9-11 Tribute After 13 years: R is for Resiliency

R is for: Resiliency

“The good folks mostly win, courage usually triumphs over fear, the family dog hardly ever contracts rabies; these are the things I knew at twenty-five, and things I still know now, at the age of 25 X 2. But I know something else as well: there’s a place in most of us where the rain is pretty much constant, the shadows are always long, and the woods are full of monsters. It is good to have a voice in which the terrors of such a place can be articulated and its geography partially described, without denying the sunshine and clarity that fill so much of our ordinary lives.” –Stephen King (April 16, 1996)

 

If I’ve learned anything through trials and travails, it’s that even though life seems short, ephemeral, and progress only seen dimly as through a dark opaque window; there is always the power to rise to the moment, and summon the courage to change. This is my voice articulating a vision of the geography of the dark places we face; and after so many years--maybe even some of those affected by 9/11 have navigated out of the dark forest.

Freedom Tower, Manhattan

 

Even when one seems too old, tired, or uncomprehending of how to alter their course; by taking deliberate steps down another path, I’ve seen durable people transform themselves and their situations remarkably. "In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning," said F. Scott Fitzgerald; however, let me assure you, there is always a way out, the morning after.

Sometimes it means realistically dropping one dream, now cumbersome baggage; developing another set of goals. Other than developing a love to read and learn; this might be one of the keys to unlocking life’s complexities, and is certainly something I want to bestow upon my children: resiliency.

Those fortunate to have their wits and health, living in this great land of opportunity, and with God’s sovereign blessing, can get up one morning and resolve to change; indeed, one’s path is never set in granite. Killing inertia is itself an early skirmish in this brutal, continual, wearisome war.

Standing with your feet firmly planted allows one to gaze out and ponder a new course; even though the road looks twisted and crooked through the brambles and brush of rural forest. Sometimes it seems too overgrown and dark to find your way. Don’t give up! Keep looking for the light, and if necessary, hack your own way out till you find the dirt road for which you yearn.

Once the new path is found and begun by faith; the energy to meet the new challenges will appear; although, this river of energy fueling a fresh endeavor is not always apparent. Sometimes you tap into its power like a hydro-electric plant, or otherwise jump in, just riding with the flow. This process isn't instantaneous. It requires patience, strength, and resiliency founded in a higher power, or should I say “outside yourself?”

Others may call the new path: too risky, or pronounce early failure. Valuable are those friends who support and encourage: every single, solitary one is an angel sent from above. Thank them when you get back on your feet. And don’t be too sure who the angels are; some of those closest to you will disappear at the moment you need them most.

All your days have prepared you for the battle now raging; take the step forward in faith and fire the first shot.

“Now God has us where he wants us, with all the time in this world and the next, to shower grace and kindness upon us in Christ Jesus. Saving is all his idea, and all his work. All we do is trust him enough to let him do it. It’s God’s gift from start to finish. We don’t play the major role. If we did, we’d probably go around bragging that we’d done the whole thing! No, we neither make nor save ourselves. God does both the making and saving. He creates each of us by Christ Jesus to join him in the work he does, the good work he has gotten ready for us to do, work we had better be doing.” Ephesians 2 (The Message--Copyright © Eugene H. Peterson)

“There dwells upon this earth a mysterious Being, whose office is to renew the fallen and restore the wandering… His chosen residence is a broken heart and a contrite heart.” –Charles Spurgeon

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©Mark H. Pillsbury (2014)

 

Leaving New York: True Love

Track Four #TrueLove

He loved Central Park. It gave him a feeling of liberation from confined space; oozing out of the pores of the freest city in the world--of possibilities outside its verdant borders. Staring out at the Park, the reality of his abrupt exit from FormCorp nearly suffocated him this evening on the way to the airport; slowly making his way north on Fifth Avenue, a sad soundtrack playing in the dark limousine.

