For the week of  October 24 - 30, 2001

Word power made crystal clear

Commentary by JoEllen Collins

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In all of the thousands of words about the triumph of the human spirit on September 11, those last recorded words (of love to loved ones) are the ones I cherish most.

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The biggest change I've observed in my vocabulary since September 11 is the substitution of the word "if" for "when." I used to say things like "when I go to Italy" or "when my daughter comes to visit." If you put "if" where "when" is, you will see how my lexicon has altered and how much more tentative I feel about possibilities. I imagine this insecurity is shared by many of my countrymen and probably has been the norm for many other people in less secure existences than mine in countries traditionally less stable.

While I rebel against the circumstances that created this shift in attitude, I don't necessarily think it is all negative. I do try to dwell on today rather than on hoped-for events or bright promises in the future. I only have this minute here and now, after all. My daughter gave me a purse to take on my sojourn to Italy and said, "Use it now. Don't wait for some 'good' occasion." That admonition reminded me of an aunt of mine who kept all the beautiful lingerie she was given over the years in their original boxes, never to be worn. They were "too good" for everyday life. I don't want to put my life on hold when today is the time for me to embrace it with gusto.

My generation was never totally removed from the threat of cataclysmic events. I remember preparing for feared nuclear war by hiding under school desks. As a result, I had a recurring nightmare that my mother's silhouette was burned against our front door, like those of victims described in John Hersey's "Hiroshima."

During the Cuban missile crisis we gathered together as families to face what we certainly thought might be our last minutes on earth in the face of a potential missile attack. And John Kennedy's assassination, followed by those of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy, forever changed our assumptions about the risks of public commitment.

I also was a child during the Korean conflict and then a young adult whose world was altered by the violence of Vietnam. There have been few totally clear times, even in my life, when some huge risk didn't loom, though certainly nothing has ever affected me as have the attacks of September 11.

Part of accepting the beauty of each day is understanding its fragility. Matthew Arnold's lines from "Dover Beach" echo my sentiments. He talks about the world's "eternal note of sadness." As he suggests, sometimes all we have is being true to one another in view of chaos.

I intend to work hard to maintain my essential optimism in the face of a more uncertain future. By the time you read this, I should be living in a renovated farmhouse in rural Italy for several months. If something happens to change my plans, then I'll just be flexible. I preach about acceptance and must practice it myself. Courage just may be knowing danger and living life graciously and kindly in spite of it.

Another recent use of words haunts me, and that is the framing of the many "last words" we have been made privy to, words that usually remain private. Through the use of e-mail and cell phones in planes or from burning buildings, many victims communicated parting thoughts to loved ones. What struck me most about these desperate words was that almost all of them used these final minutes to say, "I love you." I didn't hear men exhorting their wives to buy stocks now while the market is low, to drive the Mercedes more carefully, or to enjoy more possessions. Those kinds of words seem almost sacrilegious. These people facing a hideous death were not the materialistic people the terrorists think we are. They were people who wanted their final legacy to be one of love.

We didn't even hear people ask, "Did you love me?" It was, almost universally, unselfish: "I love you." They wanted to let the listener know that he or she was beloved.

I recall, all too vividly, repeating "I love you" to my mother as she lay dying. I know that while she lived, she understood the depths of my devotion, but I can still conjure up the feeling of wanting to impress upon her, one last time, the intensity of my love.

In all of the thousands of words about the triumph of the human spirit on September 11, those last recorded words are the ones I cherish most. Something about the universal connection we all share is embodied in those wisps of phrases tossed through the nightmare of that day. What fine messages! Whether high-powered stock broker or bus boy in the Windows of the World restaurant in the World Trade Center, individuals share the desire to love and be loved. It is when we forget this common thread that we lose our humanity and become capable of the kind of hideous acts that spring from irrational hatred. I can't resist leaving you with the words of writer Raymond Carver who, upon facing his imminent death from cancer, penned the following poem to his wife. It's titled "Late Fragment."

And did you get what

you wanted from this life, even so?

I did.

And what did you want?

To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.

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