"Out, Out-"
"...And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs."
That line at the end of Frost's poem has always haunted me. It seems so calloused, yet so very true. As deaths notch up each day, I continue to walk in good health. It always returns to me on the date of disasters, today an obvious example.
Death catches me in a bind. How does one move on without being calloused? Growing up in an army household, with my mom a nurse and officer in the military, made each casualty count on the news a moment for tears. I still recall the sudden silence of the room, the thickening air, the choking sadness draped over the chairs like dusty cloth.
Her unit was called for Afghanistan. Then Iraq. Her friends saying goodbyes and jetting across the Atlantic. Since then, my mom says, “They’re not the same person I knew; they’re broken somewhere.”
We who are not dead turn to our affairs, but death carves a broad swath in our culture. Families who lost someone. Dear friends still remembered. Lives disturbed. A psyche of safety challenged.
Today I recall a particular conversation with Brother Kevin in the garden this summer, when he explained the Celtic cross tattooed on his arm in honor of Mychal Judge.
No words can convey the silent depth of his feelings.
Just as rainfall settles and permeates after a storm, grief settles into our culture after an event like 9/11. No matter how far we run, it lurks and flows. It builds and drips.
My heart aches when I fear being callous toward those who lost someone dear, or lost a way of life. But I know if I keep my heart open to their grief, their grief will find the home it needs.
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs."
That line at the end of Frost's poem has always haunted me. It seems so calloused, yet so very true. As deaths notch up each day, I continue to walk in good health. It always returns to me on the date of disasters, today an obvious example.
Death catches me in a bind. How does one move on without being calloused? Growing up in an army household, with my mom a nurse and officer in the military, made each casualty count on the news a moment for tears. I still recall the sudden silence of the room, the thickening air, the choking sadness draped over the chairs like dusty cloth.
Her unit was called for Afghanistan. Then Iraq. Her friends saying goodbyes and jetting across the Atlantic. Since then, my mom says, “They’re not the same person I knew; they’re broken somewhere.”
We who are not dead turn to our affairs, but death carves a broad swath in our culture. Families who lost someone. Dear friends still remembered. Lives disturbed. A psyche of safety challenged.
Today I recall a particular conversation with Brother Kevin in the garden this summer, when he explained the Celtic cross tattooed on his arm in honor of Mychal Judge.
No words can convey the silent depth of his feelings.
Just as rainfall settles and permeates after a storm, grief settles into our culture after an event like 9/11. No matter how far we run, it lurks and flows. It builds and drips.
My heart aches when I fear being callous toward those who lost someone dear, or lost a way of life. But I know if I keep my heart open to their grief, their grief will find the home it needs.