NOTHING SEEMS APPROPRIATE...
We all share the same images. The world we know was suddenly and horrifically ripped apart by acts of unprecedented violence, stunning and staggering all of us beyond our ability to express it. We are numb with grief and shock, confusion and anger, fear and denial. Our instincts for survival make us reach for the 'rewind' button on the remote, wishing we could turn back the clock and do it over. To alter and obliterate the images that we've just seen but cannot absorb or assimilate.
Words fail. It is simply beyond belief.
Like many of you, I was awakened by a nightmare on Tuesday morning. The radio came on at seven, and I turned slowly and rubbed my eyes, trying to accept the morning light. Behind me, I could hear the usually mellifluous voice of NPR's Bob Edwards. Still groggy with sleep, I was only grabbing a word or two, but they were different--hesitant, uncertain. I heard "explosion at the World Trade Center," and "possible accident," and "plane off-course." And then, moments later the second 757 struck the North Tower and what had seemed impossible and unthinkable just minutes before 7 AM, had now brutally and irrevocably become a part of the reality of our lives and of Life.
For anyone over 40, we've been here before. I never expected to feel again the empty anguish and grief and disbelief that devastated the nation and the world on November 22, 1963, when John Kennedy was shot down and murdered on a bright sunny day in Texas. It was the first time in my young life that I knew what it felt like to be diminished by history. To see a man die and a country and a set of ideals wounded and scarred by deliberate but inexplicable acts of hate. Over the years we would see such hatred again.
But this.
This is a seminal moment in our lives and in the life of our planet. A door has been opened that, until now, we had been wise enough, or perhaps just lucky enough, to keep sealed. The direction it leads us will shape and determine our future, the kind of lives we will lead, and the kind of people we will become.
I cannot recall a week in which the worst and best of humankind was so vividly displayed. It is difficult to imagine that within our species there could be such dramatic differences. And yet, there they are, for us to examine and scrutinize and perhaps compare to what we might expect from ourselves...
We see the hijackers, fanatical in their determination to wreak havoc and sorrow upon as many of their fellow men and women as destruction and terror and death can bring. We wonder what kind of intense hatred is it that could make men willing to subject themselves to the same horror as their victims?
But then we remember the passengers on Flight #93, huddled in the back of the 757, aware of the carnage in New York and Washington, determined, if certain death lies ahead, to at least spare others of the fate they now know awaits them. We will never know the names of all the heroes on that flight, but for once, we can never diminish their achievement.
It is something this cynical world does too often. We don't allow heroes any more--we put them briefly on a pedestal, just to knock them down. But these men and women of Flight #93, I hope, are beyond that. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of Americans who are alive today because of the courage and heroism of Flight #93.
We stand in complete awe of the selfless courage of the firefighters who put their own lives on the line to save total strangers. I've had the good fortune to count some amazing firemen among my lifelong friends and I know: They are simply a breed apart from most of us. Their courage and compassion are tested constantly and they never waiver.
But then we hear of the cowardice and ugliness of the supermarket crowd in Laramie that chases a group of muslims into the parking lot and beats them. Or of the rocks tossed through the windows of mosques across the country. Or of the unthinkable and hateful rhetoric of Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson, as they preach the same hateful message as the man they despise.
And we breathe a sigh of relief to learn that many other Americans have been outraged and shamed by these acts of racism and have actively intervened to stop them and to denounce their ugly words.
We hear the hoarse and angry chants of, "Nuke 'em," from a public that demands swift and brutal and indiscriminate retribution. But we are gratified by the voices who also insist that justice, not vengeance be served.
From the other end of the spectrum, I actually had the miserable misfortune of listening to a Moab resident last week describe the terrorist attacks as "fantastic and beautiful." He boasted, "America got what it deserved!"
American foreign policy, its economic system...indeed, American culture's effect on the rest of the world will be fervently debated in the weeks and months ahead, but as I said sadly to this man as he continued to spew his own special brand of vitriol, "Let's at least wait until we bury all the nearly 7000 bodies." Hatred knows no ideological boundary.
But then I think about my friends at Pete & Co.--Pete and Barb donated all the revenues from a day's haircuts to the World Trade Center Relief Fund.
Or how about Rob and Mindy Cassingham, owners of Way Out West Tours in Green River. Rob and Mindy were feeling helpless as they watched the terrible news, so they decided to do something. They drove to Salt Lake, rented a 15 passenger van, left messages at motel desks near the airport for stranded air travelers, and ended up taking a group of ten all the way back to South Carolina.
Wonderful unforgettable gestures.
I worry that the cry for war will diminish our concern for the land. To oppose drilling in the Arctic Wildlife Refuge or in our national monuments may soon be regarded by some as an act of treason--we'll deal with those kinds of words, when and if they're said. In these days and weeks after September 11, environmental rhetoric from either side strikes me as insensitive and inappropriate.
I have been moved and shaken by the sight of so many American flags at half staff. They are signs of our grief and sorrow. And of our unity in grief. But I have been unable to muster the retaliatory zeal that motivates and energizes some Americans when they see Old Glory. September 11 will always make me heartsick, but it will never give me an adrenalin rush. If a military campaign against these terrorists lies ahead, then so be it. But our fathers and grandfathers have learned that war is a grim and brutal task, necessary at times, but hardly worthy of glorification.
It is the worst of times. It is the best of times. Can we learn anything from all this? Maybe, if only for a short while, these tragedies can help us put our lives in perspective; perhaps we can more clearly see what our priorities should be. We debate among ourselves just what accounts for a successful life. Is it the value of our real estate? Our material assets? Our "buying power?" What is our most precious commodity?
For me, it's Time. Time is our most precious commodity. We cannot buy it or sell it. It is offered to us in very finite quantities. We can use it wisely or we can squander it.
Imagine this. Imagine that all the September 11 victims had been told a week earlier what awaited them. That they could not alter their fate, but they could make choices as to how they might spend their last seven days. Would any of them considered anything but spending those last precious moments with the people they loved and cared for?
Suddenly, for me, most local matters of debate and disagreement seem so utterly trivial. I do not have the energy or inclination to argue minutia. Why does anybody? I know the feeling won't last forever, but right now I just want to visit with my good friends, be grateful for my life, and watch a desert sunset.
What else is there?
ABOUT THIS ISSUE...
This has been as excruciating as anything I have ever had to do. I really don't know what's appropriate right now. More than half of this issue was complete when September 11 struck us. The core of this issue, about our overcrowded planet and our over consumptive ways remains. All of it was written weeks ago, but after reviewing the articles again, I felt they are indeed relevant and important.
What did seem improper at this time was my own silly brand of humor that is laced throughout each issue in the form of Zephyr cartoon ads. Most of this publication is in production two to three weeks before press day, and not only did the comedy seem out of place, I just didn't feel very funny. I contacted as many of my advertisers as I could, and they were almost unanimously understanding. Many sent me quotes or poems or sentiments to reflect their feelings in these very tough days. Others asked me to find something appropriate. I did leave the caricatures--they are the faces of this community, after all. I could not wipe the cartooned smiles from their faces, but I can assure you, we're not.
Whether an ad carries a special message or not, I think I can speak for ALL of them, because the people who make this publication possible have kind and gentle hearts. I know we all share the same sense of loss.
Hopefully, the humor will come back and we will get past this, but I hope we don't forget. We have a tendency to do that--to say, Oh this is just too awful; I don't want to think about it anymore.
But I think it's important to remember--to honor the dead, to offer comfort to the survivors, and to remember how much more we cherish life itself, when we come so violently in touch with our own fragile mortality.
