September 11 (a little late, part two)

For those of us of a certain age, living in the US, September 11, 2001 is a bookmark in the album of of our lives. There is "before September 11," and "after September 11."

For me, this defining event, this event that I felt so connected to, was not something I felt I could wholly own. It is only now, six years later, that I am beginning to allow myself to own, and to feel the sadness that I should have felt in 2001.

A couple of weeks ago, I had a conversation with a friend who recently lost her beloved husband, the father of her two small children. Since his unexpected death, she had been very busy. She had to suddenly take on the burden of single parenthood, she had to do all the chores and errands one must do someone dies, she had moved to another state to be closer to family, she had found a new job. I asked her if she had taken time to be sad, so that she could start to heal. She said that she felt the reason she was so busy was to avoid having to feel sad. She had to keep moving so she wouldn't feel the pain.

Now the sadness I feel about September 11 is a small thing compared to the devastating loss my friend is experiencing. But like her, I have not allowed myself to feel the pain fully. When I think about why, it seems silly -- how could I let another person define how I should feel? Writing this makes it seem even sillier to me -- I realize it makes me look like the kind of neurotic woman who can't take responsibility for her own emotions, and has to blame her problems on her mother.

I am, you realize, a grown woman. Fully grown, mature, (dare I say, beyond middle-aged?) able do all sorts of things that only grown-ups can do, like parenting teen-agers, and driving in snow-storms, and cooking for eight at the drop of a hat. But despite all of this grown-upness, I can still be affected by what my mother says.

My mother lived in Wimbledon during World War II. Which means she lived through the Blitz. What she said in 2001 was, "I don't know why everyone's making such a fuss about this. It's not like the Blitz, you know." And she's right, it's not like the Blitz. And with that statement, I allowed her to make my connectedness, my sadness, feel wrong, and unnecessary. It's not like the Blitz. It was a small thing in context of world history. A morning of pain, not a war.

Now, in September 2007, I am starting to be able to to feel okay about feeling sad about September 11. I respect what my parents went though in World War 2. I am deeply grateful that I have never experienced anything like that. I pray that I and my family will never experience anything like that. But that does not diminish the appropriateness of my own feelings about September 11. There is nothing wrong with me for feeling the connections I feel, for sharing the shock and grief of the event. I can make a fuss about it if I choose, and I do choose , by remembering, by seeking peace, and by never seeing a clear blue September sky without praying for all involved.