After spending the better part of a year in Seattle with WAY too much time on my hands and a hope that someday I would be so busy that I would dream of a day off...I'm dreaming of a day off. And it's great! But isn't life funny: a year of next-to-nothing, and then I start teaching an acting class, I have an opening night, and I start a dog walking job, all in one weekend. Phew! That was back in September, and I haven't slowed down, so forgive the belated story I'm about to share:
The Friday before Halloween, I was walking my Irish Weiner Dog, Riley, and his little spaniel girlfriend, Ceri, when I saw The Man at The Christmas House hard at work. Being armed with two adorable pups, I decided to be brave and walk up the sidewalk where The Man was working, in the hopes of sharing a smile or even a verbal greeting. I've found that if anything can crack a smile in a hardened face, it's a puppy. But as I got closer, my resolve weakened, because The Man was hard at work topping his chain-link fence with 2 feet of chicken wire. This is seemingly not the act of a person looking to make new friends. Seeing those snowmen and Santas and little baby Jesus' through the grey mesh of chicken wire only added to my sense of sadness, and also made me a bit fearful of getting scolded for walking too close. But, cute puppies! I marched forth, with Riley and Ceri acting as my Angry-Man buffers. When the dogs were only about 6 feet from him, he took notice of them. I won't say he smiled. But he did stop his activity for a moment and looked down at the two of them. He is a tall man, probably 6 feet once upon a time, but now his shoulders are hunched forward, his head hanging down in such a way that I imagine him having to take great care should he ever choose to look skyward. He had only to shift his gaze from fence to ground in order to see my furry friends, and from there, his eyes came to meet mine. There was no smile in his weathered face, and for a moment, I admit to being a little afraid. I could see this face on Scrooge, and yet, here was a man who began decking his halls with all things Christmas before the leaves had begun to change colors. So, I smiled at him. I said hello. And he said, "The kids have been in my yard." His voice was soft, weathered like his skin. "They took one of my candy canes and knocked down some of the lights." I had noticed this earlier in the week, and I told him so. "I hope this keeps them from doing it again," he continued. He had a few front teeth missing, and he took care with his speech. "Kids," was all I could think to say. "Kids." His eyes went back down to my canine wards, and while I didn't see much of a shift in his face, I'm pretty sure he smiled at them, in his own way. "I like to walk by your house," I said. "It makes me happy." He brought his focus back to the chicken wire and carried on with his work. I walked away, feeling sad and happy, all at the same time. More than anything, I felt nervous, because it was only 2 days before Mischief Night, that night before Halloween when toilet paper and eggs are bought in bulk by kids for the sole purpose of wreaking a little havoc in their neighborhoods. What better target than the house decorated for the wrong holiday?
I breathed a sigh of relief on Halloween morning, to see the Christmas House tucked neatly behind it's new fortifications, nary a TP'd tree in sight. (I kind of like to imagine The Man spending the night on his porch with a shotgun on his lap, glaring deep into the eyes of any would-be hooligans with that Dirty Harry "Come on punk, make my day" gaze that turns tough-guys into sissies.) I haven't seen The Man since I spoke with him, but I am happy to report that all of his snowmen and Wise Men and giant candy canes are just where they should be. Guess the chicken wire is doing the trick. Or maybe those kids are secretly a little happy to have some Christmas in their 'hood.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Saturday, October 15, 2011
'Tis the season...?
It's 6:42pm, and the sky is almost dark. Sigh.
There's a house I've just noticed out in West Seattle. It was a house that blended into the scenery only a month ago, a house that I barely looked at as I walked a long-haired Dachshund named Riley past its chain-link fence. A nice house, to be sure, but nothing about it caught my attention. Until last week. During the first week of October, this house was transformed from an unassuming ranch to a razzle dazzle Christmas cabin. I'm talking multiple manger scenes in the yard, lights strung across the fences and walkways and front and back porches, gingerbread houses on the inside windowsills. The display grows each day, staple-gunned into place by an elderly man who wears a red jacket and red-brimmed cap. That's not to say he resembles Santa. On the contrary, he's thin and from what I can tell, he's not very jolly. Each morning I see him at work, and I keep hoping he'll look up and we can share a smile or something, so I can let him know that someone notices and, well, enjoys the fruits of his labors. Because I do, I totally dig on this October Christmas display, especially as I pass the houses nearby with Halloween decor scattered about their yards. It's almost like this man is saying SCREW YOU to their holiday of haunts and shouting out loud that Christmas is the best holiday EVER! In truth, I don't think that's in any way what he's up to, but I like to play out the possible internal monologue in his head as I walk by:
"These kids with all their hobgoblins and witchery, don't know a thing about what real holiday spirit feels like, they just want candy candy candy and like to throw toilet paper in people's trees, weeeeeeeeellllll I'll teach them a thing or two about holiday spirit, the GOOD kind of spirit, not these ghosty things they like to dress up like, crazy kids with their crazy candy habits, next thing you know they'll be dressing up any crazy way they feel like any darned day of the year, but don't they already, don't they already dress up like it's Hall-o-ween every day, with their long hair and earrings in every place you can think of and shoes that make no good sense to walk in, crazy kids with their crazy holidays, we'll just see what they think when they see this little baby Jesus swaddled in his manger, he doesn't need any crazy costume because he is perfect just as he is and his birthday is the perfect holiday, who wouldn't think so, who wouldn't choose gingerbread over tricks and treats and maybe this year when they come ringing my doorbell asking for candy I'll give them all candy canes or better yet I'll give them some toothpaste to ward off the tooth rot and tell them to come back in 2 months for a gingerbread man, that's what I'll do..."
