September 12, 2001

September 11, 2013   |   42 Comments

blue-sky

Every year on 9/11 I feel moved to repost this. May it bring benefit and healing.

There is a Buddhist meditation practice called Tonglen. In Tibetan, tong means “sending out” and len means “receiving.” So Tonglen is known as the practice of sending and taking, or of exchanging self for other. Instead of inhaling what makes us feel good and exhaling what makes us feel bad, this practice asks that we do the opposite. We breathe in the suffering of others by visualizing it as dark, hot, sticky soot and smoke coming into our lungs. We breathe out what is positive in the form of air that is light, bright, clean, and cool. In this way, we volunteer to take in some portion of the world’s suffering and offer up to it whatever good we possess.

On this date twelve years ago, I decided to drive into Manhattan.

On September 11, 2001 I was in Washington, DC visting my parents. I was scheduled for a book signing at Borders in the World Trade Center on September 12th. I woke up early on the 12th, unsure of where to go. Should I stay in DC? Should I try and make it home to Boston? Would the roads even be passable? Would the streets be lined with armored vehicles? Would there be checkpoints at every on-ramp? Low-flying helicopters? Terrorists speeding for the border? At the very least, I imagined that the highways would be crammed with motorists now that the skies had been shut down to flight. If not terrorists, then for sure I would encounter rental cars full of businesspeople who had met at airports and formed groups heading to Cleveland or Atlanta or Toronto.

I decided to to get an early start and take my chances. So I had a cup of tea and was on the road by 6AM.

Although the drive from DC to Boston would take eight or so hours under normal circumstances, I was prepared for least twelve hours in the car, maybe more, maybe even a few days. I was thinking I might have to spend a night or two on the road, what with all the detours and slowdowns that I was sure to find around New York City. I considered heading west and up through Harrisburg and then across the Hudson Valley into Western Massachusetts, bypassing any and all routes into Manhattan.

As I approached the exit for the Pennsylvania Turnpike, I reconsidered. Everything was pretty quiet. Very quiet, actually. I decided to continue on with a direct route toward New York City, thinking I’d divert when I came upon the first delay.

Just a few months prior to this, I had moved to Boston from an apartment on West 23rd Street between 7th and 8th Avenues. I loved living in Manhattan. I loved my apartment. I loved everything about my beloved city, including my running route—down the side streets of Chelsea and across the West Side Highway, south toward Battery Park, a look across the river at New Jersey, a view of the Statue of Liberty and on to the World Financial Center Plaza, weaving through throngs of people disembarking from various ferries. At this point I would slow and cool down by walking through the World Financial Center to the World Trade Center, always against the crowd of men and women in suits who were moving through turnstiles, boarding elevators for work. You could feel them still trying to wake up, clothes pressed, bits of hair still wet from the shower. These sweet signs of morning were a tender contrast to their staring-ahead expressions (another day at work) or gait (I can do this). I on the other hand was not pressed, not fresh, and was heading home. I always loved that I was going the exact opposite way of everyone else. As people streamed up the steps from the subway, I threaded my way down, underground, past the shops, past Greys Papaya, Starbucks, Borders. Every morning I would stop at the newsstand at the turnstiles, buy the New York Post, and read it on the ride back up to Chelsea. Then off at 23rd and 8th for a short walk back to my apartment. Someday, I hoped, I would build up the stamina to run down and back. Or not. Which would have been OK, because I so loved the routine as it was.

As I drove, I tried to picture what this route would look like today. What parts of it still existed? Who had been walking there when the planes hit? What had the ferry riders seen? Who had gone in early to get some extra work done, or late because what the hell, I’m sleeping in this morning? I kept the radio on in the car. I heard that entry to Manhattan via the Holland and Lincoln tunnels was prohibited and it made me incredibly sad to think of New York City in isolation like this. And so along with everyone else, along with our country, the other countries, and with all of New York, I cried.

