life goes on: a confession

For the last few days, I have found myself trying to wrap my brain around what is happening in Haiti. When disaster strikes, if it isn't in your back yard, it is easy to ignore, and frankly, it is hard to function on a daily basis if you really allow yourself to feel the weight of it all. On September 11th, the September 11th, I was in Paris. I lived in Brooklyn at the time, as I still do, but was in the French countryside for a wedding and was finishing up my visit with a quick stop in Paris. I didn't find out about the attacks until the morning of the 12th. I don't know how I missed it, but I was on vacation, busy enjoying myself and cloaked in blissful ignorance. When I got back to my hotel on the night of the 11th, I saw people huddled around the TV in the lobby and I thought, what silly folks for watching TV when they are visiting Paris. On the morning of the 12th, my mother in law knocked on our hotel room door. "New York was bombed." She was confused and upset so the message came out all wrong. We turned on the TV and watch the planes hit the towers over and over and over again.
I remember the day I spent in Paris, after I found out about what had happened, after my reality shifted. My body was possessed by it. But those Parisians seemed to go on with life as usual. I mean, people were talking about it, but things didn't seem different. I longed to be home with my friends. I longed to be with people who felt how I felt. We couldn't get back to NYC for over a week. The planes into the city were backed up. We spent a night at a hotel outside of the airport in Paris. It was in a strange little village. The pillowcases had black spots on them and a mildewy smell. The people at the reception desk were rude. We went to a mediocre restaurant, the only place to find food in the village, and took an after dinner stroll on the little cobblestone streets. There was this tree in the middle of the village that was absolutely filled, packed, with birds, all shrieking in unison. A pair of white panties lay on the ground under the tree and there was bird shit everywhere. It was absolutely creepy and we rushed back to our smelly hotel room. We were able to fly to Germany the next day to be with my in-laws. We found comfort in the company of family and old friends. I made a Rosh Hashanah dinner for my German in-laws. I have fond memories of that time, although I was filled with the most intense longing to be home.
I remember reading about the earthquake in Haiti a few days ago. But I didn't pause. I just continued with whatever I was doing. Slowly over the course of the week, it is starting to sink in. I am trying to digest it, let it under my skin. But it hurts too much. So I head back to life as usual... I go out to hear Cuban music and I dance. I love to dance. To be locked arm in arm with someone and be supported in movement and motion is a high - a totally addictive high. In those moments, I do not think about anything. I am in the moment and I am happy.
I remember when my dad died. I was 24 years old. The pain was tremendous and I had never experienced anything like it before. The night before he died, I wanted to call him, something told me to, but I was busy and kept saying that I would call in five minutes. I never called. At two in the morning, I checked my email and there was a note from him. He died a few hours later. Why didn't I fucking call? I remember after the funeral, I was sitting around and laughing with old friends and family. I couldn't believe it, and I was self-conscious at first, but that was when I learned that I was capable of laughing and I knew that the soul was capable of healing itself and I would be able to be happy again.
So here I sit in my apartment in Brooklyn, reflecting on my life, trying to understand what is going on in Haiti. It just hurts too fucking much. There is pain all around us every day. When you pass someone on the street, you don't know what is going on inside their head, inside their body. We go on with our lives as people suffer pain we will never know and we also go on with our lives as we suffer tremendous pain. I am not trying to compare my father's death or September 11th with what is happening now in Haiti. But I can only measure grief with my own ruler of experience.
I will repeat now the lesson I learned when my father died. Suck the marrow out of life. Live your life. Love and be loved. Fuck it. Go for it. You only live once, so you might as well dance.