![\"September](\"https:\/\/wp-media.beliefnet.com\/sites\/305\/2018\/09\/Dm01VscUUAAtTWL.jpg-large-300x296.jpeg\")
As you know we are often writing prayers of comfort\u00a0to those in need and in the 17 years since the events of 9\/11 we have cried tears\u00a0of loss.<\/p>\nAs you know we are often writing prayers of comfort\u00a0to those in need and in the 17 years since the events of 9\/11 we have cried tears\u00a0of loss.<\/p>\n
Today, when I saw this poem, The Dead of September 11, by Toni Morrison a new way of being on this day emerged. It is a day of connection to all, to our ancestors and our loved ones, to those we’ve lost and those we love.<\/p>\n
May these words bring you openings, and brings us into a world where we remember we are our brothers, our neighbors and we love all.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Some have God’s words; others have songs of comfort The Dead of September 11 (Toni Morrison)<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n May love surround you all the days of your life.<\/p>\n Love, Mel<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" As you know we are often writing prayers of comfort\u00a0to those in need and in the 17 years since the events of 9\/11 we have cried tears\u00a0of loss. Today, when I saw this poem, The Dead of September 11, by Toni Morrison a new way of being on this day emerged. It is a day…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":451,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[212,5,3,9],"tags":[15,377,378],"class_list":["post-5748","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-all-systems-love","category-getting-bare","category-media","category-soul-centered","tag-poetry","tag-september-11","tag-toni-morrison"],"yoast_head":"\n
\nfor the bereaved. If I can pluck courage here, I would
\nlike to speak directly to the dead–the September dead.
\nThose children of ancestors born in every continent
\non the planet: Asia, Europe, Africa, the Americas…;
\nborn of ancestors who wore kilts, obis, saris, geles,
\nwide straw hats, yarmulkes, goatskin, wooden shoes,
\nfeathers and cloths to cover their hair. But I would not say
\na word until I could set aside all I know or believe about
\nnations, wars, leaders, the governed and ungovernable;
\nall I suspect about armor and entrails. First I would freshen
\nmy tongue, abandon sentences crafted to know evil—wanton
\nor studied; explosive or quietly sinister; whether born of
\na sated appetite or hunger; of vengeance or the simple
\ncompulsion to stand up before falling down. I would purge
\nmy language of hypberbole; of its eagerness to analyze
\nthe levels of wickedness; ranking them; calculating their
\nhigher or lower status among others of its kind.
\nSpeaking to the broken and the dead is too difficult for
\na mouth full of blood. Too holy an act for impure thoughts.
\nBecause the dead are free, absolute; they cannot be
\nseduced by blitz.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n
\nTo speak to you, the dead of September 11, I must not claim
\nfalse intimacy or summon an overheated heart glazed
\njust in time for a camera. I must be steady and I must be clear,
\nknowing all the time that I have nothing to say–no words
\nstronger than the steel that pressed you into itself; no scripture
\nolder or more elegant than the ancient atoms you
\nhave become.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n
\nAnd I have nothing to give either–except this gesture,
\nthis thread thrown between your humanity and mine:
\nI want to hold you in my arms and as your soul got shot of its box of flesh to understand, as you have done, the wit of eternity: its gift of unhinged release tearing through the darkness of its knell.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n