Several hours into the drive, it appeared there actually weren’t carloads of businesspeople or terrorists racing about, nor had I seen a single armored vehicle or helicopter, or passed through one checkpoint. In fact, the roads were eerie and deserted.

Suddenly I noticed that I was approaching the Tappan Zee Bridge. Suddenly I noticed that my right turn signal was on and I was taking this exit, heading into Manhattan.

Apparently, I was the only one out driving that day who felt they had to go in to New York City. I was downtown and in Union Square within about 20 minutes. I parked in the garage next to the yoga studio my friend owned and went in. I had no idea what I was going to do when I got there, how long I was going to stay in NYC, or who or what I was trying to see, exactly. I made my way up the stairs to the yoga studio on the second floor. It was open. I didn’t recognize the person behind the desk—a new employee. She said “are you here for Tonglen practice?” Apparently I was, so I said “yes.” She said, “we’ll be starting in 10 minutes” and indicated the front studio. I took a seat on a cushion in the back and watched as the room filled up. I looked out the big picture windows that faced onto 14th Street and imagined what was just beyond—St. Vincent’s Hospital, the Village, Soho, Tribeca, the Financial District. We were less than 2 miles from what wasn’t yet called Ground Zero.

September 12th was as bright as September 11th had been. The sun was streaming through the windows and the light was thick with dust and particles. The air smelled heavy, like burning rubber and metal. I briefly wondered what exactly it was that I was breathing in. But there was no time to consider this further—practice began. The gong rang. The 30 or so people in the room began to settle. The first minutes of practice involved simply attuning to the breath, coming in, going out. Breathing in some sense of this new reality and breathing out to meet it. We can’t undo it. We can only be in it.

In Buddhist thought, to die unexpectedly is considered the most difficult circumstance in which to find one’s bearings in the bardo. You are likely to be quite surprised upon finding yourself dead. You don’t know where you are. It is a state of extreme disorientation and suffering.

Tonglen practice began. We imagined that we were surrounded by innumerable unseen confused souls, very surprised, very upset, very, very frightened. In silence, we offered companionship and courage. The instruction is first to connect with your own suffering and then extend to take in the suffering around you. Breathe into that. Relax around it. Then connect with your own goodness—your sadness for others, the strength you have to offer, your very willingness to help, even if you have no idea how—and breathe that out, offer it, give it away. Do it again and again. Imagine the suffering around you as dark, thick soot and breathe it in, offer to take it. Now breathe out light, bright, cool air. Now do it again. And again. And again. As we practiced, I realized that the air itself literally met the description. It was dark. It was thick. It was sooty. I tried not to space out and reject it. I failed. I tried again. We breathed in the dust of the World Trade Centers, the particles of blood and bone and computer keyboards, and breathed out, maybe, something healed and pacified.

After the practice I went back out to the street. I was going to try to walk as close as I could to the site. The first thing I did was look up for the Towers to get my bearings, but they weren’t there. I started down Sixth Avenue, normally so loud and chaotic, now closed to all but foot traffic and emergency vehicles. Droves of people were wandering slowly, some alone, some in pairs or small groups. The streets of lower Manhattan were full. No one wanted to be alone, yet there was nothing to say. There was silence, broken only by police or fire sirens coming up behind people, trying to get by. We parted for them without looking.

Manhattan was closed off at Houston Street so I turned and walked back through the side streets of the West Village, also full. The crowd grew bigger as I returned to my starting point, Union Square. I looked up to see it filled with people—wandering about, crying, embracing, sitting expressionless. Someone had unraveled a huge roll of brown butcher paper, at least 40 feet long. It was weighted down by dozens of lit candles and vases of flowers and was already largely covered with scrawled prayers, drawings, questions, words of shock, words of pain, attempts at explanation. Most were exhortations against hate of any kind and sorrow for all victims. For the thousandth time since I’d moved there and away, I thought how decent New Yorkers are, how kind, how open, and how passionately and always I will love New York City.

