On September 11, 2001 I was in my first grade classroom teaching 24 six-year-olds. My friend and co-worker, Donna, came in the door of Room 5 and walked toward me with a distressed look on her face. She spoke quietly, "There's been a terrorist attack on the World Trade Center." In that moment I honestly had no idea what she meant. Our school was not far from DC, and minutes later came the code words over the PA system alerting us to lock our doors, turn off the lights, and move the kids to a corner away from the window. It was frightening, but the horror was 40 miles away. I cannot fathom what it was like in CT yesterday, the terror inside their hallways and entering those classroom doors.

I did not do one thing today without thinking about those kids, those teachers, and their families. My words feel small and hollow in the face of it, but this poem keeps coming to me as I try to wrap my head around December 14, 2012.

The Way It Is
William Stafford

There's a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn't change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can't get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time's unfolding.
You don't ever let go of the thread.