I sat in my car, listening in disbelief to the breaking news stories, waiting for the punch line; paralyzed, I cannot move. New York, Washington, Pennsylvania ... we are at war, say those in power. I do not doubt it.

At my isolated temporary "home." My long distance beloved is in upstate New York. "All circuits are busy." In my heart, my mind, all circuits are dead, stunned, numb.

A co-worker of my sister's was a passenger on the first plane to strike the first tower. My loved ones are safe, far enough away from the carnage. This time.

I listen over the past two days to the anger, the horror, the disbelief ... "I keep expecting Bruce Willis or Jean-Claude Van Damme to show up and the movie to end ..." said my friend. I watch the faces about me - young people I attend school with who don't remember the Kennedys, King, Viet Nam, the Gulf, the missles of Cuba from my childhood.

My belief system is bizarre, eclectic to most. I stop at a Catholic Church to light candles for the dead, the living, the missing. Phone calls to both coasts, to hear the voices I love, my adult child, my parents, my beloved.

And again and again I realize, I do not know how to respond. Nothing in my experience could have prepared me to deal with this. That seems universal and yet, go on with life, I hear and I wonder, to what end? To what point? Deep depression. Longing to run, just to be in the arms of someone who loves me and I am very alone. Yes, I am afraid.

In the beginning I could not cry: the horror too great, shock too paralyzing, my sorrow inexpressible. A stirring of pride for a time, respect for an administration previously loathed; a unique sense of unity born of tragedy. Poetry flowed from my pen, words wrenched from my aching heart. Legal, international and national news, spiritual gleanings delivered me to sanity each day. Rampant emotions – gratitude, fear, marvel at everyday heroes, grief, love, anger. I gave blood. I lit candles.

Days pass, as they must, and life moves on. My adult child withdraws again. I fear for her. My mother and I continue to heal. I retain a 4.0 GPA in my pre-law studies; 6:00 a.m. does not change. My beloved and I remain separated by half a continent for the present; we continue to fly and cope with the insanity that now passes for airport “security.” Little changes in the community in which I reside. I am not Pentecostal; I do not belong. I continue to light candles for the living, the missing, the dead. The list has grown.

Beneath the surface, inner changes are subtle; subtle and irrevocable. Heartsick contemplation haunts my hours: The repetition of history? Holy crusades in another name of God? Hatred bred of fanaticism? Karma? Will we survive? Does it really matter? I search for answers – within and without my self, and find a confusion of feelings: Outrage at self-serving, pompous religious persons who make gross misstatements about a belief system of which they know nothing; great fear at the rape of America’s civil rights; disbelief at my fellow citizens’ unquestioning acceptance of bureaucracy out of control. Déjà vu to Vietnam as Afghanistan is “bombed into the Stone Age,” and Iraq comes looming back under the gaze of the war machine. Respect gradually deteriorates into contempt and cynicism. I now light candles for the members of an Afghan wedding party; more, and again more innocents lost in a mad game of global power. Immortal Mark Twain, “let us prey.”

A fluke of sorts: A summer class taken with a woman who works for an international organization involved with humanitarian efforts in the Middle East. She is of another world and her experiences and perceptions are like water to my terrible thirst for knowledge and understanding, a beacon of hope. And another: Unexpected emails exchanged with a young American-Muslim woman working for tolerance and understanding. An author, the same age as my daughter. She is barraged with hate mail; she thanks me for “taking the time to write,” to encourage and support her. These are the light in impenetrable darkness.

And life’s story resumes. My multi-faith, international prayer group grows, a friend dies. Bigoted fools continue to proselytize with implied government assent; ignorant children in upstate New York burn down a Sikh temple, believing a banner “Guru Gobin Singh” to read “Go bin Laden.” Hate crimes visited on American Muslims and Arab-Americans are on the increase. I witness the 9/11 lawsuits – against the airlines, the Saudis; the Oklahoma City survivors want more. Ignorance, greed, and fear seem to dominate the media-driven landscape.

I will not be of them. My compassion grows for the victims – all of us – the diverse human family. I join activist groups for peace; relive the 1960’s in some measure, this time without the burden of what Michael Ventura stated so eloquently when he wrote, “we were children.” I am no longer a child. Once again I know my faith in government and religious institutions or their rhetoric is forever destroyed. I am motivated now to make my voice heard. I find my place in the world is very small and very individual yet I am not alone; we are many. This reign of chaos serves as a reason to stand together and entreat, Great Mysteries grant us wisdom; in all names that are holy, give us peace. And at the end of this devastating and awe-filled year, my tears fall free. Namaste.