This morning, at 10:19 a.m., I did something monumental. I arrived at my office, I sat down, and I turned on my computer to work. In short, I went about my ordinary business this morning, and that is monumental. One year ago exactly, I was standing huddled in a small take-out restaurant while black dust turned day into night outside and a small group of frightened people stood inside trying to figure out what had happened to the world we woke up to that morning. One year ago exactly, I should have been in my office on the 30th floor of the south tower, working on some unmemorable thing or just sitting at my desk, not worrying about whether my pregnant wife would go into labor when she discovered I wasn't home, safe and sound. I should have been shooting the breeze with my coworkers, wondering where we would go for lunch and what I might watch on television that night. I should have been living an ordinary life.

One year ago exactly, I would have given almost anything to be able to go to work and do something mundane. Today, I will complete that unfinished commute. I work hard, but I will not do anything particularly monumental in the grand scheme of things. But no matter: today, I will write some letters, and I will move some papers from my inbox to my outbox. Maybe I will make some phone calls today, or make some photocopies or read the memos stacked up on the side of my desk. The point is that there is nothing going on today that could not wait until tomorrow, and at the end of the day, some of the projects I am working on will have moved only incrementally toward conclusion. My day will be completely ordinary and the things I work on unmemorable.

It will be one of the best days of my career.