We were stunned beyond words by the tragedy. We have been stunned beyond words by the response. 'Solemn' has been redefined for me.
I thought you should know how long I've been avoiding this entry, since I first sat down to write it...
I watched the silent progress of over 15,000 fire fighters today, moving as a column eight abreast for over two hours, past a hushed crowd on the street where I ride my bike to work every day. We were stunned beyond words by the tragedy. We have been stunned beyond words by the response. 'Solemn' has been redefined for me.
This has shaken me more than I want it to. And I was not sure I would--or could--stay in Worcester for this event. I was supposed to go to Boston last night, but I cancelled indecisively, instead of ambivalently going. It is amazing how I play so glibly with these precious fleeting moments, as if they had no value. How could I go anywhere else today? How could I ignore the impact of these events on me? How could I deny the very contents of my own heart?
For a few, life stops in great tragedy and heroism, a precious few. However, I suspect life stops for many of us in many other ways, at a time in our youth before our disillusionment, at a time when we chose to go no further. Some of us cling there like ibex on a cliff wall, some call it living in the past. We stop for many reasons along this journey, and they don't really matter. The stopping matters.
I stopped today to acknowledge the passing of 6 human men, killed by a damn-nigh impossible confluence of events, and to watch my own life go by. It is a necessary mourning. I watched pass-by, in faces young and old, determined and devoted, reminders of the sense of belonging I once had with them, reminders of the sense of purpose I once felt in my life, and I remembered in these tragic deaths my own life's calling. I tried to grasp what their last moments might have been like. I contemplated events of a dozen years ago, as if they were today. I was reminded it doesn't matter--they are just all gone. I looked for a familiar face from the Northborough Fire Department, to share these 6 (and many) griefs. I wondered what I would do if I saw Dave Hunt, or Peter Stone, or Ed Wright who I am not sure is even still alive; the contingent might consist only of men who were teenagers on the Explorer Post when I left. I wondered if I would recognize any one of them.
Most clear for me today was the boundary I now recognize between them and me. I am not a fire fighter anymore. Not that I don't have a bond to them still; I do, and that bond anchors deep, somewhere in my core. But, my youth as a fire fighter--the place I've refused all these years to relinquish--has moved-on. It has slipped away, despite my grasp. When I was 27, circumstances seemed to confirm that having a career--especially one I loved so much--was too good to be true. In fact, it was not too good to be true, I was merely incapable of believing. I worry that my faith has not improved.
And now I go from here, ..to where? I mused of resuming right where I left off, of becoming 27 again! I entertained a fiction that I might now reverse my long season of indifference, and regain a position as a fire fighter. And I concluded that I really only want back all that I have lost. That's all.
But would I be willing to do absolutely anything to get it back? Would I be willing to stop denying it is gone? And once I admit the things I lost are gone, how far will I search for them, and what will I find?
Fire fighters continue to pore over the rubble at the fire, and will do absolutely anything to find the four still missing. They will not stop until the recovery is complete.
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