To close a meditation practice, Buddhists do something called “dedicating the merit.” It’s a way of saying “whatever may have been generated by my practice is offered for the benefit of all sentient beings.” You give it away. My teacher says that not dedicating the merit is like not pressing the save button before shutting your computer off—you may have done a lot of work but you’ll probably have to start over. So this is what I wrote on that long scroll of brown paper, weaving words between candles:

By the confidence of the golden sun of the great East,
May the lotus garden of the Rigden’s wisdom bloom.
May the dark ignorance of sentient beings be dispelled.
May all beings enjoy profound, brilliant glory.

I circled around Union Square a few more times and returned to my car for the rest of the drive home.

If you resonate with the practice of Tonglen and would like to try it, here is instruction:

categorized in:

42 Comments

  • Posted by:  Maia Duerr / The Liberated Life Project

    This is a remarkable story, Susan… thank you for sharing it here. How absolutely perfect that you “accidentally” wandered into a tonglen practice circle on that day.

    May we all find peace.

    • Posted by:  Susan

      Yes, it was an amazing day. Thanks for your comment and hopes of peace.

  • Posted by:  Lianne

    Thank you, Susan, for this post and for all you do to relieve suffering.

    xox

    • Posted by:  Susan

      Thank you for reading, Lianne, and for being a friend to all these ideas and aspirations.

  • Posted by:  sas

    thank you for sharing this Susan. my mother passed away very suddenly and peacefully, 9 years ago, opening up my world to grief and all it’s glorious lessons and sorrows. since then, I’ve felt such an infinity with those who have lost loved ones.

    I didn’t know about tonglen before you shared this – it’s such a beautiful practice.

    • Posted by:  Susan

      sas, thank you so much for reading and for connecting. I’m so glad to hear that your mother’s passing, though sudden, was peaceful and that somehow, perhaps in part due to her blessings, you found a way to connect with grief as a source of wisdom, albeit a painful one.

  • Posted by:  leslie

    thank you for sharing susan, i found this , this morning before work, i didn’t know about tonglen or giving up the merit of meditating, thank you

    • Posted by:  Susan

      leslie, if you’re interested in learning more about Buddhist meditation and things like dedicating merit, please come back to the blog!

  • Posted by:  Mary

    As with you happening upon the tonglen circle, I happen upon this story at just the right moment. Giving thanks, to you, to the universe, and to the great mystery.

    • Posted by:  Susan

      Me too.

  • Posted by:  Joe

    Thanks Susan, You’re braver than most.

    • Posted by:  Susan

      I don’t think so. But thanks.

  • Posted by:  Gina

    Susan,

    How inspiring to hear your story, thank you for sharing it. I really enjoy your blog! A wonderful contribution to my life. I have followed it since I took your class this spring in CO.

    • Posted by:  Susan

      So glad to hear this, Gina! Very happy to stay in touch.

  • Posted by:  Bill

    Wow, Susan! Just … wow! This idea of a “physical” tonglen is eerie, yet compelling. And what incredible power lurks in those four familiar lines. I think your experiecne that day qualifies as auspicious coincidence.

    Thanks so much for sharing this! Be well.

    • Posted by:  Susan

      Eerie and compelling are the exact right adjectives. Thank you for reading this piece!

  • Posted by:  Dwan

    Thank you.

    • Posted by:  susan

      You are so welcome, Dwan.

  • Posted by:  Jonathan

    So beautiful. Thank you for sharing this.

    With love,

    JF

    • Posted by:  susan

      You are very welcome. Much love, S

  • Posted by:  Kristine

    Thank you.

    In dreams we wander, flightless,
    Til light settles on each wing
    As breath lifts all the tightness
    From our throats our voices sing.

    • Posted by:  susan

      Thank you, Kristine.

