Hello again

Hello again to dear friends and loved ones and new subscribers. It’s been awhile since I offered up any thoughts here at Ties That Bind, but I have a few bubbling up now, and I hope to be sharing them more regularly. (For those of you who don’t know me, I offer a brief bio below.)

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In 2001, on the third day after 9/11, our little family was sitting at the supper table. Our oldest child was three. We were absorbing a lot in those days. Like so many people, we knew someone who was killed on that day, an old friend who had been at our wedding. And there was something about the violent end of so many lives on a random, sunny Tuesday morning that was impossible comprehend.

We had not talked about any of it with our daughter. She was only three, after all. We had no television, and our family’s personal computer was mostly used for writing papers and occasional emails, so there were no images of burning buildings at our house. There was a steady stream of radio news, though, and lots of hushed conversations. And our daughter is a intuitive soul. On that night at the table, she looked up at us and said, “Are we all of us sad? The whole world?”

There was a long pause. My husband and I did not have much experience in parenting amidst terrorism.

“We are all a little sad,” I told her. “But we’ll help each other.”

It’s sort of like that now. We are all focused together on an unfolding reality of remarkable magnitude. We are all feeling something right now, with “fearful” perhaps at the top of the list.

When the news broken on 9/11, my father wanted to do something. The Red Cross mobilized within a few minutes of the first plane crash, and we all expected that there would be so many victims at the hospitals. Along with hundreds of thousands of other people, he stood in a long line at his local Red Cross center to donate blood. Later, we had to try to understand: there were relatively few victims at the hospitals, and almost no need for blood transfusions. So many were just gone. Later, some news outlets reported on the scandal of blood donations that were “wasted” because there were far more than could be used.

Were they wasted, though? The Red Cross saw a significant increase in blood donations that lasted for many years. They still hold blood drives in many places on the anniversary of 9/11. My dad stood in the line and met neighbors he did not know.

Is there anything like that for us, now? I have heard the question many times in the last couple months: what can we do? There will be lots of good answers, I think. In many cases, it will be “what you were already doing.” Organize, read to your children, build a database, feed people, plant trees, sit quietly in the night and listen.

For me, one answer will always be this: think. read. reflect. write. Words and ideas are the tools of my trade, and they have become like old friends. I call on them when I need a hand, and I sit among them when I am tired. What I hope to do in this Substack is to invite you into that circle. Maybe you’d like to rest among these words and ideas a bit, and maybe you want to bring along some of your own.

I welcome your comments and feedback with open arms. For me, the only downside of Substack is that it can sometimes take the form more of a monologue than a conversation. The comments section is right there, though, and many things are possible.

So hello again. Let’s help each other.

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For your listening pleasure: a moody, downtempo song about waiting from British duo Zero 7 (with Sophie Barker).

You can schedule a blood donation to the Red Cross here.

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My name is Holly Taylor Coolman, and I am a sister, daughter, mother, and—most important—grandma. I live in Providence, Rhode Island, and I teach theology at Providence College. I run the Attention Project. I run a new initiative called Come to the Table. I try to understand and live up to the Catholic faith.