Last night I was invited to attend a wonderful concert with Tony Bennett and K.D. Lang at Radio City Music Hall. Most of you know that New York City is offering some excellent shows at prices that you cannot refuse. The increasing patriotism in our country, a willingness to contribute in incredibly generous—and unique—ways, added to boundless compassion for families and friends of victims—is restoring the spirit of the City beyond anything I have personally experienced in my going-on seven years here.
Ticket holders stood in line for over an hour, shuffling patiently down a three block stretch and winding back for the security inspection, after removal of cell phones, Palm Pilots—anything electronic—from pockets and purses. Sitting in this grand auditorium among hundreds was reminiscent of a sensation that I experienced at the performance of Les Miserables that I attended in London years ago. It was the day after the horrific soccer tragedy in Liverpool, when so many were suffocated, crushed against fences by a stampeding crowd. I watched it happen on the "telly" in a pub where I'd stopped for a plowman's lunch.
The matinee's audience was moved, certain scenes in the musical reminiscent of the previous day's event. We sighed and we wept in the same moments. Last night was no less a feeling of — everyone in this together — all recognizing what the other was feeling.
What most others felt. A very reserved woman sat to my right. She seemed unyielding when I accidentally dropped my program at her feet, with apologies. Her hair pulled back in a sophisticated, smart bun, she sat erect and reserved.
My sensitivity and respect for however any individual is coping and getting through this difficult time is no less than most, and certainly heightened now. On a larger scale, I've become fully aware of how a metaphysical approach, lending to any version of a "Guess what! We don't die!" perspective could be received as extremely flippant and cavalier. Acknowledgment of people's sense of shock, grief and loss is what important now.
Most of us dabbed our eyes and muffled quiet sobs during "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" sung by Tony B. I felt the pain of abandoned husbands, wives and children whose dreams won't be realized in this lifetime, even while (privately) knowing that some great and brave souls volunteered for a greater mission.
The woman was unmoved, or in too much pain to react. Either way, it was really none of my business. Intermission arrived and the lights turned up. I leaned towards her and said, "Quite a lot, we've been through."
She said nothing.
I continued, "I will never again take for granted any stranger who sits beside me, whether to my right, or to my left."
"Thank you," she replied, continuing to look down at the empty stage. Respectfully, I raised my antenna and let my Higher Self give hers a hug. That's when she turned to me and smiled.
"Finding that which connects us all..."