11 September 2011

Remembering 9/11

I'm compelled to compose something deep.  After all, I was born into war, one that raged on for years after my birth and whose effects continue to devastate so many decades after the fact.  Plus, my husband is from New York and though he had already graduated school and moved away, this was an attack on his home--on every American's home.  And that morning, as I was glued to the television in disbelief, I knew that I would have to go into work and perform psychotherapy with clients who had themselves all experienced the atrocities of war and the profound loss that accompanies such experience.  I knew their trauma would be great and that I would have to contain my own cognition and affect to help them sort through theirs.

But I have nothing to say.  I'm tired.  And that has rendered me rather silent on the matter.

I did manage to get out to the public library to check out The Man Who Walked Between the Towers, a Caldecott Medal recipient, for A1 to read to his brother.  Then we talked, to the extent that a 6- and 4-year-old can understand such matters.

And now I'm even more tired than I was before.

No photos today.

1 comment:

Hyacynth said...

Yes, here too. I'm tired. I have no words. It's still too fresh.