Honestly, I feel sad when I walk by and see him working. I feel sad because I've never seen anyone else near the house, and so I imagine that he's alone. I imagine that he and his wife shared this house for many happy years, and they always loved Christmas, always loved the decorations and the festive spirit and the music and all things Christmas. I imagine that she passed away some time ago, leaving him alone with the decorations, and now he can't wait until it's time to put them up again, because it gives him something to do, a purpose of sorts, while he tries not to miss her so desperately. The first week of October, and he's already covered the house in lights, he's already covered the yard in plastic snowmen and candy canes. Who does this? I get annoyed when stores have Christmas displays up before Thanksgiving, but even retail doesn't start this soon. Who does this? Maybe he's just kooky for Christmas, I don't know. I hope so. I hope he's the happiest man in his neighborhood. But until the day he decides to look up from his labors and share a smile with me, I can't help but have my heart break a little as I walk on by.
The rainy season is upon us.
Just so this post doesn't end on a note of heartbreak, here's a picture of Riley the Dachshund:
Is that a face you'd be happy to see each morning or what?
There's a house I've just noticed out in West Seattle. It was a house that blended into the scenery only a month ago, a house that I barely looked at as I walked a long-haired Dachshund named Riley past its chain-link fence. A nice house, to be sure, but nothing about it caught my attention. Until last week. During the first week of October, this house was transformed from an unassuming ranch to a razzle dazzle Christmas cabin. I'm talking multiple manger scenes in the yard, lights strung across the fences and walkways and front and back porches, gingerbread houses on the inside windowsills. The display grows each day, staple-gunned into place by an elderly man who wears a red jacket and red-brimmed cap. That's not to say he resembles Santa. On the contrary, he's thin and from what I can tell, he's not very jolly. Each morning I see him at work, and I keep hoping he'll look up and we can share a smile or something, so I can let him know that someone notices and, well, enjoys the fruits of his labors. Because I do, I totally dig on this October Christmas display, especially as I pass the houses nearby with Halloween decor scattered about their yards. It's almost like this man is saying SCREW YOU to their holiday of haunts and shouting out loud that Christmas is the best holiday EVER! In truth, I don't think that's in any way what he's up to, but I like to play out the possible internal monologue in his head as I walk by:
"These kids with all their hobgoblins and witchery, don't know a thing about what real holiday spirit feels like, they just want candy candy candy and like to throw toilet paper in people's trees, weeeeeeeeellllll I'll teach them a thing or two about holiday spirit, the GOOD kind of spirit, not these ghosty things they like to dress up like, crazy kids with their crazy candy habits, next thing you know they'll be dressing up any crazy way they feel like any darned day of the year, but don't they already, don't they already dress up like it's Hall-o-ween every day, with their long hair and earrings in every place you can think of and shoes that make no good sense to walk in, crazy kids with their crazy holidays, we'll just see what they think when they see this little baby Jesus swaddled in his manger, he doesn't need any crazy costume because he is perfect just as he is and his birthday is the perfect holiday, who wouldn't think so, who wouldn't choose gingerbread over tricks and treats and maybe this year when they come ringing my doorbell asking for candy I'll give them all candy canes or better yet I'll give them some toothpaste to ward off the tooth rot and tell them to come back in 2 months for a gingerbread man, that's what I'll do..."
Honestly, I feel sad when I walk by and see him working. I feel sad because I've never seen anyone else near the house, and so I imagine that he's alone. I imagine that he and his wife shared this house for many happy years, and they always loved Christmas, always loved the decorations and the festive spirit and the music and all things Christmas. I imagine that she passed away some time ago, leaving him alone with the decorations, and now he can't wait until it's time to put them up again, because it gives him something to do, a purpose of sorts, while he tries not to miss her so desperately. The first week of October, and he's already covered the house in lights, he's already covered the yard in plastic snowmen and candy canes. Who does this? I get annoyed when stores have Christmas displays up before Thanksgiving, but even retail doesn't start this soon. Who does this? Maybe he's just kooky for Christmas, I don't know. I hope so. I hope he's the happiest man in his neighborhood. But until the day he decides to look up from his labors and share a smile with me, I can't help but have my heart break a little as I walk on by.
