Travel musings

I'm heading home soon. Despite continued efforts to define The moment of my trip, I fail. Travel changes me. Upon my return, I will be expected to fall into my old life without a nod to the mantle I have worn and the ideas I have embraced. Not for the first time, I wonder how can this be.
  Sweat has poured from my body while I sat at a Woolworth's lunch counter while strangers invaded my personal space, their polite selves temporarily suspended and their hidden aggressions given reign as we explored historic sit ins. To say I was uncomfortable, even in the secure, pristine Smithsonian does not speak well of my fortitude. I could not help but wonder if the persons of color next to me felt it was deserved payback or that I was unworthy to sit next to them. I could not help but be relieved when the last person's dismissal was silent. I struggled to find my voice when we were urged to join the moderator in a final freedom song. After all, who am I to ask for freedom? I have no struggle.
  I have walked in the valley of Harper's Ferry and traced the footsteps of John Brown. The muggy heat hugged my body whilst I sat on banks near the river. I wondered at a town, chosen with care by General Washington himself, and nearly beaten by floods, violence and poverty. The beauty of a resilient people once again humbles me. May I be  such a person. May the children I am privileged to escort into adulthood be inspired by the dignity of that place and those people.
  To have turned a corner and unexpectedly encountered the plane that dropped a bomb that annihilated much of a city? The Enola Gay shining with an innocence I cannot understand. I am, again humbled by my human arrogance. How quick I am to dismiss another. How soon I forget the struggles of another. Convenience and self preservation demands that I push my philosophical self aside and keep moving. Still, it resurfaces. Conflict, unmitigated circumstances, collateral damage, necessary evil.  Aloof words that deny emotion and reality. I worry at our use of drones and wonder if anyone else wonders too.
  Sunlight bathes Henry Hill at Manassas. Evidence of deer and a wind that whispers into my ears mock the true story. Or maybe, they are the real story. Our human pettiness is just a wicked side theme. Children who cannot see the need of enslavement, political expediency and expendable youth guide me. Their confidence reassures me that maybe, just maybe we can get this right in the next generation. In their world, there is enough. Is there enough in mine?
  We have walked the paths of Fort McHenry, the reserved adult in me attempts to silence the Star Spangled Banner. It escapes anyway. A flag raises and all my previous doubts and sorrows fall away. My child asks if every country has strict rules for flag handling. I think to myself how many wars might be averted in we could all remember that each person holds something sacred.  Can we really restore all of creation to the image of it's Creator? What would we all need to give up in order that each may worship as they see fit, love as they are able and give more than they take? Are we brave an/or foolish enough? Perhaps good enough is just about right.
  And then, when I thought I had felt every emotion. When it seemed there was no unchanged part of me, I spent an hour talking to a new and unexpected friend. Our day to day lives vary greatly. His 61 years and years of building do not wear the same patterns on the ground as my somewhat bewildered and often reluctant homeschooling adventure. Yet, we now share membership in the same grief club. I listened much and talked some while he mellowed into this next part of his journey, not unlike easing into very cold water that must be entered. His world has stopped. Yet the world is marching. He is gasping for time, space and yes, air.  Prospective clients have no desire to wait. I tell him that grace is all we humans really have to give one another. I tell him I have a funny gift for him. I rummage through many bags and piles in the car to find a small tray I recently painted. I dismissively tell him it's what I do. I paint things.  Later, he leaves clutching it. I think to myself how often people tell me I should stay home and help build community. I am irresponsible and wasteful to leave so frequently.  I am impractical. And maybe so. Then there is this: a knowledge so deep that I cannot change my desire to meet and know the world. I would trade all sorts of things to walk beside a man who has finally, lost his everything. I am imperfect, foolish, and optimistic, and I know the world is my community.
And when I return to Georgia, it will be to my community as well. I will struggle to put aside the breathless moments so that I can carry out my real and useful tasks. But a part of me will still be standing near the Shenandoah River or beneath the Enola Gay. I will still be singing a Freedom song with people from many nations. I will still be dreaming of a restored, connected and joyous world. Please, don't disillusion me.