26
September 2001
|
Miranda's in New York City tonight, probably tucked deep into white sheets in the W Hotel. Or perhaps the Soho Grand. I don't envy her, having to see with clear eyes her City's wound. To think the last time she looked back on the skyline was in the sunrise light of the 11th. You'll have to bear with me, as I've been having writer's block something fierce this week. I'm forcing myself to do this. I know I just have to start writing something. Anything. I feel like I have nothing of importance to say. This extends beyond this little self-indulgent project and has dipped its fingers into my work. I'm so uninspired. I'd say it's time for another trip, but the thought of getting on a plane makes me want to lock my door. Last Sunday, on my way to my stepbrother's house, I had to drive by the airport. Seeing the sleek beasts, on their clear descent to the ground, I was breathless. They seem close enough to touch as they glide over the ants on the highway. My mom told me that when she and my dad were dating, or perhaps early married, they'd go to the airport and watch the planes land. Like Wayne's World, you know? They'd sit laughing on the hood of their blue VW and cover their ears as the silver giants roared over their heads. So there's that. There's been a lot of talk about God lately. From 'How did He let this happen?' to 'Of course God didn't want this to happen but he gave us Free Will original sincakes.' Since it's the running motif, I also don't know what to think about this. My relationship with God is a funny one. Belief is, and always has been, there. In the simplest terms, my faith is like a river - sometimes it cautiously trickles over rocks and winds slowly down the bed; other times it's a raging current I feel like I could happily drown in. But the water always runs. There's so much about this I could say, but why can't I find the words? Where are they? I've been listening to my "contemporary Christian" music a lot more lately. It's comforting, even if it sometimes stirs the guilt in me. I guess you could call it a guilty pleasure. I've been down many paths in my young life. I've sat on the fence. I've been decidedly atheist, embracing my father's rigid disbelief. I've run with a Faith so wide open I've felt like I could take off and never touch the Earth again. That feeling's harder to describe. I'm tired tonight and I crave sleep, but I'll try. It's always the music that takes me there. The honest, open voices who cry out to Him. When you sing and sing purely and just worship. Standing with other voices, all singing out together, it's almost impossible to not raise your hands. Raise it all up to the Lord, or to the pure melodies mingling together asking Him to come. To listen. To understand our need to question, our need to wonder, our need to cry out against Him. To cry out for him. When my mom and I finally had a chance to talk a few days after the attacks, ("The" attacks. The day? The infamy? What are we calling it? Perhaps just It.), she asked me if I'd noticed that, on all the live footage from that day, the same words invariably were on every lip. "Oh God," they cried. Perhaps, Oh God where are You in this? Or, Oh God help us. I don't know. But His name, it was there. I'm not saying this means anything, or that I think it points to This or That. I'm just saying I noticed it. The words crept out to me, all piling on top of one another, mixing up. Oh God, the voices cried. They asked Him to come. To listen. To understand.
The notify would like to apologize for my incoherence.
|