The rainy season is upon us.
Just so this post doesn't end on a note of heartbreak, here's a picture of Riley the Dachshund:
Is that a face you'd be happy to see each morning or what?
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Meet the Newest Member of the Family!
His name is Petey, and he's adorable.
How did we come to welcome a purple PT Cruiser into our lives? It happened like this: I decided I wanted to spend more time with animals, so I looked into volunteering at some local animal shelters, which seems to be a pretty popular thing to do because the shelters I contacted were full up on volunteers. That same day, I got a call from my BFF asking if I'd be interested in walking some dogs (she and her hubby have a dog-walking business and were losing one of their walkers). Seemed like it was meant to be! Only hitch, the business is in West Seattle, which means I'd be putting about 35 miles a day on the Camaro. About the same time, I got cast in a show 30 miles south of Seattle, which meant an additional 60 miles a day for the better part of 3 months. The Sexy Beast Camaro gets 15 miles to the gallon and only takes hi-test, which was looking to be a pricey commuting vehicle. Also, it has rear-wheel drive and a mighty powerful engine, the combination of which means it refuses to drive when there's even a hint of snow or ice on the road. Not so good for the winter driving I'll be doing. AND, we got a super-good deal on the Camaro, and have taken really good care of it and haven't added many miles, which means we can eventually sell it for a good price, though adding hundreds of miles every week would cause it to devalue rather rapidly. So, add it all up, and it seemed that getting a second car was in our best interest, and eventually it would pay for itself in saved mileage and gas money.
But a purple PT Cruiser?
This is how Alex operates: we decided to go to some used car lots to see what was out there, with no need to actually buy anything that day. We stopped at a couple of small lots, saw nothing worthwhile, then went to a larger lot and had a man show us around. We let him know we were looking for "cheap and reliable", no bells and whistles, just a road-worthy vehicle that would safely get me where I need to go without requiring hi-test or snow chains. We were shown some Kia's, a couple of Chevey Aveo's, some cars with non-functioning door handles. Then the salesman asked if we'd be interested in a PT Cruiser. He pointed to a shiny, chrome-detailed, plum PT, and I immediately thought, "Cute, but way out of our price range." What the hell, I took it for a spin. Of the cars I drove, it was definitely the nicest ride, and the previous owner (there was only 1) clearly loved this vehicle and took very good care of it. Still, it was too pretty for our money. By this time, I was tired of car shopping, which meant it was time for Alex's favorite activity: haggling. There are few things that make me more uncomfortable than watching Alex drive a hard bargain, though I must admit, he is extremely good at it. So, I told him that he could have his fun while I went across the street to the pet store to get some cat food. I'm pretty sure I left him by saying, "Have fun, but remember that we have time, so you don't need to buy anything today." And I'm pretty sure he said, "I know, I'm just having fun." Jump cut 20 minutes: I walk back into the dealership to see Alex with a pen in his hand. He looks up from whatever he's writing, sees me, and drops the pen like he's a schoolboy caught cheating on his math test. I said, "Did you just buy a car?" And he said, "You really liked the PT Cruiser, right?" Sigh.
But here's what you need to understand about Alex: he made an offer on the car that was about 1/2 the asking price. They said no way. He said fine. (He understood that we really didn't need a car that day, so he felt no pressure whatsoever to strike a deal.) They went back and forth a few times until finally the owner of the dealership got involved and said, "What do I need to do for you to buy a car today?" And this was Alex's response: "This is the first dealership I've really looked at, which means I don't know what deals are out there, so in order for me to buy a car from you today, I need to feel like I'm ripping you off." I don't think this line gets used very often, because the owner laughed and then said, okay. He showed Alex the invoice for his own purchase of the car, and sure enough, the dealership lost money on the deal they made with Alex.
And that is how Petey joined the family.
But don't assume that we are calling him Petey simply because he's a PT cruiser. He is actually named after a very dear friend of ours whom we traveled to Maine with a few years ago. Our friend Petey Vigs was very excited for us to see the car he rented for the trip, and we had to laugh when he rolled up in a PT Cruiser and said, "Look, I got a Petey Cruiser!" It was a wonderful weekend with a wonderful group of friends, and I will always think of dear Petey Vigs when I'm rolling down the street in my purple PT Cruiser. Welcome to the family, Petey!
