In October 2001, as the US began military strikes against Afghanistan, I was standing in Central Park in Manhattan, watching toy sailboats glide around a small pond on a letter-perfect fall day. A stranger approached us with the news and I burst into tears. It was as if the other shoe dropped in that minute. Finality kicked in. We, too, were now part of the cycle of destruction. More lives were being lost, property destroyed. Our safe, wondrous, small world would never be the same again. I have to admit my first impulse was to flee the city immediately. My mind went straight to reprisals, grim possibilities that kept playing themselves out non-stop in my imagination. I just wanted to go home. But then my husband, a far calmer person, reminded me that I was caught up in the heat of my reaction. "Look at everyone who lives here," he reminded me. And I did. Around us, mothers were calmly pushing strollers; couples wandered by hand in hand. My friends Laurie and Roger were going home to do laundry and make burritos in their Greenwich Village apartment. Life was, indeed, going on, and it certainly wasn't going to stop because of a small thing like fear. In the coming hours, we talked to friends who live in Manhattan, fellow riders on the bus, strangers on park benches, and all agreed. Even though life had suddenly gotten very shaky, you have to keep on rolling, whether you're in the middle of New York City or the middle of nowhere. Even here in the relative security of the Adirondacks, we are fewer than fifty miles from a nuclear power plant as well as a US base for the Strategic Air Command. As my brother who lives in Philadelphia put it, "Where are you going to go?" So the question isn't really about going anywhere. It's about managing our fear. I've come to see that fear, like serenity, fulfillment, and even joy, is a necessary condition in life. Without it, we would not know the quickness of our love, or the preciousness of our time here. Nor would we know the magnitude of our power. In that moment just before we stride out on stage to address a crowd, or pitch our business plan to a bank, or hand our precious creation over to agents, we feel the importance of what we've created. Its very power can make us shrink back, questioning whether we're up to the task. Or it can propel us forward, confident that we are right where we should be, moving ahead with life. We have a choice in the coming weeks, months, and possibly even years. We can use this moment to get on with the work God's given us to do in this life. Or we can hold back in fear, daunted by terrorists both out in the world and deep in our head. We can no longer pretend that thing we long to do in life doesn't matter, any more than we can pretend that we are not afraid. So be afraid, but also be honest -- this is the gift inherent in these tough times. For now more than ever, we're called upon to tell the truth about our lives, to be utterly and totally authentic. Fix what needs to be fixed, and reach for the that which calls to you. You're still here -- and now, more than ever, the world needs a piece of your joy.
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