Heartbreaking, breathtaking, reflection-inducing, phoenix-like

We went downtown to the 9/11 memorial and museum today.  Not as many people there today as I imagine were there yesterday.  Stepping out of the subway station at One World Trade Center, it's hard to breathe.  And not because of the air.  People stop still in their path and stare upward.  Construction is ongoing and loud, but for a moment - as your gaze rises to the top of the "Freedom Tower" - it's very quiet.  For a moment, you're stabbed in the heart remembering that terrible day.  For a moment, your hand goes to your mouth and your head wags a bit in sorrow.  For a moment, you suck in jagged sighs.  And then a nice guy in an NYPD or NYFD uniform comes up and releases you from your hypnotic state to tell you how to get over to the memorial or to the museum.  Their job - as always - is to keep people safe and out of the streets...moving along and not getting struck by cars and workers and, oh yeah...the resilient life that's happening all around you.  It's amazing to me that anything can move...that sorrow, grief, pain, loss, and anger hasn't killed off everything in a five-block radius.  But it hasn't.  Life goes on, and there's an amazing memorial to make sure it does.

The first thing you notice is called the Oculus.  A giant white marble edifice that houses an incredible mall, train station, food court, network of tunnels and passageways to the other World Trade buildings, and tourists.  It is supposed to represent a bird rising from a child's hand (read: rebirth, renewal, etc.).  It must have been a dinosaur bird.

Inside is a huge mall full of upscale shops and more Italian marble than I've ever seen.  It's very white.  Very clean.  Sort of like heaven.

And through the rafters is the money shot.

Once outside, you see the new tower.

I didn't take any pictures of the reflecting pools or inside the museum - they're easy enough to find online.  The pools are dark and deep.  Haunting.  The names of the lives lost are inscribed, not alphabetically, but in groups of friends, co-workers, fellow flyers.  In between the pools is the museum, surrounded by lovely oak trees symbolizing strength, resilience, and so many other things.  

The museum is quiet and dark.  Two of the footing walls of the north tower are in tact, along with many of the steel column boxes that held the exoskeleton of the building.  A heartbreaking exhibit is a room filled with photographs of the lost.  Interactive screens allow you to search by wall or alpha and see a bio and additional pictures of each person.  Another wall is full of projections of the "Missing" flyers that covered the nearby streets in the days after.  Yet another wall continuously plays the reading of the names and offers a brief profile.

A couple of large pieces of utterly decimated steel are on display - witnesses/survivors of the destruction wreaked on the buildings.  There are movies, stats, short films, art and other exhibits as well.  All in all it's a testament to remembering.  It's a somber and gut-wrenching place to visit.  I sobbed, loudly, more than once. 

But just outside you rise from the ashes.  You see the sunlight again.  You hear kids laughing.  You think, oh yeah, let's get on with it.  I thought I would come out angry.  I thought I would come out resolute.  I thought I would come out broken.  Instead, I came out sorrowful for the loss of life for the people who simply got up and went to work that day, or who just got on a plane.  Their lives were sadly (and terribly) cut short.  Instead, I came out respectful of those who responded first, who kept going back to ground zero day after day to dig, who chronicled the days, weeks, months, and years - following progress, set-backs, accomplishments, and victories, who gave their lives trying to save others' (we came to rest on Todd Beamer's name along the south pool), who spent time and energy creating the memorials and the museum, and finally, respect for New York City and her citizens...for being, well, New Yorkers.  

Two and a half hours is about the right amount of time to spend.  We could have stayed longer, but we felt an urgent need to get out and be alive in the city.  There's a wall in the museum covered with hundreds of tiles - all different colors of blue (no two are alike).  Artists contributed their memory of what color the sky was that day.  Embedded in the blue is a quote from Virgil: No one day shall erase you from the memory of time.  Nope.  Never will.