  • Posted by:  Cate

    Beautiful, inspiring and comforting. I was especially touched in learning the Buddhist thought on the confusion that results when one dies unexpectedly. I attended a psychic message circle a few years ago and was told that the friend whom I had lost that day, was “seen” acting as guide to the other lost and confused souls that day. An incredibly validating message for me, one that spoke volumes as to the character of the man he was…even in death.

    • Posted by:  susan

      I’ve also had the experience that our relationships with people we love don’t end upon death. There is something that continues. Thanks for sharing your experience. Warmly, S

  • Posted by:  KCLAnderson (Karen)

    You always bring a perspective that is welcome in my heart.

    My husband was sharing those same roads with you (and described them similarly) as he made his way home on 9/12/01, having flown the day before from Providence to Virginia (through Reagan National…his flight to Virginia took off 15 minutes before the Pentagon got hit). He knew nothing of what was happening until he arrived in Virginia. The rental car agent told him to keep the car and drive it back.

    • Posted by:  susan

      Wow…

  • Posted by:  Sue Kearney @magnoliaswest

    Susan, thank you. I had left NY-my lifelong home-in ’94, putting me 3000 miles away on 9/11. Had I been any closer I would have done much the same as you.

    Thank you for helping me see the benefit of dedicating our practice.

    Love and light,
    Sue

    • Posted by:  susan

      Amazing.

      So glad this piece resonated with you.

  • Posted by:  Connie Knapp

    How beautiful. I lived in Brooklyn on 9/11/2001 and came into the city to go to Rosh Hashanah services. On the way back we stopped at Union Square.
    You have done a wonderful job of capturing the “oddness” of the day after. My partner Anne and I joined so many others having lunch in very quiet restaurants in Park Slope Brooklyn. No one seemed to want to be inside, yet no one wanted to talk. We could smell the smoke, see the buildings smoldering, and all the previous evening we heard helicopters flying low. No TV-many of the transmitters were on top of the towers.
    The day before I had walked over the Brooklyn bridge from my office at Pace University and walked home, covered in dust, soot, and who knows what.
    I, too, love New York, and although I only live 35 miles north of the city I might as well live 3500 miles away-life in the city is that different from life here.
    I love the image of breathing in the dust and breathing out something healed. Thank you for this.

    • Posted by:  susan

      You are so welcome, and thanks for your recollections. It is meaningful to recognize such a shared experience. And there is nothing like living in NYC, even if you’re only a short distance away. xo S

      PS Under other circumstances, there is nothing I love more than walking over the Brooklyn Bridge…

  • Posted by:  Jennifer Louden

    thank you. it is often not so real to me – I live so far away and i literally watched the towers fall once and would not watch again. the suffering takes on a different feeling when – for me – it’s not directly experience. this helps, thank you friend.

    • Posted by:  susan

      Love you, sweets.

  • Posted by:  michal

    So glad I saw this today, Susan you have a ease and grace with words. The tonglen practice on 9/12 was brilliant and courageous considering the shock and devastation all around. My uncle had lived across the Brooklyn Bridge for 50 yrs and in his old age watched with a broken-heart as the steady stream of smoke came from the site, for what seemed like forever. Thank you for sharing your open heart with us.

    • Posted by:  susan

      Thank you so much, Michal. Sad for your uncle’s experience…

  • Posted by:  Nicholas Browne

    Hello,

    Susan! Recognize the last name? I just wanted to let you know that I read and enjoyed your story! Hope everything is well, say Hi to the family for me.

    • Posted by:  susan

      Nico!! You have no idea how happy it makes me to see your name pop up in my blog. So glad you read and enjoyed this piece and I hear that you are doing really well, which is awesome. I hope your new situation is everything you want it to be. Keep me posted on all fronts!! Love, Susan

  • Posted by:  steve

    Hi Susan, I have gotten so much from your blog and books. I have to thank you for all. it has led me to seek instructions at the Santa Rosa Shambala Center. which has been wonderful for me. I have completed the first two “Everyday Life” courses. Recently I saw the film “Crazy W
    isdom ” and it left me quite confused. As someone whose life has been effected by loved one’s alcoholism and the fact that the Chogram died at the age I am today makes me sad and very confused. Do you have a comment?