The four years spent in Manhattan exceeded every dream he’d had of life in the City that Never Sleeps. It breathed life into him every morning as he walked the concrete canyons to work, even trudging through grey, slushy snow. As CEO of a wholly-owned subsidiary, he spent four years immersed in FormCorp and the culture of the financial district. Large corporations have diverse networks and traditions so ingrained they live like old families, oblivious to their dysfunction and set in their ways. With many of his ideas ignored or marginalized by the parent company and on the verge of a leadership shift; he’d decided to leave without much fanfare. It was time to go, but the city's twinkle faded before his eyes, refracted by tears. The city was moving on without him.

As an outsider from New York, coming into lead a major division was a difficult challenge; the ethos of this culture was an elitist brand of excellence, and every team was a team of type-A leaders. As hard as it was to gain the high ground in his group within the larger corporation, the years had flown by in “New York time,” making this evening’s final ride even more shocking. This was it. He was leaving her. The end of a short, torrid love affair, doomed from the beginning. How appropriate that the driver, Mike; like a friend by now, slipped Coldplay’s latest reflective album "Ghost Stories" into the stereo system; a musical representation of his crushed, defeated torpor. He lifelessly leaned against the door staring out at the city bustling by, seemingly like a lover fading down and away on a busy street, lost in the crowds.

He would miss the wild changes in seasons, fashionistas, the art, and the word-on-the street. Dining in Manhattan always presented challenges, but he enjoyed the “hunt” of finding just the right place to eat. Often you didn’t brag about some local discovery because you wanted to keep it to yourself, keep it from being overrun. Here, everything moved with such a velocity; from public opinion, to speeding cabs, the rise and fall of the markets, even the lithe Central Park “joggers” had a running pace he always envied. This was the City of the World; nothing like it.

["Most other American municipalities are segregated by class and culture, education and personal choice. But in New York everybody is jumbled up together and bounced around until you have African princes walking side by side with Appalachian Daughters of the American Revolution, and aspiring starlets making room for hopeful housewives past their prime. Even with real estate costs climbing above the reach of almost everyone, you can still find all the elements of humanity riding #1 train down under the West Side of Manhattan."

--Walter Mosley (The Long Fall 2009)]

His company spent a lot of time helping its leaders learn what to do, say, how write email, or drive production and profits; however, not enough time was spent helping those same leaders learn what to stop doing. His early mistake was not in governance of his team, but failing to ask the right questions about the company which owned FormCorp. Before he even took the job in New York, he could have delved deeply into its leadership structure and how its centralized nature diluted the power of the divisional CEOs. Like why did the Executive VP working closely with the President & Chairman have the right meddle in his operation? She wasn’t above him on the org chart, but he couldn’t get her out of his business: "that's just not how we do it at FormCorp," was the mantra; but he believed that without freedom and creativity, collaboration looks like conformity.

His ability to change or even accommodate the executive leadership team of FormCorp’s parent company was slight in the first year of his tenure; and yet business practices they couldn’t stop doing would be the harbinger of his end, even though three years later. This may seem as minutiae out of a MBA class; but power struggles are as old as time; and it came down to that.

Taking a risky leap exposes one to all sorts of danger and timing is everything.

He’d heard those bromides forever, but their truth hung on every word of the songs Chris Martin sang this lonely evening. His family had moved back to California already, giving him time to close up his tenure at FormCorp and exit the city. All the “what-ifs” had been tumbling around in his mind for weeks, as the end approached; he’d even considered taking some time off to consider resurgence--staying in the position but taking a different approach. Ultimately, it was the permanent finality of this trip out of town making him feel so broken, ancient, and sad--and gone.

