"The Star Spangled Banner" by Francis Scott Key

In remembering, we stand. It begins with men's voices, quiet and slow and pensive. I remember the towers falling, falling. I remember the blank stunned faces of those fleeing the falling debris. I think of the huge tally of dead, the innocent victims and the courageous rescue workers, all of whom lost their lives. Then the brighter women's voices join, and the strings. Can we ever again feel bright and hopeful? It ends with a proud, stately march. I see the flag being unfurled atop the Pentagon, damaged but still standing strong. I sit and wipe the tears from my program.

"Adagio for Strings" by Samuel Barber

The strings begin their eulogy, mournful, unfocussed, almost aimless. Their wanderings convey the dreamlike disbelief of the week, the disorientation, the unreality and the lostness we all feel. I remember the surrealness of those first images, the feeling that this can't be happening. As the everyday life we take for granted slowed and stopped, I, too, was floating, unmoored, through the days, the anchors of the familiar, the taken for granted, now strangely absent. Without direction, suspended in time, again and again I found myself drawn only to the television. Sorrow, disbelief, rage, compassion, back to sorrow-- left in sorrow.

"How Lovely is they Dwelling Place," from "A German Requiem" by Johannes Brahms

The soaring sweetness of the lyrical melody and the women's voices bring some lightness, some reassurance. But I am skeptical. I don't feel reassured. I remember an interview earlier in the day of a woman coming out of a church service. "They said I'd feel better if I went to church," she said. "But I don't. I don't feel better. Now I don't know what to do." But after watching the service at the National Cathedral, I realized that I did feel better, a bit better. I saw a show of strength in our country's banding together in mourning. I felt hope in seeing a Muslim and a rabbi standing side by side at the narthex of the cathedral.

"Dona Nobis Pacem," from "Mass in B Minor" by Johan Sebastian Bach

It is a solid, soaring, comforting fugue, individual voices intertwining in the entreaty, "grant us peace." This takes on a double meaning: bring peace to this deranged world; bring peace into our hearts and souls. Oddly, it seems to me, the fugue sounds more like a solid positive statement than an entreaty. It is a kind of benediction. I remember lighting my tiny candle and setting it outside as I left home for this gathering. I remember wishing that its tiny light was not so insignificant in the descending darkness. But then I remember seeing also many, many other candles burning along the streets as I drove, small votive candles and tall tiki torches and red, white, and blue candles, all lighting faces, sorrowful faces and also faces full of pride and hope.

"Finale" from "Symphony No. 3 in D Minor" by Gustav Mahler

After meandering through darkness, Mahler leads us to his signature theme: broad, majestic vistas bring resolution. Love conquers all. There is ultimate victory. After an expression of horror and anguish, Mahler moves from despair to salvation. I remember the flags I have seen on front lawns and asphalt trucks and bookstores. I remember the moms with little kids in the fabric store, buying up yards of red, white, and blue ribbons. I think of the e-mails flying through cyberspace asking each other "What can I do? What little thing can I do that will make a difference?" I remember the ice cream shop, "Sweet Memories," that is donating its entire days' proceeds to the victims of the attacks. I remember hearing about a manufacturing firm that has suspended its production in favor of making booties for the search and rescue dogs so that they don't cut their paws on the rubble of sharp steel and glass. I remember the opportunity to "give sorrow words." I remember the drawings of children on "Kiddonet" where they give expression to their grief and fears and hopes for world peace. I remember the message from the Dalai Lama expressing his condolence and solidarity with the American people and his strong but courteous plea against unwarranted violence.

It is eerily quiet after the last sure strokes of Mahler. People do not seem to know what to do next. It is clear that they are not yet ready to leave the building, this experience, this community. After long moments of silence a broad baritone voice begins singing from somewhere in the crowd, "America, the Beautiful." The four thousand plus in the hall join in this hymn of solidarity and pride and hope, and still not ready to leave the warmth and togetherness, burst into another round of "The Star Spangled Banner." At the conclusion, with the words "the home of the brave," everyone joins in enthusiastic applause. How proud I am to be among those remembering those countless firefighters and police officers and rescue workers who selfishly risked and gave their lives! How moved I am, thinking of the passengers on those flights that, knowing they were going to die, conveyed vital information and overcame their attackers to prevent further carnage. I remember hearing about the Victory Gardens of the forties, and suddenly I realize in a very present way, as I have not realized before, how this national symbol and this community action brought to people a solidarity that kept their hope alive.