Where I'll Go From Here

How am I supposed to start a blog post describing how indescribable and untouchable this day is? With hyperbole: SHOCK AND AWE? With an anecdote about where I was and what I was feeling? None of it feels right. And that's how I have felt all weekend, that nothing about this day feels right.

Waking up made me feel guilty that I was still alive and so many of my fellow Americans aren't. Eating breakfast this morning made me feel sick because I know how my body reacts to sadness and anger and if I had lost someone on that day, I know I wouldn't be able to eat. Watching the reading of the names of those fallen on NBC's coverage of the memorial felt morbid; all of these names, short, long, foreign or familiar, so unfortunately meaningless now that their assigned souls have been gone for a decade. Walking outside was eerie and lonely, as I couldn't help but feel outnumbered by the ghosts of angels wandering the streets still covered in dust and overpowered by threats of more violence. Celebrating a touch-down at a sports bar, still tired from a decadent weekend whose aftermath is only more exaggerated by an oncoming autumn cold... that too just felt wrong even though sports are my favorite symbol of American pride, spirit and strength.

But then, I finally made my way home for an afternoon nap and awoke to the opportunity to sit back and read my very first New York Times Sunday Edition. I was gifted an online plus Sunday Times subscription by my father after running out of free articles on both my work and personal computers just days into September. In all honesty, when I woke up this morning, I had forgotten about the gift, as I wasn't expecting for the subscription to begin quite yet. But finding that paper glowing in its grey glory on my doorstep this morning as I parted for the day was like catching the distant light of a beacon of hope. It brought me out of the clouds of remembering that day and fearing the now and embedded me back into my romanticized view of reality, laden with a twisted fear inspired by knowing too much, but diluted with a genuine belief that everything is going to be okay.

I began with the sports section, updating myself on the narratives surrounding my 2011 team-of-choice's match-up tonight (let's go Jets!). Then I flipped through the Sunday Styles section, reading about Fashion Week, old restaurants that have held their own in this ever-changing city and even a beautifully written testimony to modern love, crafted by a sophomore at University at Alabama. Then, I let myself delve into the main section, which included page after page of articles covering every angle of September 11, 2001-2011. And then the symbolic nature of my ceremonial act, reading an iconic American paper from the city that felt the pain of that fateful day the most, became clear. I had found the right way to live this day.

As a self-diagnosed news junkie, I can't say I hate the access to information that we have due to the Internet. If I'm not deeply involved in conversation or a project at work, then I'm probably scouring Twitter, the Drudge Report, CNN, Gawker, etc. for as much news as possible. But there's something about holding that paper in your hands with no other distractions glaring at you from all corners of a computer screen that gives reading the news more meaning: You're giving reality your full attention. You're acknowledging what's going on in the world. You are wholeheartedly directing your focus toward what is going on in the lives of others. You are covering your hands in the ink that has written the history of our world. To me, it seems like the ultimate homage to the heroes and victims of our world aside from becoming one myself and sitting on my bed, surrounded by the New York Times, was the first time all day that I felt I was doing what I should be doing.

When I look back on September 11, 2001, I remember shock: the frozen faces and dropped jaws. Even the world's most reputable news anchors were speechless as the planes hit, the towers fell and our nation stood helpless as shards of lost life and collapsed dreams shuttled through the streets our country's most loved, and needed, cities. To this day, I never really knew what to do with myself other than read about new terrorist threats and talk to other people about where they were. But ten years out, it only feels right to find a quieter way to mourn, a more personal way to reflect.

My point of this rambling is that I am more at peace with 9/11/01 now that I've found the right way to live this day for the rest of my life. I will always be scared because, as a news junkie, I do know too much. And I'll always feel guilty and sad, as I don't think anyone who was alive and conscious on that day can feel any different at least for a moment. But to move on from things or at least to come to terms with them, we need a ritual that encapsulates the meaning of the event without creating such a wave in our lives that we can't feel like things have gotten better. For me, it will be thinking about this glorious city, this beautiful country and all of the stories and people that create the global context that makes us so great. For me, it will be giving that day the gift of thought and attention, concern and deep thought. For me, it will be reading the New York Times.