I live far away from the "epicenter," on the tropical island of Hawaii, but the pain of the world is held close in my heart. For the first night after the horrors, my heart beat doubletime as it relived the scenes that were played ad nauseum on the television. My breath came in short gulps as I imagined what it would be like to be a worker trapped in a building, a child trapped in a life without a parent forever after, or an innocent in some foreign country wondering why bombs were falling in possible retaliation.

And I admit, I also felt for myself. Silly, selfish thoughts about how I would be affected here on my island. If the shipping lanes were closed, would I starve, or be able to survive on the 6 mangos dangling from the tree outside my window? Would the stores run out of toilet paper as they did during the last shipping strike? How would fresh water be pumped from the belly of the island without the oil that provides all our electricity here? Would I ever see my relatives on the mainland again, or would the world go back to the way it was decades ago, when thousands of miles really were thousands of miles? Suddenly, paradise did not seem as such.

I tried to rationalize the situation by imagining that the earth would temporarily benefit by the lack of jet fuel fouling her breath, and that people would pull together and grow more self-sufficient in the aftermath, perhaps turning their lawns to gardens and loving thy neighbor. But it still hurt.

Long-forgotten childhood feelings surfaced. 35-year old tears cried silently for mommy in the dark, and I realized that even though I had always thought of my father as somewhat of a dictator, I loved him down there in the deep of my soul. I remembered my favorite stuffed animal from childhood, cloud-watching, and the kindest people in my life. I saw my life before me like the repeating newcasts that had been playing, only this was much better. I saw how lucky I had been, how many opportunities I'd been given to live another day. And then the shame washed over me for the little things I'd done that couldn't be erased. Hurting someone unintentionally here and there between the good memories, not honoring my needs, or snapping at my husband.

I held him extra tight that night, and kept hoping he would wake up to comfort me, since the lullabies of my mommy and the soft fur of my favorite stuffed animal were over 30 years away. But somehow he slept peacefully. At first I was mad that he was not reacting right away to such an event, but then I realized: the more peace we have, the better.