Look at how cute he is next to his brother:
Almost as cute at their other brothers:
How did we come to welcome a purple PT Cruiser into our lives? It happened like this: I decided I wanted to spend more time with animals, so I looked into volunteering at some local animal shelters, which seems to be a pretty popular thing to do because the shelters I contacted were full up on volunteers. That same day, I got a call from my BFF asking if I'd be interested in walking some dogs (she and her hubby have a dog-walking business and were losing one of their walkers). Seemed like it was meant to be! Only hitch, the business is in West Seattle, which means I'd be putting about 35 miles a day on the Camaro. About the same time, I got cast in a show 30 miles south of Seattle, which meant an additional 60 miles a day for the better part of 3 months. The Sexy Beast Camaro gets 15 miles to the gallon and only takes hi-test, which was looking to be a pricey commuting vehicle. Also, it has rear-wheel drive and a mighty powerful engine, the combination of which means it refuses to drive when there's even a hint of snow or ice on the road. Not so good for the winter driving I'll be doing. AND, we got a super-good deal on the Camaro, and have taken really good care of it and haven't added many miles, which means we can eventually sell it for a good price, though adding hundreds of miles every week would cause it to devalue rather rapidly. So, add it all up, and it seemed that getting a second car was in our best interest, and eventually it would pay for itself in saved mileage and gas money.
But a purple PT Cruiser?
This is how Alex operates: we decided to go to some used car lots to see what was out there, with no need to actually buy anything that day. We stopped at a couple of small lots, saw nothing worthwhile, then went to a larger lot and had a man show us around. We let him know we were looking for "cheap and reliable", no bells and whistles, just a road-worthy vehicle that would safely get me where I need to go without requiring hi-test or snow chains. We were shown some Kia's, a couple of Chevey Aveo's, some cars with non-functioning door handles. Then the salesman asked if we'd be interested in a PT Cruiser. He pointed to a shiny, chrome-detailed, plum PT, and I immediately thought, "Cute, but way out of our price range." What the hell, I took it for a spin. Of the cars I drove, it was definitely the nicest ride, and the previous owner (there was only 1) clearly loved this vehicle and took very good care of it. Still, it was too pretty for our money. By this time, I was tired of car shopping, which meant it was time for Alex's favorite activity: haggling. There are few things that make me more uncomfortable than watching Alex drive a hard bargain, though I must admit, he is extremely good at it. So, I told him that he could have his fun while I went across the street to the pet store to get some cat food. I'm pretty sure I left him by saying, "Have fun, but remember that we have time, so you don't need to buy anything today." And I'm pretty sure he said, "I know, I'm just having fun." Jump cut 20 minutes: I walk back into the dealership to see Alex with a pen in his hand. He looks up from whatever he's writing, sees me, and drops the pen like he's a schoolboy caught cheating on his math test. I said, "Did you just buy a car?" And he said, "You really liked the PT Cruiser, right?" Sigh.
But here's what you need to understand about Alex: he made an offer on the car that was about 1/2 the asking price. They said no way. He said fine. (He understood that we really didn't need a car that day, so he felt no pressure whatsoever to strike a deal.) They went back and forth a few times until finally the owner of the dealership got involved and said, "What do I need to do for you to buy a car today?" And this was Alex's response: "This is the first dealership I've really looked at, which means I don't know what deals are out there, so in order for me to buy a car from you today, I need to feel like I'm ripping you off." I don't think this line gets used very often, because the owner laughed and then said, okay. He showed Alex the invoice for his own purchase of the car, and sure enough, the dealership lost money on the deal they made with Alex.
And that is how Petey joined the family.
But don't assume that we are calling him Petey simply because he's a PT cruiser. He is actually named after a very dear friend of ours whom we traveled to Maine with a few years ago. Our friend Petey Vigs was very excited for us to see the car he rented for the trip, and we had to laugh when he rolled up in a PT Cruiser and said, "Look, I got a Petey Cruiser!" It was a wonderful weekend with a wonderful group of friends, and I will always think of dear Petey Vigs when I'm rolling down the street in my purple PT Cruiser. Welcome to the family, Petey!
Look at how cute he is next to his brother:
Almost as cute at their other brothers:
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Spider-rific!
As much as I've tried to find my inner Buddhist when it comes to the invading army of spiders flanked on my outside windows, I must admit to a giddy sense of satisfaction when I saw the notice posted in the building elevator: WINDOW CLEANING THIS WEEK. It seemed that my live-and-let-creepy-crawly-spiders-live attitude was paying me back in kindness. The window cleaners would slowly descend from the roof, one foot at a time, and they would kick through the webs without ever laying eyes on the detailed and delicate work of the Mosler Loft Arachnids. Spiders killed without a moment of murderous intent. (I'm pretty sure that feeling relief at the accidental destruction of another living being is totally against the good Buddha, but I don't claim to be a Buddhist, I'm just trying to minimize my good Catholic guilt.) I pulled my blinds and listened to the squeak-squeak-thumping of the window cleaners lowering down my building, swinging their ropes from side to side, covering as much width as possible to minimize the number of descents they'd have to make to hit all of that glass--there's a lot of glass on the 12 levels of this building. Squeak-squeak-thump, I imagined all of those webs being wiped away, no longer sitting between me and my view. Sorry, Spidey, but I didn't order them cleaners to come wash you away, I'm just minding my own business and wishing you well in whatever place you go to from here. Good luck, and yes, good riddance.
