I am back in the apartment in Europe. The room is quiet and I am reading a badly written book on foresics. It is the sort of the day that is perfect for long walks.
It is also a day of loss. But not just a day of loss, but also a day to gain perspective.
Right behind my house in California were these ravines and past them you could see mountains. On clear days, far away where nothing was visible, you could see snow capped mountains. Some nights, when all was still and the air stood still, I would go for a walk with the dog through the winding paths. I remember the day after 9-11, when all traffic was still grounded, the sky was so clear and there were no blinking lights. Across the Lynn Canyon, you could see the lights from the houses. I was so upset then. One of the passengers in the planes that hit WTC carried someone who was coming to visit me in California.
If you live a few years, you lose count of all that you lose. And you mourn all your loses. But very rarely do you focus on everything you gain. A few days after 9-11, I spent a night at J. Krishnamurthy's old house in Ojai valley. It was a small house in the middle of an orange and avacado grove. At night, there were crickets and fire flies. There was a small piano in the room and books. I remember sitting in the living room, trying to read a book and hoping to gain some perspective. The next afternoon, walking down the same hiking trails that Jiddu used to take with Charlie Chaplin and Bernard Shaw, I got lost in the bliss and pure beauty of that setting. I felt that in Ojai time had stood still. A feeling of utter stillness. That is something I gained.
So for me, 9-11 is not just about death and terrorism, it is also about teaching about silence and beauty. You never know how things affect people. Recently I learned that the window of my friend who died in the plane now works with Afghani widows in Kabul.
There are lessons in everything.
