I'm going to admit something I'm not at all proud of: I live an hour north of New York City and I have been to the World Trade Center area only three times since the 911 catastrophe. I first dragged myself to the site a few years after the unimaginable tragedy, when the area was known simply as Ground Zero. It was exactly what we all imagine when the word "zero" comes to mind: Nothingness. A void. A big empty hole in the ground. Yet knowing that so very, very much actually resided in that seemingly empty space was overwhelming. I left the place at a near run, horrified, distraught, and feeling more empathetic for those who lost their loved ones than at any other time in my life.
I didn't go back there until late November of 2015, escorting out-of-towners around the beautiful infinity pool waterfalls placed on the footprints of the original towers. I read every single name carved on the surrounding plaques that cold, sunny day, running through a pocket pack of tissues as I did so. I felt it only fitting to give each person who perished the attention he or she deserved-- a little, insignificant gesture but, like everyone around me, I attempted to somehow make sense of the senseless and stamp my own little version of meaning on the utterly meaningless. How, after all, can we find meaning in those who would murder more than 3,000 people for a twisted, detestable ideology?
My third trip to the area was yesterday. Once again, I ushered someone from far away to our devastating part of the world. As I walked through the area, I thought about how eager my countrymen from other parts of our great nation are to get to lower Manhattan to pay tribute to our fallen heroes, and how they may be a bit puzzled by my reluctance to go there. It's not that I lost family members or close friends at that site on that horrifying day. Like every other citizen in the great United States of America, I grieve for our national losses: the lives, and the crushed potential of more than 3,000 hopes and dreams. I can't ever seem to fully understand the depth of our immense collective loss. But for New Yorkers, the feeling goes somehow deeper.
I'm not suggesting I feel the pain of 911 more significantly than someone living in Kansas, and I certainly wouldn't begin to compare it with those who actually lost those they loved. The fact is, I can't even explain the feeling I share with other New Yorkers. None of us can. It's something we feel, but there are no words to explain that feeling. It's a tangible intangible. An oxymoron to describe our innermost feelings on the subject. Only my friends in and around the New York City area understand it. Maybe it's the proximity. We've lost the innocence and gentle trust of wandering the streets of New York City without jumping at every loud noise and scanning sidewalks for unattended bags. I've wondered if maybe those around Pearl Harbor in the 1940's or near the book repository in Dallas after November of 1963 may have felt the same way.
Yesterday, the 911 Memorial site was indescribable in its beauty. There was something about the area that gave me a sense of peace I'd never experienced during previous visits. Gazing around, I suddenly realized what it was: nature. The swamp white oaks, which hadn't been there the first time I was, and had shed their leaves on my second visit were now full of the rich green foliage that calms the senses and imbeds in the brain the vital message of rebirth. I sat on a granite bench and listened to the leaves stirring in the gentle breeze. After a while I walked the footprints, once more taking note of the seemingly endless stream of names. This time I noticed something else: simple white roses marking those who would have celebrated birthdays. Of course the notion made my heart plunge to my stomach and my eyes well with tears, but after a while another feeling accompanied them: gratitude. How thoughtful to commemorate individual birthdays. And in the language everyone speaks...the language of flowers.
Before I left the site, I stood before the memorial's most inspiring living symbol: The Survivor Tree (photo below). A callery pear ornamental, this modest tree is a testament to not only survival, but hope. Found among the rubble weeks after 911, it was originally thought to be dead, as many of its roots had snapped and most branches were burned. Someone with horticultural knowledge thought otherwise and sent the plant to the botanical garden in the Bronx. Experts there lovingly coaxed the tree back to health, and in 2010 returned the tree to its rightful place. The irony of the story is this: Those who know the way callery pear trees grow understand that their upward branching pattern often limits their ability to thrive. Instead of reaching outward, like most trees do, pear tree branches have a more vertical slant, with narrow crotch angles that break easily, causing trees to split. But not this callery Pear tree, which continues to reach skyward, it's branches fully extended toward the heavens.
I'd never go so far as to say the 911 Memorial site is a happy place. It will never be that. Yet the thoughtful design and inclusion of nature--always inspiring--gave me a sense of peace I never expected to find there.