Turns out, spiders are resilient. And they work very quickly. By the time the sun was setting, two new webs were covering one of the recently squeegeed windows. Son of a...
Alas, it's only the outside of the windows that get cleaned by the brave men on ropes, I'm responsible for cleaning the interiors, which means we're looking out at this fabulous view through dusty, finger-smeared glass. Plus a new batch of spider webs.
Turns out, spiders are resilient. And they work very quickly. By the time the sun was setting, two new webs were covering one of the recently squeegeed windows. Son of a...
Alas, it's only the outside of the windows that get cleaned by the brave men on ropes, I'm responsible for cleaning the interiors, which means we're looking out at this fabulous view through dusty, finger-smeared glass. Plus a new batch of spider webs.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Kittens are gross. And AWESOME!
This morning I was awoken by a kitty licking my armpit. It's a strange wake-up, let me tell you. I was completely under the blanket, most likely in order to protect my hair (more on that later), so I couldn't see what was happening, and it took a few seconds for me to respond by pulling back the blankets and seeing a little kitten face inches from my nose, getting really cozy with my armpit. Gross.
Smokey and The Bandit (yes, we have settled on those names, though we had many good options offered up which we might have gone with had we not already spent a few days calling these guys Smokey and The Bandit, which feels quite right, especially when I use their nicknames: Smokestack and El Bandito), the two of them are perfectly at home here on the 10th floor. They are an absolute joy, even though they are kinda disgusting. Their favorite toy seems to be the litter box, in which they like to wrestle, which makes it really great that we have an extra bathtub in which it can live, because otherwise there would be litter EVERYWHERE in this place. I think they spend about a third of their waking lives in that litter box, either wrestling one another or pooping out half their body weight (seriously, how do such small beasties produce so much poop?) When they are not in the litter box, they are chasing each other throughout the apartment, wrestling on floors and couches and beds. Their next favorite toy is the collapsible hamper, which would provide hours of fun were it not for the fact that they keep collapsing it on one another. Still, every time I open it up, it's like Christmas for kittens. Very funny, and not the least bit disgusting.
And their next favorite toy, well, it's my hair. Oh, how they love to comb my hair with their little kitty claws! Generally I am woken in the morning not with an armpit licking but with a hair tangling. It's like a million tiny strings, and they get so excited they want to play with them all. Which means my hair, when I eventually make my way to a bathroom and confront myself in the mirror, resembles something a modern artist might title "Chaos Theory". I try to tie it back in an elastic, but that just gives the kittens something deeper to dig into. And in my sleep, it seems, I try to escape their clawing by tucking the blankets under my head, which this morning led to a kitten burrowing beneath the blanket and discovering the tastiness of my armpit. Gross. But then, how adorable are they? Just look:
I can forgive their being so darned gross because they're just so darned adorable. Sigh. Totally smitten with the kittens.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Lemons=Lemonade
I hate spiders. No, I'll not say HATE. I strongly dislike spiders. Spiders of any size, they creep me out. Insects in general have that effect, but the spider creep-factor is the highest. Ever since I was a little kid, playing in our Ohio basement with my stuffed animals and Kajagoogoo on the radio, when a tickle on the back of my neck turned out to be the pitter patter of little Daddy Long Legs feet, ever since then I've had a response of cold fear and minor nausea whenever I see a spider. So imagine how I have felt throughout the warmish-weather months when the fantastic view from my floor-to-ceiling windows has been partially obstructed by spider webs. I kid you not, we've had a veritable infestation of spiders living on the outside of our windows (I've only seen one web indoors, and it had the look of being long abandoned, all sagging and broken and dusty). We live on the 10th floor, so why there are so many spiders up here is beyond my understanding. I think back to "Charlotte's Web" and seem to recall all of Charlotte's little babies being carried away on a wind; perhaps several dozen were carried right to me. I've had numerous moments of being stopped by the beauty of the Seattle summer through my windows, only to cringe when walking closer and seeing all those little legs and round little bodies. Part of me has had the very strong urge to take a broom to the webs and tear them to pieces; however, most of the webs are unreachable from the inside and would require me to harness myself up and drop down from the roof, and my fear of heights is stronger than my fear of spiders. And then, there's also this developing Buddhist within me, who believes that all life is sacred (only last week, I spent almost 20 minutes trying to help a bee find his way from Alex's office to the open window, when I had oh so many opportunities to simply smoosh him and call it a day). Spiders are supposed to be good for all kinds of things (hell, Charlotte could spell whole words in her web) and I know many un-Buddhists who think killing spiders does more harm than good. But how could I live with all this creepiness right outside my windows? In Alex's office, I counted 9 spiders crawling on 9 webs, in only 1 window, leaving barely a spot of web-free glass! Unacceptable, I said. And yet...
