At 6:30 in the
morning, the sun isn’t quite ready to officially start the day. I head north through the streets of
Alexandria, past sleeping shuttered townhouses. At this hour, the town belongs
to early-bird joggers, dog-walkers, and delivery trucks. King Street is
virtually empty-- a straight line from the Masonic Memorial to the Potomac.
The Potomac is a
fluid American history lesson, marking the unofficial dividing line between
North and South, and acting as a natural window into the past for all who
follow its path.
Travel upriver
from George Washington’s home at Mt. Vernon to Alexandria, the port town that has transitioned from
tobacco and torpedos to cruise ships, tall ships, and tourists. Alexandria
–where George Washington truly did sleep, eat, worship, and
celebrate--lays claim also to the Lees, both Lighthorse Harry and Robert E., as
well as a number of famous visitors, from revolutionary times to the present.
Pass beneath the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, named for another of Virginia’s presidential
sons, as controversial in his time as his namesake is today.
I join the parkway
where the park begins. My route follows the river past Ronald Reagan National
Airport, the Lyndon Johnson Memorial Grove, the Lincoln and Jefferson
Memorials, the Kennedy Center, and encompasses views of the Washington Monument
and the Capitol. With the river
drawing attention on the right, it’s almost impossible to watch the opposite
side of the road—but if I pay attention, I can see the Pentagon there, and
Arlington Cemetery, guarded by the Custis-Lee Mansion on the hill above.
Immediately below it is the Kennedy gravesite, with its eternal flame.
Georgetown
University appears on the opposite shore, and the National Cathedral; the old USA
Today building looms, and there are signs for the Iwo Jima Memorial. Crews from
Georgetown row each morning, and Roosevelt Island beckons joggers on the right.
****************
I have the best
commute in Washington. I travel alongside the river and it changes every day.
There are mornings that are pink with promise, as the sun hits the water
through rosy sunrise clouds. There are mists and fogs that turn the river
gunmetal gray and other-worldly.
There are days that the river is blue and bright and beckoning, and the
river-mirrored arches of the bridges beg for paints and brush (and talent) to
capture them forever. All these changes are anchored and held fast by the
familiar architecture and daily fabric of my life, my work, my world.
Comfortable and safe, I can daydream my way to work, indulging in historical
fantasies, considering books I could write, or pictures I could paint. I often
think that I should carry a camera
with me and take a picture each morning to record the moods and faces of the
river. I never do it. In the world I inhabit, there are years of possibility
just over the horizon, just around the bend of the river, and “someday” has
always been enough of a deadline.
Things are
different now. The airport is silent as I pass, and each landmark monument is
replaced in the blink of an eye by a blazing funeral pyre—and just as quickly
returns to its normal appearance. It’s no longer hard to see the Pentagon. It
draws my eye like a magnet, a tragic lodestone inscribed with the names of
friends and neighbors. The Capitol stands clear on the skyline, but every sight
asks, “What if…?” What if I had to look every day at an empty place in this landscape? What if the wisdom of
the past, and the sacrifices of yesterday are not enough to ensure that life as
we know it will go on? The world has irretrievably changed, and with it, my
complacency. The face of evil is reflected in the mirror of our daily lives, in
the image of our icons, in the waters of our rivers. We will never be quite the
same.
Lamb of God, who
takes away the sins of the world, grant us peace.
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