A banner in the wind—
Not the fabric that matters,
But the hands that hold it.
The Border Crossing at Dawn
The bus rolled to a stop at the border, its brakes hissing like a sigh. Outside, the sky was just beginning to turn pale, the kind of soft, indifferent light that made everything look temporary. A handful of travelers stirred from half-sleep, shifting in their seats as an official climbed aboard, his uniform crisp, his expression unreadable.
“Passports,” he said, voice flat, practiced.
One by one, hands reached into bags, pockets, wallets—pulling out the small booklets that defined them. Some moved quickly, effortlessly. Others hesitated, as if holding something fragile. The official flipped through the pages, barely looking at the people who had carried them across continents.
A man near the front, old enough for his wrinkles to tell their own stories, held his passport differently—not as a document, but as a tether. He ran a thumb over its cover, over the embossed emblem, as if grounding himself in something that was slipping away.
The Myth of Patriotism
People like to speak of patriotism as if it is a virtue, a duty, an inheritance passed down like a family heirloom. But what does it mean to love a country?
- Is it love for the land, the rivers, the mountains, the streets where childhood was spent?
- Is it love for the people, the strangers who share a language, a currency, anthems sung but rarely understood?
- Is it love for the history, the past that is rewritten to justify the present?
Or is it something else?
A habit.
A belonging.
A nostalgia for a place that might no longer exist.
Some hold their patriotism like armor—a shield against the unfamiliar, the foreign, the unknown. Others hold it like an apology—a quiet love for a place that has failed them but is still theirs.
And then there are those who carry it like a wound.
Wabi-Sabi and the Imperfect Nation
Wabi-sabi teaches that all things are imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete—including the idea of a country.
A nation is not a fixed point.
A border is not a natural law.
A people are not a single thing.
Loving a country is not about blind allegiance.
It is about seeing its cracks and loving it anyway.
It is about knowing that home is a place we are always in the process of leaving and returning to.
Maybe true patriotism is not about pride.
Maybe it is about responsibility—to see what is broken and not turn away.
Lessons from a Line in the Sand
- A country is not its government, its laws, its history—it is its people.
- Patriotism without questioning is not love—it is obedience.
- To love a place means to want it to be better.
- Borders are not real. But the things people do to defend them are.
- Home is both where you come from and where you are willing to stay.
The Stamp, the Gate, the World Beyond
The official stamped the passports with a practiced motion, letting each traveler pass with a nod. When the old man reached the front, he hesitated for just a second before handing over his booklet.
The officer flipped through it. Paused. Looked up.
“You were born here,” he said.
The old man nodded. “A long time ago.”
The officer studied him for a moment longer, then returned the passport with an unreadable expression. The old man took it carefully, held it for a breath too long, then tucked it back into his coat.
He stepped through the gate, into the waiting morning.
Not returning.
Not leaving.
Just moving forward.
life 
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