Pit", as the site
is called by native New Yorkers.
I'd been in New York for four days ... each day trying to convince
myself that I didn't really need to see the 9/11 site ... but I
finally admitted to myself that it was something I just had to do.
I thought I was tough enough to handle it emotionally ... a good
enough Buddhist to handle it spiritually ... but that turned out to be
vanity and wishful thinking.
When I stepped out of the subway and looked across across the street
to where the WTC towers once stood, the terrible reality of 9/11/2001
hit me me like a tidal wave, and the wall of tranquility with which
I'd carefully surrounded myself collapsed in a heap around my ankles.
Fortunately I had a friend to lean on, or I would have turned and
walked away. I couldn't have handled it alone.
We psyched ourselves up and set off across the icy street. My heart
grew heavier with each step. The voices of a multitude of lost
spirits grew louder with each step. I felt much colder at the edge of
The Pit than I had on the other side of the road.
Not much to look at through the viewing windows. A huge hole in the
ground. Trucks and heavy earthmoving equipment ... mostly still and
silent. A few men in hard hats and bright orange safety vests. A few
uniformed security guards.
Most of the rubble had been cleared away. It didn't really look like
a mass grave. More like just another big city construction site.
Almost normal.
Almost.
Some withered flowers. A few cards. Burned-out candles. A couple of
ribbons. A small basket with an offering to some Hindu deity. Rosary
beads. Photos of the pre-9/11 towers in a glass case on the wall ...
reflections of the way things used to be.
Street vendors selling 9/11 memorabilia and trinkets. I bought a
laser-etched plastic cube with a 3D image of the WTC towers from a
crippled black guy wearing Vietnam Vet ID. He picked up on my vibes
and said "Don't be sad, my brother. Be angry. It ain't over yet."
He was right. A month later, the USA attacked Iraq. It's still not
over.
Around us, tourists were happily snapping photos and taking videos.
Smile for the camera.
I didn't smile.
I cried.
My friend cried with me.
We stood huddled together quietly in the lightly falling snow ...
trying to come to terms with where we were ... trying not to be
overwhelmed by the enormity of the massacre which had taken place on
that very spot eighteen months earlier.
Even though it was an unnerving experience, I don't regret going to
see the 9/11 site ... but unless I can learn how to reach out to at
least one of the tormented spirits who remain trapped in that terrible
place, I don't want to see it again in this lifetime.
aftermath on TV, live as they happened.
Earlier this year I visited "Ground Zero" ... "The Pit", as the site
is called by native New Yorkers.
I'd been in New York for four days ... each day trying to convince
myself that I didn't really need to see the 9/11 site ... but I
finally admitted to myself that it was something I just had to do.
I thought I was tough enough to handle it emotionally ... a good
enough Buddhist to handle it spiritually ... but that turned out to be
vanity and wishful thinking.
When I stepped out of the subway and looked across across the street
to where the WTC towers once stood, the terrible reality of 9/11/2001
hit me me like a tidal wave, and the wall of tranquility with which
I'd carefully surrounded myself collapsed in a heap around my ankles.
Fortunately I had a friend to lean on, or I would have turned and
walked away. I couldn't have handled it alone.
We psyched ourselves up and set off across the icy street. My heart
grew heavier with each step. The voices of a multitude of lost
spirits grew louder with each step. I felt much colder at the edge of
The Pit than I had on the other side of the road.
Not much to look at through the viewing windows. A huge hole in the
ground. Trucks and heavy earthmoving equipment ... mostly still and
silent. A few men in hard hats and bright orange safety vests. A few
uniformed security guards.
Most of the rubble had been cleared away. It didn't really look like
a mass grave. More like just another big city construction site.
Almost normal.
Almost.
Some withered flowers. A few cards. Burned-out candles. A couple of
ribbons. A small basket with an offering to some Hindu deity. Rosary
beads. Photos of the pre-9/11 towers in a glass case on the wall ...
reflections of the way things used to be.
Street vendors selling 9/11 memorabilia and trinkets. I bought a
laser-etched plastic cube with a 3D image of the WTC towers from a
crippled black guy wearing Vietnam Vet ID. He picked up on my vibes
and said "Don't be sad, my brother. Be angry. It ain't over yet."
He was right. A month later, the USA attacked Iraq. It's still not
over.
Around us, tourists were happily snapping photos and taking videos.
Smile for the camera.
I didn't smile.
I cried.
My friend cried with me.
We stood huddled together quietly in the lightly falling snow ...
trying to come to terms with where we were ... trying not to be
overwhelmed by the enormity of the massacre which had taken place on
that very spot eighteen months earlier.
Even though it was an unnerving experience, I don't regret going to
see the 9/11 site ... but unless I can learn how to reach out to at
least one of the tormented spirits who remain trapped in that terrible
place, I don't want to see it again in this lifetime.
IMO, they're crazy =