Joan Bauer's Journal

Shade

I have a shady garden and I've groused for years that I want one where I can grow peonies and roses and snapdragons.  You can't do that in the shade.  But there are wonderful plants that can only grow in the shade, like coral impatiens and ruby red begonias. I've learned these last years the power of shade and the lushness that can come from the darkest corners of a garden.

As we head into the week before 9-11, I think shade is a fitting image.  What happened nine years ago cast such shadows; in many places that cloud is still there. My mind is drawn to the contradiction of the aloe plant.  The juice has a bitter taste, but when applied to a bruise, it's healing and gentle.  A rose, as we all know, smells and looks beautiful, but the thorns are the price we pay for growing it and cutting it.  I smile thinking about my daughter's plight -- her favorite flower is the crocus.  So very much can go wrong as a crocus pushes up through the cold ground -- the first flower to come out of winter.  Loving a crocus is a lot of pressure, but Jean feels it's worth the devotion, because that tough, little flower is all about resilience.  This week, may our eyes be open to see what can only grow in the shade, and may the power of that shine brighter than any darkness.

 

 

Then and Now

I imagine in my mind a play that asks two questions: The first, Where were you on September 11, 2001? And from every part of the theater, people young and old answer. I was in school. I was just getting out of the shower. I was landing at O'Hare. I was going to work. I was so little I don't remember. I was buying coffee and a croissant. I was getting my teeth cleaned. I was there at the World Trade Center. And then comes the second question: Where are you now as the 8th anniversary draws close?

Where am I anyway? I'm in Brooklyn, so I'm around the World Trade Center site a lot -- my tailor is there, a great Cuban restaurant is there, Century 21 is across the street. It feels normal, but not really. Every time I get close to Church St. the heaviness rushes back at me. When I was two my grandfather died and I announced, "The house is sad." That's how I feel on Church St. -- this lingering, palpable sadness.

I don't think about the event every hour the way I did eight years ago. I'm not scared to take the subway anymore, not afraid to fly, I don't pause and look at candles on doorsteps because there aren't any. I don't need to see large armed men with dogs at the airport to feel safe.

My husband knew twelve people who died in the attacks and he could have been one of them. Evan had been invited to the breakfast at Windows on the World; he didn't go because we were moving. I remember trying to unpack. I was colossally scared. I couldn't focus, couldn't' process. I wrote what I called "my sheet of clarity". It had things I needed to do each day, it had things I knew, but needed to remember, like, My husband loves me. My daughter loves me. God hasn't gone away. My blood type is B. It didn't take long for me to lose the sheet. I searched for it everywhere, upended pillows, dug through boxes. I was so upset. "I've lost my sheet of clarity!" I wailed to my daughter. Back then, clarity was holding onto something, writing it down so I wouldn't forget. Back then, laughter seemed inappropriate against the backdrop of so much pain. 

That's where I was, but I'm not there now. Still, where I was has marked me like a fossilized leaf imprinted on rock. 

This year I won't watch the 24/7 news shows. I won't watch the images of the towers falling. I will light a candle. I will have more sugar than I should. I will pray, and probably for a few moments, I will cry. I will remind myself that I have it easy and so many still ache for loved ones lost. I will contemplate the day when so much of me and the world changed, and remember how far we've come. 

Peace.

Please visit my Teaching 9-11 web page:  http://joanbauer.com/teaching-9-11.html

Here's a photo of me and Sonny. I visited his school on 9/11/2008 as part of the day of service.

 

Holding Hands

Today I am remembering, from all the memories of September 11th, the first plane ride I took after the terrorist attacks.  It was two to three weeks after the attacks and getting on an airplane in New York was close to the last thing I wanted to do.  I don't remember ever being so frightened about flying.   

I got to LaGuardia Airport, so grateful for the bomb-sniffing dogs in their yellow jackets, the armed soldiers watching everything and everyone.  I got in line to board the plane to Chicago.  It was unusually quiet in that line.  We moved slowly toward the cabin.  Instead of the flight attendant there to greet us stood the pilot.  And this guy was from central casting.  Deep voice, chiseled jaw.  He said hello to each one of us, making eye contact, shaking our hands, and that helped because when Gregory Peck is flying your airplane it tends to make you feel secure. I found my seat -- it was next to an older gentleman -- and we instantly began talking, like so many on the plane did with their seat mates.  He was a retired art history professor from NYU going to visit his granddaughter for her birthday.  He looked at me and said, "You know, this is hard being here." I said, yes, it was for me too. We talked about the attacks, where we were, how we were trying to process.  It was good to talk about it, to not just keep it inside.  The door closed and a woman behind me was crying softly.  The plane headed for the runway and I thought, my God, please get us to Chicago safely.  Please.  The art history professor said to me, "I'm not trying to be fresh, but would you mind if I held your hand when we take off?"  We clasped hands as the plane headed down the runway and lifted into the sky.  We sat there for a while holding hands.  I don't remember who let go first.  

There are moments when we just need to be real and grab somebody's hand. That man will always be part of my road to healing.