Seven Years Later...
Seven years ago this weekend I was in my favorite city, Washington DC. On July 3, I watched Barry Bostwick rehearse for the July 4 evening extravagannnnza (which I skipped to watch fireworks with my niece). That weekend, I sat on the steps at Lincoln's feet in the pink haze of evening while Marine One (or possibly Two) buzzed the mall. I visited with family, hung out at various tourist spots, saw parts of the city that I hadn't seen before. And recognized that I didn't want to go home. Standing under the awning at Union Station in a surprise rainstorm, I realized I was in that city to pursue the wrong dream. I had aimed toward a really wonderful life. An honorable life. A life that I still respect and admire. But not the right life for me. I didn't want to go "home" to a place that I wasn't comfortable in, to a house I wasn't comfortable in, to live with people I wasn't comfortable with. I should clarify: this "not comfortable" was not t...