Sept. 24, 2001
The day of September 11th I lost all words. I had no coherent thoughts or ideas. There was no creativity or passion inside me that day. I was left, as most people, in complete shock. I went to bed that night not knowing what to think about that day or the future.
The days that followed my mind started to slowly grasp what had happened. The more aware I became of what was going on and how I felt, the less I understood where my writing belonged.
I thought perhaps now my writing was inappropriate. A few weeks earlier I had submitted an article to be published on the topic of Bravery and I wrote about how scary it can be to give up what you know and live how you really want to. I was really proud of it when I submitted it and even prouder when it was accepted for publication.
However, after September 11th that article seemed silly and naïve. I thought how daft it was for me to write that bravery was about following your dream since the real bravery was those who put their lives at risk for others each day. So I stopped writing.
A part of me wanted to keep writing because I believed that if Tuesday’s attack had reinforced any belief I had it was us that each moment is so precious and that we should not waste any time that we’re given. I kept asking myself how many of the people who never came out of work that day at least went in happy and did what they loved? I asked myself if that had been my last day would I have died living as consciously, happy and as real as I could have been? My answer would have been yes and I wanted it to be yes for others. Realising that gave me the courage to continue writing and to encourage others to live in the moment they way they want. Because as seen on September 11th, you only get one chance at this life and you’ll never know when it’ll stop.
However, when I tried to just get back to writing, I had major problems.
The attack had left me with so many mixed emotions and varied opinions that I didn’t know where to begin. I had married fact with my experiences and I didn’t know how to make sense of it all. I felt as though I should be able to put every thought I had into my brain and make some beautiful, coherent article to express it all. “I’m a writer,” I thought, “this is what I do. I write about real life. What could be more real than this?”
Yet each attempt I made seemed so inadequate, too contrived or just down right stupid. I began to feel frustrated and less and less like a writer. I felt I had over-analyzed and overworked my brain and my writing and I was getting nowhere fast.
So I took a break.
I went on a fall retreat where there was no television or newspapers. There were no deadlines, no pressures, no writing tools or word documents. There was nothing but the calm, quiet presence of nature and myself. One day I hiked up to the top of a mountain and looked around. I saw these beautiful peaks that were there long before I got here and would remain long after I’d left. I realised how little time we actually spend on earth and how few of us ever make any kind of lasting impact. I realised that perhaps through my writing, I could create something that would last. I could create some kind of beauty.
Through writing, I can do that. I can’t fix yesterday or create the perfect tomorrow. All I can do is live today and do what I know how to do.
And that’s continuing on with writing.