Alex found the solution for me. He noticed how few bugs we had flying in our apartment, and considering that there are no screens on the windows and lots of little web coffins on display, there are clearly a number of flying insects on the 10th floor. Alex put it this way: Having all those spiders outside is like being covered in nature's fly swatter. More webs=less bugs. Somehow, that was all I needed to hear. I made my peace with the spiders and thanked them for keeping my home a bug-free zone.
Talk about turning lemons into lemonade.
Alex found the solution for me. He noticed how few bugs we had flying in our apartment, and considering that there are no screens on the windows and lots of little web coffins on display, there are clearly a number of flying insects on the 10th floor. Alex put it this way: Having all those spiders outside is like being covered in nature's fly swatter. More webs=less bugs. Somehow, that was all I needed to hear. I made my peace with the spiders and thanked them for keeping my home a bug-free zone.
Talk about turning lemons into lemonade.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
10 Years Later, 10 Minutes
Just before 5 o'clock this morning, Alex and I made the short walk from our home to Seattle Center, under an almost-full yellow moon setting in the west, under the Space Needle shining a beam of light into the heavens and flying an American flag at half-mast. We were heading to the International Fountain to be part of a day of reflection. The event was organized by a group called 10+ Seattle, and the intention was to have people gather at the fountain, at any point during the day, and then sit in silent reflection for at least 10 minutes. This was not a protest of any kind (though of the maybe 20 people already gathered at the fountain at 5am, half were holding signs which stated "OUR GRIEF WAS NOT AN EXCUSE FOR ENDLESS WAR"--we chose to find a spot a good distance from them). This was more about community, compassion, and yes, reflection. The Fountain during summer days is filled with swim-suited children who run through streams of choreographed water; it's a place filled with joy and laughter. This morning, it was mostly silent, and while water flowed from the fountain, it was the sound of a babbling brook rather than orchestrated explosions of water. There were candles lit along the perimeters, many placed there by the organizers, many more being brought by the people who were gathering. We sat, in silence, and I cried. I leaned my head on Alex's shoulder, and I remembered that day, 10 years ago...
We were in Seattle then. I woke up early, before 6am, with no good reason, I simply couldn't sleep. I remember lying on my floor, doing some stretches, and wondering why I was awake. The phone rang at around 7:30, which was unusual, and it was Zoe, asking me if I was watching TV. By the time I turned it on, the towers were already down. I remember the shock. I remember having to pull myself away from the TV some hours later to go to a doctor's appointment. I remember walking to the clinic as if I was walking under water. Everything was surreal. I felt like the world should have stopped spinning or something, and yet here I was on a table in a doctor's office getting my yearly exam, listening to small talk between the nurses. Seattle seemed to be unaware that the world we knew had been drastically altered. I felt impossibly far away from my family, from the place I knew as home for so many years. I remember going back to our apartment, and I think I spent the next 2 days watching TV, until I could no longer bear it. I remember going downtown to Westlake Center a few days later, where there was a gathering for a national moment of silence. Alex and I held hands as we walked there, and we were both surprised and grateful to see that there were bodies pressed against each other for blocks; it was the first time I felt that Seattle understood. Thousands of people, and for an entire minute, there was no sound, nothing except the shrieks of seagulls. I remember that night going to the Fountain at Seattle Center, where people had been gathering all week. Again, so many people, and candles and flowers and pictures. And silence. Language felt unnecessary, because we were all feeling the same things. I remember a sense of community that I'd never experienced before. I remember feeling hope. I remember.
Alex and I sat this morning for about 30 minutes, and the original 20 who were there when we arrived had expanded to about 100. Bells rang at 5:46 in observance of the North Tower impact, which is about when we made our way home, then rang again at 6:03, 6:37, and 7:03 to signify the 3 impacts which followed. The sky turned a brilliant pink, then yellow, and now white as the sun makes it's way over the Cascades and brings full daylight to this day of remembrance. 10 years later.
