I wanted to publish these words yesterday, but they were difficult in coming. They remain difficult now. I’m not sure what point they serve, if any, except as a reminder that silence sometimes is the appropriate response.
I find myself without words when it comes to the Boston Marathon. I truly don’t know what to say. Any time I try to write something, the writing feels forced, fake. I refuse those words. I have seen them published in the past about other tragedies, and they will be written again. I want no part of that. The words have to mean something.
Right now, they don’t. The Boston Marathon is still surreal, much the way that 9/11 remains surreal. I partially remember what happened that day: I was headed to the university president’s inauguration. I stopped in the living room area of the residence hall and saw the first, then the second plane hit. I just watched. I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t think anybody else did, either. We were lost. We headed to the inauguration in hopes of someone being able to lead us, to explain what was happening. Did that happen? I don’t know. I don’t remember much after the quiet walk – an odd thing on the university campus – to the inauguration.
The Boston Marathon strikes me in a similar manner. I see and don’t see the photos. I see the red, and my brain has to work through the fact that I’m seeing blood. Lots of it. I see people running into danger to rescue others. I see people helping the wounded. I see people grieving; some are praying. I see people reunited. I see all these things and think I should be able to say something, but I don’t know what that thing is. What words suffice?
I don’t know that any do or, if they do, that I’m the one to speak them. Because of that, I’ll remember I don’t have to say anything. Silence, too, is an appropriate and right response. All I have to do is be there for those who are hurting and offer a hand, a hug, a listening ear.
Image: Thomas Roessler (CC BY NC SA 2.0)
Erin. Yes. This.
I sat down to write last night for my Wednesday post and I couldn’t. I decided not to. I have a draft in there called, You Don’t Have To Be Part of the Conversation.
or – the art of shutting up. But I wasn’t really going to call it that.
Anyway, I completely agree, and it’s why I decided it’s OK not to blog this week. I don’t have anything to add to the conversation and thinking about anything else seems inappropriate. I’m still going to write my post on Monday about the art of just being quiet. It will be different, yet the same. 🙂
Lisa Gerber I don’t know why I feel this way, but I always sense there’s some sort of expectation for writers to write about tragedies, perhaps because many writers do wrangle with their demons and obsessions when they write. I wanted to write a post saying it was okay not to write about tragedy. It doesn’t mean you aren’t upset or saddened. You’re just choosing to honor people with your silence rather than with your words.
I love this post. ((hugs))
margieclayman Hugs to you, too!
Saying and doing nothing is an action in its own right. Thank you for reminding us of that. Now if I could only practice it…
geoffliving I think we – and I’m generalizing here – have this sense that silence is a sign of weakness or passivity. It really isn’t. It takes great strength at times to be silent.