Such Great Heights: Epic and Everyday Tragedies

The tragedy of a plane crash hits me hard. I imagine the free fall, the shock, the finality, the sadness. Returning to my senses, I follow the hunt for the “Black Box,” wanting answers. What happened? Human error, mechanical failure, a flock of birds, a simple twist of fate? We people need to understand, right? With some urgency, we need to know, so as to make sure such accidents don’t repeat. This is natural–an instinct of survival. But what of other disasters and collisions? Do romantic relationships come with black boxes? Is there a flight data recorder than can trace the arc and wane of affection, pinpointing the origin of eventual breakup? Whether the driver has a need to blame or a desire to prevent repetition, the impulse to understand remains the same. How does a soul mate become a stranger? Does it mean one never really knows another person or that there’s a part of our own selves we’ll never fully comprehend or control? Tolstoy began his epic romance Anna Karenina with a truism fitted to the end of an affair: “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” And so, each tragedy has its own “Black Box” particulars. I don’t wish to scavenge through the unhappiness of others, and had in fact recently resolved to stay off the topic of love after reflecting on the breakup of two close friends. But there’s a new tale that’s disturbing me and I need to find some lesson to lessen the loss. I have a friend. We’ll call my friend Pat. Pat’s somewhat static life blew up one day a couple of years back, seemingly out of the blue. Then it got very much better. Pat began walking down a sunny path, feeling tall, smiling to music, and swaying with the laughter of children. Pat felt great love. Then some logistical issues raised the specter of sorrows past and Pat grew fearful, unsure whether to turn and fight or hold strong to a belief in the brightness of the future. Pat blinked. A leap of faith was a bridge too far. Pat had hope, but lacked imagination. Rather than actively craft the world Pat wanted to live in, Pat chose the narrowest return. I am trying hard to understand why a friend I have admired and cherished would shun the path of possibilities and close off trust and security for those brought along. To me, it represents a surrender of the very things that get me out of bed each day. I believe people need hope and imagination and love to change the world–the world of one family or of all families. This is the message I so welcomed hearing from Paul Hawkins’ beautiful Commencement Address to the University of Portland Class of 2009 - “…You are Brilliant, and the Earth is Hiring. The earth couldn’t afford to send recruiters or limos to your school. It sent you rain, sunsets, ripe cherries, night blooming jasmine, and that unbelievably cute person you are dating. Take the hint. And here’s the deal: Forget that this task of planet-saving is not possible in the time required. Don’t be put off by people who know what is not possible. Do what needs to be done, and check to see if it was impossible only after you are done.” Keep the faith. THE POEM THAT CAN’T BE WRITTEN by Lawrence Raab is different from the poem that is not written, or the many that are never finished-those boats lost in the fog, adrift in the windless latitudes, the charts useless, the water gone. In the poem that cannot be written there is no danger, no ponderous cargo of meaning, no meaning at all. And this is its splendor, this is how it becomes an emblem, not of failure or loss, but of the impossible. So the wind rises. The tattered sails billow, and the air grows sweeter. A green island appears. Everyone is saved. Originall published on TakePart Social Action Network.