Dine. Drift. Dream.

Nothing puts an overnight + 2 hour flight delay into perspective like a fallen soldier being escorted home.

“Freedom is not free.”

No matter how old I get, on those days that leave me reeling, only conversations with my mom prove cathartic.

While in the city we traveled to the Ninth Ward with Dan’s high school friend Becki.  6 years have past since Hurricane Katrina and it was humbling to see stretches of the neighborhood still void of homes and people within the city limits.  I didn’t take any pictures, just listened.  She pointed out the homes being rebuilt on their same sites pre-Katrina, as well as sustainable housing efforts in the neighborhood.  We observed a bayou that was brought back into consciousness during fly overs post-Katrina and ornate “Steamboat Houses” that have stood since the turn of the century.

Days later I got a tour of the city from a person who had lived in the midcity area, a divergent path in economy and lifestyle.  She reminisced about her flooded home, ultimately sold soon after the flood.  Every photo she had taken, her life, her children growing up, was lost.  Remnants of X codes used for rescue still were clear where she worked.  80% of the city flooded, everyone touched in some way.

It’s odd to stand in a place and know that no matter how hard you try to imagine, you can never fathom the feelings, loss and impact, both physical and emotional, of such a disaster.  And I pray I never do.