On the anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, tributes and remembrances abound, as they should. We learn by remembering.
As a long-time lower Manhattan resident, I spent years surrounded by the spirit (and spirits) of those who gave their lives on that defining day. Like all New Yorkers, the awful sights, sounds and smells of that morning and the days that followed are seared into my mind. I flew back to New York from London on September 10th, 2001, casually admiring the majestic towers on the drive into Manhattan. The fact that those twin icons would vanish 24 hours later was unthinkable.
On that crisp morning, I was scheduled to meet a colleague at 7 World Trade Center, when a family member called and told me to turn on the television. I did. And everything changed, forever.
As a teenager, I’d spent years in Beirut during the worst days of the Lebanese civil war. Bloodshed and terror, bombs and bodies were the norm for me, not the exception. Once I escaped the war in Lebanon, I never thought the carnage would follow me to New York City. It did. In such a terrible way.
Of the friends and acquaintances I lost in the towers, my reflections return to Paul Skrzypek, who played pick-up basketball at our local gym. In the days before the attacks, Paul was excited about his new job at Cantor Fitzgerald, which he had just started. We really do have a date with death.
How we face death is how we live life. We’re born to fear it, programmed to survive. The wonder of existence is that we can override our programming and confront death fearlessly.
The real story of September 11th, the enduring lesson, is the way individuals confronted their own death, from the evil, barbaric bravado of the hijackers, willingly slamming themselves into buildings, to the incredible bravery of first responders climbing up to oblivion to save others. Or those graceful souls who swan-dived off the towers, the courageous passengers on Flight 93 and the countless unspoken heroes who gave their lives without hesitation to preserve the lives of friends, co-workers and strangers.
Most of all, we see ourselves in the victims of that tragedy—we wonder what the moment of our demise will be like. How we’ll respond. What we’ll feel. What we won’t feel.
Death is the engine of life; the awareness of our limits is what drives us to exceed those limits. Much as we crave immortality, the unspoken truth is that immortality in the form of endless human life is the definition of hell. All purpose would disappear, all pleasure would fade, all relationships would devolve, all bonds of love would lose their immediacy. Life would become an interminable shade of gray.
Still, oblivion seems even scarier.
What we really want is to shake the bonds of time, to be timeless. To exist, but to exist in an eternal present.
We are not fully alive until we have pondered the mystery of death, until we try to face life and death with courage and dignity. The awe-inspiring lesson from September 11, 2001 is that it is possible to do so.
Many years ago, in a long forgotten conversation, my 7-year-old nephew mysteriously came up with a short poem that I thought encapsulated mortality better than anything I’d read or heard. Though I’ve long since lost the context, I never forgot the poem:
Soon it comes to every person, see it happen in one black curtain.
There’s really no more concise way to describe where we’re all headed. What happens when we get there is an obsession for some, barely an afterthought for others. Having grown up in a war zone, I identify more with the former group. In my view, we can’t fully live if we don’t try to understand and accept the limits (and limitations) of life.
To most who contemplate it, the concept of eternal non-existence, of a life book-ended by oblivion, is unfathomable and bone-chilling. We are programmed to “rage against the dying of the light.”
Death is life’s greatest motivator, for good and evil, fueling our futile quest to ‘matter’—futile, because the people we seek to matter to are themselves reaching out to us to give them meaning. Picture two jumpers hurtling to earth, each reaching for the other, but neither with a foothold and both doomed to the same end. Some try to matter by helping others, some by hurting others, all with the desire to be remembered, to bridge an unbridgeable gap, to leave some kind of a mark, to prove that they existed.
Humans are impossibly lonely creatures, staring forlornly into time and space, without an anchor or a reference point, probing the depths of physics, philosophy, psychology, poetry, but forever bumping up against the unknowable.
My father, who I lost over a decade ago, adored Edward Fitzgerald’s translation of the Rubaiyat — this quatrain in particular:
And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop’t we live and die,
Lift not thy hands to It for help–for it
Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.
With death ever-present and life ever-shrinking, we search for the light behind the black curtain. We turn to religion, to faith, to drugs, to music, to love. We get a glimmer of hope with near-death and other paranormal experiences. We meditate and pray. We look to nature and art and beauty. We dream.
And sometimes we do get glimpses of the light behind the curtain. In the twilight before sleep (hypnagogic states); in moments of transcendence when our thinking brain is suspended; in vague remembrances of a home, a place of origin whose location is timeless and dimensionless; in the sudden opening — and closing — of a portal during moments of intense fear and love and pain and pleasure; in the stillness of night and nature; in strange confluences and synchronicities; in the inexplicable faith that somehow, somewhere, there is an answer.
It’s amusing that science, in its quest to deconstruct and debunk, has reaffirmed the ephemerality of the physical world, painting a wonderful and mysterious picture of a universe that is merely thought and potential. Just imagine that when you look out across the horizon, everything in your sight is energy, nothing solid, and that it’s all a thought in your mind. And that you are a thought in someone else’s mind.
We see the black curtain looming and it gives us pause, as it should. Still, we have reason to believe that behind the curtain is something even more real, more awe-inspiring, more beautiful than the world we know.