remember.

(photo: Stan Honda’s photograph of the ‘Dust Lady’ of 9/11. Her name is Marcy Borders, and she survived.)   I am not interested in political statements or warnings or diatribes on this anniversary of 9/11. I’m not inclined to write a post about how we’ve lost our way in the years since then, about how the terrorists have won if their goal was to irretrievably break this country apart and allow fundamentalism to take root in the gaps left by horror. No. Still, all those American flags after 9/11. On cars, doors, houses, mailboxes, buildings, lapels. I don’t see them so much anymore. Our hatred of the enemy has been turned into hatred of ourselves, our outrage turned to complacency, something we swore would never happen, but it did. It surely did. I see division and hateful speech and an insularity that excludes so many. I see radicalism and ignorance and a polarized nation. I see meanness, pure and simple. This is no appropriate legacy, no adequate tribute to those thousands flying home to see their families or working on a vital business report on 9/11 and then suddenly, shockingly dead, but not dead before horror made their heart race in their chest. It is no appropriate response from those of us left behind. No, it is not. The word is shameful. What I do, and have done for the past few years, is spend 9/11 in meditation on what it is to be alive–fully alive. Alive in such a way that when the plane hits, I’m shocked and scared and panicked at leaving my loved ones behind, but...