What is it about a decade that is so significant? Why do the events of 10 years ago feel fresher to me today than they have for the past 5 anniversaries? Because they do. I feel a sadness today that is mixed with some anger which I didn't feel a decade ago. I know that anger was an emotion experienced by most Americans. It's an emotion which allowed so many of us to sound the battle cry for war. I didn't feel anger then; I felt grief, and I felt hope, which eventually faded as the country's anger swelled and that sense of community I experienced drifted away to "you're either with us or against us" ideas of what REAL Americans are and what REAL Americans do. My country today feels as divided as it's ever been in my lifetime, which makes me sad, and it makes me angry. I felt angry this morning as we were walking away from what was a powerful experience of reflection and I saw that in addition to the signs stating OUR GRIEF WAS NOT AN EXCUSE FOR ENDLESS WAR, they were also holding pictures of Abu Ghraib and bloodied bodies on dusty roads in foreign lands. I agree with their anti-war sentiments; I strongly disagree with their choice to turn a chance for community into a "with us or against us" situation. Because at some point today, someone who is coming to this place in order to reflect and feel a connection with others, someone like me, is going to feel attacked by those images, as I did, and is going to say something, which will most likely turn into an argument, which will absolutely not be silent, nor will it embrace community. Because I did want to tell them to put those signs away, and I did have to pull Alex's arm to redirect him back towards our path home. We both wanted to say something, but neither of us wanted to take anything away from those other people gathered in silence with no agenda other than reflection. There is a time and place for such images; this isn't it. As the handout provided by the 10+ organizers states:
TEN YEARS LATER, ON SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2011, ONCE AGAIN THE INTERNATIONAL FOUNTAIN WELCOMES ALL WHO WISH TO BE TOGETHER AND TURN OUR THOUGHTS AND HEARTS TOWARD HUMANITY'S GREATEST STRENGTH--COMPASSION.
Even as I type that, I feel my anger dissolving. I cannot blame people who are angry about war; I'm angry, too. For many people, who've never been to NYC or DC, who do not have friends or family there, who do not have childhood memories of looking down from the top of the Twin Towers and feeling as if her feet were going to slip up off of the floor and tip her over, for many people the greatest impact of 9/11 is the decade of war that has followed. For those people, it was the launching point into unnecessary bloodshed and violence. Violence doesn't have to beget violence, but in this case, it did. In this case, it escalated the violence in such a way that there is no foreseeable end to it. Yes, I understand the anger. I remember marching through the streets of Seattle just months after 9/11 with a group organized by a Catholic Church to speak out against the war in Afghanistan, a war which was overwhelmingly supported by the citizens of this country. I don't claim to be a pacifist, but I did see an opportunity for a worldwide community that was lost as soon as we shouted out for revenge. Yes, I understand the anger. And the disappointment. And the grief. But this morning, this day, this is not about the mistakes made after 9/11; rather, it is about remembering the community we became, for a brief time, in the days that followed.
I have done my best not to watch television this week, as I knew there would be much build-up surrounding this anniversary, and I wanted to experience it in my own way. I did watch a video about the 9/11 Memorial which will be opened today, and I cried. I don't mind crying; I don't mind feeling the grief that I felt this morning as I sat on the edge of the fountain and let my silence fill me. I just don't want to be told what to feel, or shown images to remind me of what I'm expected to feel. I remember that day, I remember it well. I don't need any help remembering. What I need is for my country to feel like a community again, and in order for that to be even a possibility, I need to be with others who embrace that beautiful concept of compassion.
I hope you'll join me today in letting go of some of this anger which lives in all of us. I hope you'll join me in letting go of WITH US OR AGAINST US and embracing the idea that we all have the same basic wants and needs. I hope you'll take 10 minutes to sit in silence and just reflect, for yourself, on what all of this means to you. It was a powerful experience for me. And I hope you'll join with the nation at 1pm EST, 10am PST, for a minute of silence. I hope we feel like a community again, for even one minute.
We were in Seattle then. I woke up early, before 6am, with no good reason, I simply couldn't sleep. I remember lying on my floor, doing some stretches, and wondering why I was awake. The phone rang at around 7:30, which was unusual, and it was Zoe, asking me if I was watching TV. By the time I turned it on, the towers were already down. I remember the shock. I remember having to pull myself away from the TV some hours later to go to a doctor's appointment. I remember walking to the clinic as if I was walking under water. Everything was surreal. I felt like the world should have stopped spinning or something, and yet here I was on a table in a doctor's office getting my yearly exam, listening to small talk between the nurses. Seattle seemed to be unaware that the world we knew had been drastically altered. I felt impossibly far away from my family, from the place I knew as home for so many years. I remember going back to our apartment, and I think I spent the next 2 days watching TV, until I could no longer bear it. I remember going downtown to Westlake Center a few days later, where there was a gathering for a national moment of silence. Alex and I held hands as we walked there, and we were both surprised and grateful to see that there were bodies pressed against each other for blocks; it was the first time I felt that Seattle understood. Thousands of people, and for an entire minute, there was no sound, nothing except the shrieks of seagulls. I remember that night going to the Fountain at Seattle Center, where people had been gathering all week. Again, so many people, and candles and flowers and pictures. And silence. Language felt unnecessary, because we were all feeling the same things. I remember a sense of community that I'd never experienced before. I remember feeling hope. I remember.
