Sunday morning as I walked the now well-worn path around the neighborhood, chasing the sun rise and spending a little time with the abundance of birds that fill the holly bushes that seem to be everywhere, I stopped because I heard the loud clang of a bell.  While it was Sunday, but it was early and I was nowhere near St. Peter’s Catholic Church, one of the few churches in the neighborhood that still rings a bell at 7 a.m. to call the faithful to worship.  I had already heard the sounds of Reveille from the Marine Parade ground on the other side of the expressway. I was puzzled — I had never heard that bell before.  And right now, as my neighborhood has moved into complete lockdown, unusual sounds certainly get everyone’s attention, especially mine.

Then, as if from a distance, I heard the sounds of the Marine Band playing our National anthem.  Now, I often hear this music (recorded, I think) when my walk begins a little later than usual, but this day, the music was really, really loud. I turned around to look and there I was, standing as a solitary witness to the raising of our country’s colors over the Marine Barracks.  My path was so familiar to me, the streets such a common part of my daily existence, that I had failed to make the connection that I was only half a block from the Barracks itself.  I stopped, and stood, and waited, as the flag rose to its position at the top of the giant pole and let fly in the light cool breeze of the morning, giving the stolen moment my complete attention.

I am not what you would call an visibly patriotic person. Years of traveling abroad taught me to not be “obviously” American for the sake of my personal safety; these last years have been hard on the love of country that I learned as a child.  Along with so many of us right now, for so many reasons, my corporate identity as an American is shaken, and changed, by questions unanswered, by things learned and unlearned, both for the good,  and for the not so good. Over these last years, hearing that music and seeing that flag has not always been easy or at all welcome, as I have come to grips with the truth that neither symbol stood solidly on the side of justice for all as I had been taught, with the truth of our failures as a country and as a people, and as individuals now so glaringly evident.

But that was not what I felt on Sunday as the colors rose against the sun dappled clouds and the music played.  You see, something else has happened, particularly over these last months, beginning with the Black Lives Matters protests of the summer and carrying onward to the attack on the U.S. Capitol just a few days ago.  I have been increasingly aware that something has changed for me, something about my understanding of this place where I live.

Somehow, in the midst of all this insanity, I have come to agree with my soul sister Dorothy from Kansas, there is no place like home.  And this, my friends, is my home.  The invasion of this place, first by unwelcome, uninvited troops who attacked innocent protesters for the sake of a photo opportunity, and then by violent terrorists seeking to undermine the Constitution that binds us all, these things slowly caused me to understand. I found myself reacting in a way that at first wasn’t clear to me, but finally I found the words to describe those feelings.  These people were attacking my home. People forget that about this place, that over 700,000 people call the District of Columbia home.  Many, like our Mayor, were born and raised here, and others, like me, chose to live here.  Just like in your town, we go to work, we love, we play, we eat, sleep and worry.  We are just people like you, and someone attacked our home.

I have lived in this place through 9/11, through anthrax scares and snipers and derechos and rumors of war and good and bad federal administrations.  When someone talks about Washington like it is an abstract thing, they get it all wrong.  If mobs storm the Capitol, it happens in someone’s neighborhood.  If extensive security is required to ensure the transfer of our government according to the Constitution, it is the lives of people who live here that must stop and wait.  And that is a tiny sacrifice that I will gladly make.  Because this is my home.  It is the nation’s capital, yes, but more important to me,  this is my home.

The road outside my window is closed now and will be for the next 48 hours.  And the sun still shines.  The trash was gathered and the mail arrived. And I know that I am so blessed to enjoy this simple quiet and safety, but the knot in my stomach remains.  I sit here, listening to the sirens that sound even as the traffic disappears, I sit at my desk and think the strange thought that I might just have to be grateful for all that has transpired, for pandemics and protests and riots and it all, because, for the clarity that these horrible things have brought, for the truth that shines through the sorrow, for the clearer knowledge of the work to be done, and for the understanding of how important our ability to grasp the humanity of all who live and breath is to that work.

I never thought that I would feel this way, here, in this place. I will do the best I can to hold it close and honor all these feelings, and to work for a kind of justice that lets all who desire it have a moment like this, a moment of home.  That, my friends, was what I always believed that flag was all about — I know now that it is just an idea, a good idea, a loving idea, but imperfectly implemented.  And I know that we will not see perfection in our life times, but while we have breath we can do what we can to try.

Happy Inauguration Day, 2021.  May hope live on, may the work continue, may love change the world as it always does, and may we do all that we can to help it along.