Anniversary, Part II

Today has finally occurred, this day of remembrance.

And I am surprised at my own blase treatment of the whole thing in last night's post. This anniversary is not a time to bemoan the horrible things that have happened, the unfortunate events and choices that have been made.

It is a time to be grateful for the past ten years. I was allowed a little bit of reflection this morning while making granola and listening to the 9am service/discussion between Dr. Rahim Nobahar and Sam Keen through the doors of the kitchen.

Ten years ago, I was sitting in Dr. Zilian's Ancient and Medieval History class, learning about the Spartans. And then the first plane hit, and then the second, and we were called in to assembly. The feeling of intense joy that hit me after finding out my dad was not in the city that day was unbelievable. And since then, much much much has happened to be grateful for, even in my one little life.

The past ten years have included my entire high school career, and all that went with it, good teachers, horrible teachers, fighting The Man, finding that I could have niches, learning to tell people I could be good at math and science even though I was a girl. Discovering the words of philosophers, and the concept of Utopia. Learning to love throwing and basketball and running (sort of), and then being told I could never play again, dislocating my shoulder (and later surgery). Learning to love, and learning to live through pain and the loss of a good friend (and a couple years later, another good friend). Being almost adopted by a friend's family. Living in New Zealand at 17 and traveling alone around the country; graduating from culinary school with distinction and winning silver medals in two competitions. Going to Mudd, learning ridiculous things about special relativity and then idolizing Feynman. Leaving Mudd, co-coordinating a fashion show, finding a home in sculpture, learning how to love and support a young mother. Learning the importance of understanding how people think. Transferring to Swarthmore, becoming an engineer finally, exploring combinatorics and the cloudy ideas of complex algebra. Learning about food, food processing systems, food politics, agriculture, becoming addicted to sustainability, co-founding the Good Food Project. My first stint directing a student ministry. Throwing for a collegiate track team. Making concrete over and over again. Building steel bridges. My first research. Writing a model for runoff from suburban watersheds from scratch. Teaching younger students. Deciding I want to be a professor. Getting into grad school; receiving the NSF GRFP. Moving to Berkeley. Moving to Berkeley. Finishing an MS. Starting a cafe ministry. Working on an unbelievably interesting project, and learning the awesome field of fluid mechanics. Presenting my first scientific paper.

And along with all of this, learning every kind of love available. My heart breaking several times, for different reasons. Learning that the deep connections are the only ones worth making; that pain is part of life, and I will lose people throughout my life, but there will always be someone else who could benefit from being loved by me, or I by them. Learning that there are people in every place who are worth getting to know, though they may not fit the profile of whom you'd expect to become your friends. Learning to treat each day as a precious gift, since we never know when it's going to end, and learning to hope that each day will be better than the last, trusting that that is the only way it could be.

My brother explained an interesting metaphor today about those who die young. He just lost another friend (this makes four? five?) two weeks ago (don't become friends with us, unless you want to die young), and the young man's mentee was distraught, so Patrick went to comfort him.
Why did Matt have to die so young? Well, perhaps each person has a life-tank. At the beginning, everyone's life-tank is full up. But we all drive different cars of life. Maybe the 90-year-old man down the street has been driving a Neon. Your mother is at least driving a Corolla. Patrick's maybe driving a sedan (what does this say about when he's going to die??). But Matt was driving a Ferrari, at full tilt. They say only the good die young because the burn through their life-tank quickly. And by doing so, they live every single moment to the fullest, meet every person they can, take every opportunity to spread branches in this world and do something good. So yeah, they're good, and their time comes for them early on.

We talked even more in depth on the need for the end of one life to not be the end of another. The death of a young person does not need to mean the essential death of a friend or family member. Besides what would be desired by the deceased, we all must move on with our lives after mourning a loss. We are human, and we understand death, perhaps in a unique way among animals. But we also have coping mechanisms, and we should use them. We are made to get up and keep going with life, but too many people become married to the idea of a lost loved one. That keeps them from moving forward, ties them inextricably to the past, and makes them less productive members of society. This is not a good thing. Mourn your losses, certainly. But know that wallowing is not a good idea.

In a way, I feel like the American people are stuck in that mourning mode, as I said earlier. We are mourning in particular the events of September 11, 2001, the loss of our friends and families, and the devastation caused by Hurricane Katrina in 2005. Yes, we MUST NOT FORGET. But there is a difference between forgetting and forgiving, forgetting and moving on with life, taking our pain and turning it into strength.

Ten years later, it is a time to look forward with hope, and most importantly, love. Pat de Jong spoke today (updated on Tuesday) of the multi-faith vigil service held in Berkeley on the evening of 9/11/01. She talked of the love and prayer that emanated from the crowd of believers in... something... and the forms of plea and prayer and remembrance that were brought by leaders of all faiths in the area. The collective grief. But also the collective hope that, if somehow these cultures and beliefs and faiths could convene here in Berkeley, there might be some hope that they might be able to do the same around the world, some day. That is a tall order, but I believe it could happen. Maybe we all just need to stop saying we, and only we, are right.