Alex and I sat this morning for about 30 minutes, and the original 20 who were there when we arrived had expanded to about 100. Bells rang at 5:46 in observance of the North Tower impact, which is about when we made our way home, then rang again at 6:03, 6:37, and 7:03 to signify the 3 impacts which followed. The sky turned a brilliant pink, then yellow, and now white as the sun makes it's way over the Cascades and brings full daylight to this day of remembrance. 10 years later.
What is it about a decade that is so significant? Why do the events of 10 years ago feel fresher to me today than they have for the past 5 anniversaries? Because they do. I feel a sadness today that is mixed with some anger which I didn't feel a decade ago. I know that anger was an emotion experienced by most Americans. It's an emotion which allowed so many of us to sound the battle cry for war. I didn't feel anger then; I felt grief, and I felt hope, which eventually faded as the country's anger swelled and that sense of community I experienced drifted away to "you're either with us or against us" ideas of what REAL Americans are and what REAL Americans do. My country today feels as divided as it's ever been in my lifetime, which makes me sad, and it makes me angry. I felt angry this morning as we were walking away from what was a powerful experience of reflection and I saw that in addition to the signs stating OUR GRIEF WAS NOT AN EXCUSE FOR ENDLESS WAR, they were also holding pictures of Abu Ghraib and bloodied bodies on dusty roads in foreign lands. I agree with their anti-war sentiments; I strongly disagree with their choice to turn a chance for community into a "with us or against us" situation. Because at some point today, someone who is coming to this place in order to reflect and feel a connection with others, someone like me, is going to feel attacked by those images, as I did, and is going to say something, which will most likely turn into an argument, which will absolutely not be silent, nor will it embrace community. Because I did want to tell them to put those signs away, and I did have to pull Alex's arm to redirect him back towards our path home. We both wanted to say something, but neither of us wanted to take anything away from those other people gathered in silence with no agenda other than reflection. There is a time and place for such images; this isn't it. As the handout provided by the 10+ organizers states:
TEN YEARS LATER, ON SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2011, ONCE AGAIN THE INTERNATIONAL FOUNTAIN WELCOMES ALL WHO WISH TO BE TOGETHER AND TURN OUR THOUGHTS AND HEARTS TOWARD HUMANITY'S GREATEST STRENGTH--COMPASSION.
Even as I type that, I feel my anger dissolving. I cannot blame people who are angry about war; I'm angry, too. For many people, who've never been to NYC or DC, who do not have friends or family there, who do not have childhood memories of looking down from the top of the Twin Towers and feeling as if her feet were going to slip up off of the floor and tip her over, for many people the greatest impact of 9/11 is the decade of war that has followed. For those people, it was the launching point into unnecessary bloodshed and violence. Violence doesn't have to beget violence, but in this case, it did. In this case, it escalated the violence in such a way that there is no foreseeable end to it. Yes, I understand the anger. I remember marching through the streets of Seattle just months after 9/11 with a group organized by a Catholic Church to speak out against the war in Afghanistan, a war which was overwhelmingly supported by the citizens of this country. I don't claim to be a pacifist, but I did see an opportunity for a worldwide community that was lost as soon as we shouted out for revenge. Yes, I understand the anger. And the disappointment. And the grief. But this morning, this day, this is not about the mistakes made after 9/11; rather, it is about remembering the community we became, for a brief time, in the days that followed.
I have done my best not to watch television this week, as I knew there would be much build-up surrounding this anniversary, and I wanted to experience it in my own way. I did watch a video about the 9/11 Memorial which will be opened today, and I cried. I don't mind crying; I don't mind feeling the grief that I felt this morning as I sat on the edge of the fountain and let my silence fill me. I just don't want to be told what to feel, or shown images to remind me of what I'm expected to feel. I remember that day, I remember it well. I don't need any help remembering. What I need is for my country to feel like a community again, and in order for that to be even a possibility, I need to be with others who embrace that beautiful concept of compassion.
I hope you'll join me today in letting go of some of this anger which lives in all of us. I hope you'll join me in letting go of WITH US OR AGAINST US and embracing the idea that we all have the same basic wants and needs. I hope you'll take 10 minutes to sit in silence and just reflect, for yourself, on what all of this means to you. It was a powerful experience for me. And I hope you'll join with the nation at 1pm EST, 10am PST, for a minute of silence. I hope we feel like a community again, for even one minute.
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