on the pulse of morning

I hate conflict... always have.  My way of dealing with conflict is to avoid it.  So yesterday, on the 10th anniversary of one the most horrendous events in our nation's history, what do you think I did?  I avoided it.  No television, no newspaper.  I knew what they were going to say.  I avoided remembering and honoring those who lost their lives in my own selfish act of emotional preservation.  It hurts too much to remember.  However, today... the day after the 10th anniversary of this horrific event, I am remembering.  I am choosing to remember and honor.

When tragic events happen, so often we honor those involved on the event's anniversaries.  But what happens the day after?  It's just another day, but that doesn't take the pain away.  So, I am writing this post to acknowledge the pain associated with 9/11.  Just because the day has passed doesn't mean we stop feeling it's after shock.

This morning began like any other Monday.  I don't work on Mondays, so I have the flexibility to read in the mornings.  I was still avoiding 9/11, unconsciously thinking the 10th anniversary is over so I don't have to be sad about it anymore.  But, then I opened Maya Angelou's Celebrations: Rituals of Peace and Prayer.  Her poem, "On the Pulse of Morning" forced me to remember.  I would like to share her words with you:

A Rock, a River, a Tree,
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor.
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly,
     forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my back
And face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long,
Face down in ignorance,
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out today, you may stand
     on me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made, proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.  Come,
Clad in peace, and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sings and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French,
     the Greek,
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The Privileged, the Homeless, the Teacher.
They hear.  They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.
Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to humankind.  Come to me, here
     beside the River.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside
     the River.

Each of you, descendant of some
Passed-on traveler, has been paid for.
You who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache, and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then,
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the
     employment of
Other seekers--desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You the Turk, the Swede, the German,
     the Italian, the Scot,
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,
     bought,
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare,
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.

I the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours--your Passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need.  Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of
     change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day,
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up, and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face, your country,
And say simply,
Very simply,
With hope,
Good morning.

Ms. Angelou's elegant words spoke to me this morning.  She said, "Do not forget or avoid.  Instead remember, and it's okay to feel that pain.  But, use the pain and memories to forgive and make today better, worth living for."

Today, the day after, I will remember and use those memories to push forward.  Thanks for letting me share, I hope you can use my post to help push you forward, too.