 “It is often said that New York is a city for only the very rich and the very poor. It is less often said that New York is also, at least for those of us who came there from somewhere else, a city for only the very young.” ― Joan Didion, from Slouching Towards Bethlehem  

Stuck in traffic on Fifth Avenue, listening to Coldplay’s transparent, very personal CD, “Ghost Stories,” he recognized that his sorrow was different than Chris Martin; but they both carried bruised and tattered hearts. The melancholy of the fourth song, “True Love” played as a soundtrack to his grieving; lament reflecting back off the tall glass towers peering over the Park. Going to the airport on his last trip out of town lifted the burden of his corporate battle against dysfunction; even though physically, he slumped down, hidden in the dark leather seat like it was a cave. His sentiment was mournful, even weeping, like Jonny Buckland's ethereal guitar solo toward the end of the track. She couldn't look him in the eye as she left, that was the worst of it.

Darkness engulfed like none before. A long, successful run in this business made him to this point unaware of the pain of rejection or the agony of defeat. He saw his underlings and some friends endure disaster before, and subconsciously, he probably knew that renewed growth would come out of this day; yet on this drive none of that coalesced in his mind. For a while he was in control, but he lost it. He sobbed. Unbelieving, agonizing with regret. The song was about a pain too great to face:

"Tell me you love me, New York; if you don't, then lie. It can’t be over. Lie to me."

(end)

#Fiction ©Mark H. Pillsbury (2014)
©Coldplay 6th album "Ghost Stories" rel. by Atlantic Records in N Am. on 05/19/2014

#saraBmusic - song: Manhattan (Live at the Variety Playhouse) from The Blessed Unrest

The tender-hearted ballad of Sara leaving Manhattan:

"What's holding us together is simply fear of what's already changed."

 

Try to listen to this without thinking back on all the endings you've experienced?

 

The words and music are simple and profound; beautifully sad, and sublime. Again, let me dedicate this to my classmates in HP 1983; with whom I shared so much back in September.

 

She is a a major talent, just waiting to break out.
Good-bye 2013... Auld lang syne. --Mark

Part III: tribute to lost fire-fighters (fictional 9-11 story)

Part III of the 9-11 Saga: Tribute to Fallen Fire Fighters

Mike and his dad returned to the apartment and flipped on the television, instantly seeing the horror of what the planes had done: two distinct columns of smoke rising into the sky, and floors burning in the middle of the Twin Towers.

Presumably on duty, his fire-fighter brother Patrick did not answer his cell phone, but Mike was soon paged to return to his unit immediately. Every first-responder mobilized in those early hours of the 9-11 tragedy, many commuted into the city as thousands fled.

He didn’t like leaving his aged father Jim O'Keafe alone in front of the television, worrying about his beloved son in the city and his other one heading toward the call of duty; but during the drive into Manhattan, Michael O’Keafe continued to ponder the nature of duty, family, and his upbringing. Having spent the morning on the lake contemplatively, it wasn’t difficult to consider the strange reality that he was probably closer to his work colleagues through their bond of a shared mission, than he was to his own family? He knew it in his gut.

Already anguished with interior conflict, the snarled traffic only increased the anxiety. During these thoughts, out of love and concern for his brother Patrick O’Keafe; he wondered what makes one human being head into an inferno, despite the danger, in order to save another, even one whom he hasn’t met?

His head throbbed uncontrollably, and with visceral churning Mike felt the natural effects of both internal and external chaos. He sensed the demise in the gloomy sky in front of him, light obliterated. The smoke's murkiness thickened into nightfall the closer he drove into Manhattan.

He pictured Patrick leading his company into a World Trade Center Tower in order to battle the asymmetrical threat of a raging fire. How does a single individual fight something as large as a commercial structure engulfed in flames?

Again he thought about art school, painting, and living by the Pacific instead of Manhattan, as well as the split-second judgment required to avoid fire-fighting catastrophe. Two different worlds balanced in his subconscious.

If  “purpose” is the eternal condition for success, how many fire-fighters actually feel the calling or purpose of their work, especially as they venture headlong into danger, even the kind of which might jeopardize their lives?

©Mark H. Pillsbury

[Part One posted September 10, 2011, see previous posts...]