    • Posted by:  susan

      Hi Steve. I’m so glad you’re making a connection to the dharma. That is absolutely wonderful.

      I understand how one could become confused and sad to discover some of the details of Chogyam Trungpa’s life. I can’t really tell you how to make peace with this. I can only tell you what my own thought process has been.

      I never met Trungpa Rinpoche personally, but I count among my closest friends some who were very close students of his. They are the most intelligent, courageous, creative people I know and they remain completely devoted to him. If the student is a reflection of the teacher, he must have been a very amazing teacher indeed. I also know women who slept with him and, of those I know, without exception, they did not feel take advantage of or misused. They were happy about the experience. Think of that what you will, but one thing about Trungpa that is different than other teachers who have done crazy things is that he never hid anything. There were no secrets. Nothing behind the scenes. It was all right out there.

      When I think of trying to make a judgment of Trungpa Rinpoche, the only thing I can go on personally (since I never met him) are his books. That is the ground of my connection to him and everything else is conjecture. Without doubt, his books have changed my life and continue to add inconceivable value to it. So my relationship with him (again, through his books) is stainless.

      Finally, having heard all the stories about Trungpa Rinpoche, discussing him with those who were close to him, considering the impact of his work on my life, my conclusion in answer to the question, “who was Trungpa Rinpoche,” is I have no idea. Whenever I think, oh, he was a meditation master. No, he was a drunk and philanderer. Or maybe he was using alcohol and sex as a way to teach something, no, that’s crazy, he was probably just depressed and confused like the rest of us, and so on and so forth, all I recognize is that I will never know who that guy was and that all I have to go on is my heart connection to him, which is vast and profound. The rest is completely mysterious and I find no grounds on which I can pass judgment on him because every time I try to, the ground under my feet gives way.

      Hope this is useful. Let me know your thoughts. I would love to hear them. Warmly, Susan

  • Posted by:  Kathe

    Hello Susan,
    My cousin sent me your thoughts above on the anniversary of 9/11 this year. I am a survivor and have never written about my experience. Your essay touched me greatly and brought me back to the sights, sounds and smells of that day and the many days that followed. I have worked hard to reconcile the pain and the memories that linger and most recently embraced EMDR as a technique to erase the fear inside. Last year I took a course on Mindfulness and started my meditation practice. Tonglen was taught and it resonated with me in a powerful way. I never thought of relating it to the tragedies of 9/11 and thank you for this connection.
    In light and peace,
    Kathe

    • Posted by:  susan

      Hi Kathe. It is great you are doing EMDR and in general working with your trauma. It is not easy.

      Wishing you the very, very best with your practice, that it may be as healing as possible. Warmly, Susan

  • Posted by:  Donna

    This is exquisite. It is so good you went in for practice. The morning of 9/11 an Indian man came to me in a dream and told my son and me not to go into a tall building in Manhattan, that there would be a fiery explosion there and an end to life as we knew it and a rebirth into piety. I had typed up the dream at 4 a.m. then left it on the kitchen counter that morning, after telling my son before he went to school that he’d been in my dream.I didn’t recall the dream til late that afternoon. I joined the Association for the Study of Dreams; many others had dreams of this event. I think of this dream often, almost in the way of a Peak Experience. One of those glittery things that draw us. I wish I could always be in such an open state. i’m reading this late but wanted to tell you how much this moved me. Thank you.

    • Posted by:  susan

      Wow, Donna… That is amazing.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


We have so much to share with you

Get a new meditation from me every Monday morning

We have so much to share with you.

Get a free meditation from Susan every Monday morning