And I Knew That One Day I Would Be Back. For Good. (My Pilgrimage to Ground Zero)

I had to go.  With the 10-year anniversary of the attacks of 9/11/01 in less than two months and my book, inspired by those horrific events, coming out in mere weeks, I had to go.  An opportunity presented itself, and my younger daughter and I hitched a ride with my husband as he went to pick up my older daughter at a university up north.  I ended up all over the New Jersey/New York metropolitan area, including not only my childhood home, my favorite beaches, and the tree where my first boyfriend broke up with me because I wouldn't smoke and drink in the park, but also at my ultimate destination, Ground Zero.  

Standing in the graveyard of St. Paul's Chapel, I craned my neck to see the hole in the nation's heart across the street, to make sense of it all, finally, after ten years. Yet, all I could see were, well, cranes.  I strolled through the chapel, where a truly phenomenal exhibit has emerged that captures not only the artifacts of that time, when the church helped care for firefighters at work in the pit of hell, but also the spirit of humanity that somehow enables us to persevere at times when we wonder how on earth we will be able to do that.  

I had gone to Liberty Island on the ferry, for the first time in my life despite growing up 16 miles from Manhattan, and had finally seen, up close and personal, the "Lady with the Torch," as my older daughter had nicknamed her when she was about three years old.  All of my children's great-grandparents were immigrants who passed through Ellis Island in the early 20th century.  They practiced a total of three different religions and came from a total of eight different countries.  I told my younger daughter, who was with me, that they had come not just for themselves, and not just for me, but for her.  For the same reason I do what I do.  With the same hope I have for my grandchildren.  For a better world.

I saw the bamboo fence in the distance, from my seat on top of the ferry as we made our way back to Battery Park.  I knew that fence was made with bamboo repurposed from the Big Bambu art exhibit on the roof of the Metropolitan Museum of Art which I had seen last year at this time when I visited NYC as well.  After disembarking and buying pickled vegetables and lemonade from the Fatty Crab's shack in the park, I bee-lined for the bamboo fence as my daughter curled up under a shady tree nearby with a book.  Here is a video of what I found, just blocks from Ground Zero, for the first time since the Dutch settlers: 

Battery Park Urban Farm video

I met a graduate student there named Alex from Cornell University who is doing his thesis on environmental education (and who has been in the United States for just seven years), and who was intrigued that at least eight area schools are involved in this urban farm.  I also met a young woman named Mia, an intern at the Battery Park Urban Farm (about which I wrote here as well) who chose to move to New York City over Detroit and Chicago in her pursuit of learning more about urban agriculture.  She is considering graduate programs in public health.

As Mia and I stood there talking, I could feel it, my world shifting, my heart starting to plant roots.  And I knew that one day I would be back, for good.  New York is my home, and it is calling me.  This urban farm.  The rooftop gardens (and the incredible potential for so many more).  The bike lanes absolutely everywhere, that weren't there when I lived here before.  The High Line linear park on what was until recently a forgotten elevated train track.  (see video below)

The High Line, and Other NYC Greening Efforts

The Union Square Greenmarket, where I first saw my first stalk of Brussels sprouts all those years ago.  (see video below)

Union Square Green Market

The Science Barge.  The recycling bins absolutely everywhere.  The trains and buses.  The walking, walking, walking.  The complete ease with which I found vegetarian meals and local, organic choices.  The incredible joy I felt.  How much I fit in.  How much good I think I could do there with what I have learned and what I still want to learn.

Back in metro Atlanta, after a 17-hour Amtrak train ride with my younger daughter (my husband and older daughter off touring colleges throughout the northeast), I felt lost.  I went outside and harvested in an attempt to reconnect.  I suppose it's no coincidence that, 43 pounds of crops later, I spent the next two days cooking.  Sauces.  Muffins.  Pickles.  Pasta dishes.   Nibbling honeydew melon balls from a 14-pound beauty we grew from an heirloom seed from Poland that I bought from an Italian seed company. 

I had done my final edit of my book, Food for My Daughters (what one mom did when the towers fell, and what you can do, too) while on my trip.  As I submitted these changes to my publisher, I toggled through emails from really the best friends a person could have. 

* I tried to find goats to eat brambles so the Title 1 school with the vegetable garden we helped revitalize wouldn't spray chemicals to eradicate the thorny mess surrounding it.  

* I provided feedback on my city's memo about the viability of public fruit trees (and was happy to discover that black walnut, serviceberry, crabapple, and pawpaw are already on the approved street tree list). 

*  I swung by the community garden and found the first eggplant from those plants that Eugene gave me that I didn't think would make it, and harvested tomatoes that wouldn't last until the food pantry Wednesday.

Yet, I still knew my new truth.  I am being called elsewhere.  Not today.  Not tomorrow.  I still have bridges to cross here.  But one day, in the not-too-distant future, the bridges I cross will be the Delaware Water Gap and the George Washington Bridge.  And, although the towers won't rise again in New York City, the "towers" of these bridges will always remind me of them.  And I will be home again.

 

And I Knew That One Day I Would Be Back. For Good. (My Pilgrimage to Ground Zero)