As I sit here late on a Friday night, the night before the 20th anniversary of the September 11th terrorist attacks there is a lot going thru my mind.
As we’ve weathered the last 18 months of our Covid year(s) I have finally grown weary of most of the rhetoric online and in the media, the fighting I see among friends, and the general rancor and invective that seems to permeate most corners of life these days. I’ve been spending more time off-line (listening to audio books, more to come!), on purpose so that I don’t end up in dark places in my mind. I’m already grumpy enough as it is, and I’m trying to live life such that I don’t say things I have to apologize for the next day. You’re welcome.
My thoughts this week have turned to that fateful September morning in 2001 when I watched in horror in my family room as the Twin Towers collapsed and the world changed forever. It would be a few weeks later that I found out someone I knew had died in the North Tower that morning, leaving a wife and three teenaged children widowed and orphaned. His death, and all of the deaths that day have always caused me to stop and reflect on mortality and to ask myself if I am making the most of my days.