Otherwise
I've been debating with myself about whether I should even write anything regarding the I35W bridge tragedy that occurred frighteningly close to home. It seems that from the moment calamity struck, there has been more than enough talk about it on radio, TV, and in the newspapers. But what I've also realized is how much of the normal day-to-day talk between friends and co-workers focuses on what could have been: my normal route home that takes me under the bridge around 6:00 each evening, but I stayed late at work that night; Kara, who crossed the bridge 15 minutes prior to its collapse; Matt, who crossed 5 minutes before; Aron, who miraculously ended up with only minor cuts and bruises despite finding himself upside down in his truck after the collapse. In every conversation I've had about the tragedy, the tone has been, It could have been otherwise.
Why is it that it always seems to take tragedy---personal or communal---to appreciate that which we normally take for granted? It's the rare few that are able to appreciate the ordinary as miraculous.
Because at times like these, I feel that my own words are too weak, I look to others. These last couple of days have brought to mind two different collections of words, both of which I leave you with.
The first is a poem by that haunted-sensitive woman-poet, Jane Kenyon.
I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.
The second is part of the opening monologue from the movie, Love Actually.
General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. .... When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge. They were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaky feeling you'll find that love actually is all around.