Laine.

When the New York and DC telephone lines jammed on Tuesday afternoon and evening, for some reason beyond rational explanation I was the only person able to get through to her. We've been talking daily about our experiences, though hers infinitely more dramatic than mine: witnessing the second crash first hand, closing windows due to risky smoke inhalation, evacuating her office due to bomb threats at Grand Central Station. But while we were both isolated in the silence of phones that couldn't ring, at least we had each other.

After her bomb threat yesterday afternoon, I called to find out if she was going to be heading back to the office today. She didn't sound very enthusiastic about it. And I can't say that I blamed her. While I've been fighting the isolating monotony of working from home by taking walks and joining crowds in common places like Starbucks and Fresh Fields, I've also been basking in the safety and normalcy that being home provides me. Instead, she's been surrounded by the fears of our tallest urban environment: elevators that go up too high or subways that go down too low.

And then today she shared a story. About waking up with panic and fear and washing it away by resuming control over her life. And as I called to ask her if I could post her words behind that bubble of Manhattan's past and now sickeningly present skyline in the top left corner of this page, I had an idea. And I asked if she wanted some company this weekend.

I don't know how I'll feel tomorrow as I approach Manhattan in that familiar way from the New Jersey Turnpike. The comfort and excitement that I used to feel when the Twin Towers came into view on the right are sure to be replaced with more numbing and hollow disbelief. But I do know how good it will be to see Laine in person. To hug her tight. To cut through this fear and isolation with the succor of an old, old friend.

A true elixir for my soul.

Among other things-- so many other things-- I've been thinking about all those papers. Thinking about them floating for miles; landing so far away and out of context. Thinking about what they meant to the people who created them. The tedium in waiting for a print out. Changing a toner cartridge. Piling them onto an overwhelmed desk.

Coupland once wrote, "[We] should realize that the only reason we all go to work in the morning is because we're terrified of what would happen if we stopped. We're not built for free time as a species. We think we are, but we aren't."

So we produce papers. Binders. We move words around a page until we feel dizzy as if we've spent an entire recess on the merry-go-round. And they take on this life of their own that we can invest ourselves into like the plot of an absorbing book or an appealing character in a weekly television series.

I know there is an endless chain of things that connect my job to my life, some of them tangible, some of them abstract. But I can't help but wonder if there is any way to crawl out from under this feeling of insignificance.

And I bet I'm not the only one.

As Kate and I approached the Capitol reflecting pool from the North, we could see hundreds of flickering candles through the trees. And I felt a mix of awe and coolness wash over me-- the same feelings I'd felt when Kate asked me to go. And following that, a bit of guilt. And a bit of shame. There is something about being touched and feeling inspired right now that seems indulgent.

We got closer and joined the crowd. Lighting our ivory tapers, we took our seats along the water under the clear night sky. The Capitol glowed to our left. The Washington Monument loomed to our right. We listened to the voices in song all around us reverberating off of white marble. The melted wax dripped onto my finger tips and my nearsighted eyes blurred the candles across the pool. And every so often we looked up to watch another military helicopter fly overhead.

As the crowd dispersed to march to the White House and our candles burned down to small nubs, Kate and I stood up from the wall along the water and started to go. And there it was. A fire truck with an American flag draped across the side where two firefighters stood. And from there the longest line formed in a spiraling circle of glowing faces and quiet patience, each person waiting to shake the firefighters' hands. A steady stream of subtle gratitude shown with a kind word, a clasped hand, and an occasional hug.

Kate looked over her shoulder at the tears welling in my eyes and the hand I'd drawn to my mouth. It was a quiet moment for both of us, short and sweet. And suddenly I felt symbols realigning inside my mind, independent of gleaming stone and rich history. Not the awe-inspiring candlelight across a shallow pool of water, but something infinitely simpler and more personal. The connection I came out to feel.

The connection that right now envelopes us all.

There is this breathtakingly beautiful blue sky above, pristine and scorchingly bright. The sun filtering through the leaves on the trees causes shimmers of light to dance across my desk. The street is calm. It feels like a holiday. It's quiet and serene except for the rustling of wind through the lush, green ivy outside my window.

And then I hear the military planes and the helicopters circling overhead. My reminder. The rumble of something terrifying. Something invisible as I glance up at the these flawless summery autumn skies. But I feel it inside.

It's 4:22pm and I have yet to turn on my television. I have yet to see a photograph. I have yet to burn an image of this horror on my brain. I want to stay inside this sightless innocence.

When I look back on vacations, there is always a hint of tenderness. Time treats my memories gently, smoothing over those rough bits, chalking them up to adventures and experiences.

And yet at the time, so very few actually lived up to my expectations. I've spent days dreaming of a night of mountaintop stargazing only to be too tired and too far away and too willing to forfeit the fantasy. The exhausting moments of inspired planning, the journal buying, and the guidebook reading make it impossible for me to truly live inside my dreamlike moments. The beach is too far. The mountain is too steep. The picture timed just a second too late.

And yet these weekends--- a total smattering of 10 days pulled from booked schedules--- serve as the first moments in my life not marred by expectations. Each second tastes like the freedom of the present. Inspiration strikes. We act. And beauty follows us like a pair of dazzling, dancing butterflies.