Infinite ocean of light and love

by Emily Pecora –

I was living in New York City on September 11, 2001.  I was in my mid-twenties, at home that morning, in Queens, physically far away from what is now called Ground Zero, but one of millions who watched events unfold live on the television news.   After the first two towers had collapsed and it seemed that no more planes would be falling out of the sky, I walked outside.  The streets were full of people and stunningly quiet – no rumbling of the overhead subway line, no roar of jets traveling into and out of La Guardia Airport, no laughing, teasing, chit-chat, complaints.  I walked, with so many others, to the East River, and peered down into Manhattan, seeing nothing in particular, feeling nothing very personal.  I didn’t know anyone who would have been in or near the World Trade Center that morning.  But grief is not just a personal emotion.  I ached, for those who did lose someone, or who didn’t know yet if they had, and for every person in the world.  That we could treat one another in such a cruel way was – and still is – a shock to me.  I felt, as I sometimes did when seeing a kind-eyed homeless person sitting alone against some wall, how small and vulnerable we each are, and how little guarantee there was that we would hold onto the sense of self that I, and others my age at the time, were so proud of.  Still, the sun shone, the sky was a stunning blue.  Many living in New York on that day speak of how beautiful the weather was.  I walked with my arms held out, palms open to that sky, feeling strongly, in that moment, that I could absorb some of the trauma of that day and release it through my hands to be absorbed by, what Quaker George Fox called the “infinite ocean of light and love, which flowed over the ocean of darkness” in the world.

I believe that the solidarity and compassion that immediately followed the events of that day are commonplace knowledge: the overwhelming donations of money, food, time, blood; the gentleness with which people dealt with those who were seen sobbing in public or staring blankly.  First responders arrived from far-off locations.  National and international concern for the well-being of the city was palpable and felt genuine.   What is also, I believe, commonplace knowledge, is that this sense of unity soured when trauma response shifted to political response.  No one that I knew in New York City supported, or even clearly understood the point of, the wars that followed the deaths of that day.  I’ve often wondered about that – why those who were hurt most deeply and personally by the attacks seemed both less afraid of those who would become our enemies and more reluctant to answer pain with pain.

I was raised Catholic.  Rather than a small, destroyed Christ, the Crucifix in the front of our church depicted the radiant risen Christ, hovering in front of the cross on which he died, arms outstretched to the sky, much as I held my arms when walking beneath the silent blue sky on the morning of September 11, 2001.  I was not a practicing Catholic on that day.  In fact, I was in the middle of a period in which I hated Christianity, for the clannish, judgmental way in which it is too often understood and practiced.  I didn’t turn to any church for solace in the days and weeks that followed, and few of those I was friends with at the time did either.  But I did follow the example of Christ, by accepting the suffering that came into my life and processing it, through my body (often in the form of tears) into light.  As the Episcopal priest Cynthia Bourgeault writes, “where suffering exists and is consciously accepted, there divine love shines forth brightly.”

It’s funny that the biggest, seemingly most unbearable experiences of pain are often the easiest for us to navigate.  When a friend of mine died in a car accident when I was 16, I sobbed and mourned and eventually recovered.  When I found myself lonely and insecure after going away to college, I became isolated and brittle, and trapped in a deep depression that lasted for years.   The first experience of suffering was unavoidable.  The second, I thought I could manage not to feel if only I fought hard enough, and ended up at war, with both myself and those around me, numb to the pleasure of my life as well as the pain.   

I have no intention of rehashing political decisions that will soon be twenty years behind us.  But I do feel “called” (to use another Quaker term) to share these stories and observations in this essay.   As I’ve aged, I’ve struggled to make sense of the suffering that so stubbornly persists in the world and at the same time have grown increasingly skeptical of the modern, Western project of creating a life in which there is no suffering.  It seems to me that the more we attempt to protect ourselves from pain, the more afraid we become and the more likely we are to inflict pain on others.  We also become increasingly disconnected from the messy, painful world around us.  Instead of the promise of a pain-free life, I follow the dreams promised by the most radical of Christ’s messages: “Love your enemies” and “Be not afraid.”  I know that living these messages will likely involve pain, but I trust that the pain I feel will be bearable, will not be inflicted on another, and will lead me to an “ocean of light and love.”

Emily Pecora currently lives in Canadice, on a small farm with her husband, son, four goats, ten chickens, four ducks, box turtle, and hamster.  She lived in New York City for thirteen years, and moved after approximately the fortieth trip up the stairs to her fifth-floor walkup apartment with her toddler son, groceries, and stroller in tow.