January 6, 2021 that ugly day in history that this date will forever reverberate with, haunting America, was actually a beautiful winter day in Alameda. I recall I’d practiced and taught a class and then spent much of the morning pulling weeds in our patch of garden before taking a long walk through my neighborhood and to the beach. The pandemic was a fact by then, but those of us who’d managed to stay safely sheltered were breathing easier nonetheless, the holidays over, a new administration on the way. I remember calling my aunt and leaving a message as I ambled past a flock of Canada Geese at the park and the way the sunlight was gleaming off the water.
Halfway through my walk, my phone started to vibrate with messages:
”Are we having a coup or what?”
Huh?
It was hard to comprehend the headlines and urgent texts until I had walked back home and turned on the news. Even then the severity and meaning of the attack didn’t immediately set in. The numbing effect of reading about all manner of events for the past four years, from administrative horrors and pandemic numbers and natural disasters to recipes and fashion tips and music reviews in the same bite every time I looked at my phone had taken a toll on my ability to feel shock. The fact that democracy was being shaken to its core was hard to fathom. The sunlight was shining. My head was full of beach scenes. I was a continent away, with a roof over my head.
Our small house is more than a decade old. It’s made of first-growth redwood and has weathered a number of disasters since it was built. It was a big deal when we got it, not least because it was likely the last possible moment we could have afforded to buy in this California town, but because it was the first permanent place I’d live in more than a decade. By the time we were signing papers, it felt as scary as it was relieving for me to commit to a place. I’d become accustomed to a certain level of anxiety.
light a candle replace the glass
make a wish build it to last
make this house a home
it’s been standing 100 years
all this life laughter and tears
make this house a home
Soon after moving in, I wrote “Make this House,” a song I’d record the next year on Beauty Everywhere. I can’t overstate how a stable living situation lends itself to calmness in general. It’s easy to forget how precarious life can be when one has all their basic needs met and feels safe, a place to call home, but I always do well to remind myself how precious such a state actually is. How a home takes constant making. It’s the same for our democracy, which is easy to take for granted when you’ve known nothing else. But it takes the same steady care and attention that maintaining a house and home does, which we’re well served by never forgetting.