"The Work Endures..." (Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
"The spirit of liberty is the spirit which is not too sure that it is right..."
~Learned Hand, The Spirit of Liberty (1944)
This morning dawns warm, cloudy, and heavy with July humidity. My first mug of coffee rests beside me as flute music drifts softly through the quiet rooms of the wee cottage. Outside, another day begins. It is Independence Day—the 250th anniversary of the birth of this nation.
For the first time in my life, I find that I cannot celebrate in the usual sense of the word.
Instead, I grieve.
I grieve because I look around and see a nation deeply divided, where fear too often seems louder than compassion, where disagreement has become suspicion, where many people feel that fundamental rights, human dignity, and the rule of law are under strain. I grieve for families living with uncertainty, for neighbors afraid of one another, and for all whose voices seem to disappear beneath the shouting.
Yet grief is not the opposite of patriotism.
Yesterday I read remarks from New York City mayoral candidate Zohran Mamdani that reminded me of something I had almost forgotten. He said:
"Patriotism has never been about pretending our nation is without flaws. Patriotism is every act of righteous dissent. It is every march led under the heavy sun. It is every protest held a decade before its time. It is precisely because we love this nation that we will not leave it."
Those words lingered with me.
Real patriotism has never required us to deny injustice. It has always required us to confront it—not because we despise our country, but because we believe it is capable of becoming more fully itself.
Mamdani continued by telling newly naturalized citizens:
"You each hold a special power, the power to determine what America means."
That may be the greatest responsibility any generation inherits.
This morning I also found myself returning to the words of Judge Learned Hand, spoken in 1944 during another anxious chapter of history:
"Liberty lies in the hearts of men and women; when it dies there, no constitution, no law, no court can save it."
How profoundly true those words remain.
Our institutions matter. Our Constitution matters. Our courts matter. But ultimately, liberty lives or dies first within ordinary people—in how we treat our neighbors, how we speak to those with whom we disagree, whether we protect the vulnerable, and whether we refuse to surrender our compassion to fear.
Perhaps my favorite passage is this:
"The spirit of liberty is the spirit which is not too sure that it is right; the spirit of liberty is the spirit which seeks to understand the minds of other men and women..."
What extraordinary humility those words require.
Not certainty.
Not triumph.
Not domination.
Humility.
The willingness to remember that every human being possesses an inherent dignity that cannot be measured by citizenship, wealth, race, religion, political party, or whom they love.
Carl Tucker, this morning, ended his reflection with a question that echoes in my own heart: What happened to this America? I understand that question. I feel its sadness.
But perhaps there is another question we must ask ourselves.
What kind of America will we help create tomorrow?
History reminds us that our nation has never been perfect. The promises written into the Declaration of Independence have always been aspirations as much as accomplishments. Every generation has been called upon to widen the circle of liberty a little farther than it was before.
That work is unfinished.
Perhaps it always will be.
I take another sip of coffee. The flute continues to sing softly through the cottage. The morning light grows a little brighter beyond the window.
Today I will spend time with friends who have become family. We will embrace. We will laugh. We will share stories and a good meal. In a world that can feel fractured, such moments are quiet acts of hope. They remind us that community is still possible, kindness is still possible, love is still possible.
And so, while I cannot celebrate this anniversary in the way I once did, neither can I surrender to despair.
Instead, I choose to hope.
I hope that this nation may yet become more just than it is today.
I hope that liberty will continue to live in the hearts of ordinary people.
I hope that compassion will prove stronger than fear.
And I hope that one day America will again become—not because it claims to be, but because it chooses to be—a beacon of light whose brightest strength is found in its unwavering commitment to the dignity of every human being.
Perhaps that hope, quietly held and faithfully lived, is the most patriotic prayer I can offer this Fourth of July.
~Wylddane
~Learned Hand, The Spirit of Liberty (1944)
This morning dawns warm, cloudy, and heavy with July humidity. My first mug of coffee rests beside me as flute music drifts softly through the quiet rooms of the wee cottage. Outside, another day begins. It is Independence Day—the 250th anniversary of the birth of this nation.
For the first time in my life, I find that I cannot celebrate in the usual sense of the word.
Instead, I grieve.
I grieve because I look around and see a nation deeply divided, where fear too often seems louder than compassion, where disagreement has become suspicion, where many people feel that fundamental rights, human dignity, and the rule of law are under strain. I grieve for families living with uncertainty, for neighbors afraid of one another, and for all whose voices seem to disappear beneath the shouting.
Yet grief is not the opposite of patriotism.
Yesterday I read remarks from New York City mayoral candidate Zohran Mamdani that reminded me of something I had almost forgotten. He said:
"Patriotism has never been about pretending our nation is without flaws. Patriotism is every act of righteous dissent. It is every march led under the heavy sun. It is every protest held a decade before its time. It is precisely because we love this nation that we will not leave it."
Those words lingered with me.
Real patriotism has never required us to deny injustice. It has always required us to confront it—not because we despise our country, but because we believe it is capable of becoming more fully itself.
Mamdani continued by telling newly naturalized citizens:
"You each hold a special power, the power to determine what America means."
That may be the greatest responsibility any generation inherits.
This morning I also found myself returning to the words of Judge Learned Hand, spoken in 1944 during another anxious chapter of history:
"Liberty lies in the hearts of men and women; when it dies there, no constitution, no law, no court can save it."
How profoundly true those words remain.
Our institutions matter. Our Constitution matters. Our courts matter. But ultimately, liberty lives or dies first within ordinary people—in how we treat our neighbors, how we speak to those with whom we disagree, whether we protect the vulnerable, and whether we refuse to surrender our compassion to fear.
Perhaps my favorite passage is this:
"The spirit of liberty is the spirit which is not too sure that it is right; the spirit of liberty is the spirit which seeks to understand the minds of other men and women..."
What extraordinary humility those words require.
Not certainty.
Not triumph.
Not domination.
Humility.
The willingness to remember that every human being possesses an inherent dignity that cannot be measured by citizenship, wealth, race, religion, political party, or whom they love.
Carl Tucker, this morning, ended his reflection with a question that echoes in my own heart: What happened to this America? I understand that question. I feel its sadness.
But perhaps there is another question we must ask ourselves.
What kind of America will we help create tomorrow?
History reminds us that our nation has never been perfect. The promises written into the Declaration of Independence have always been aspirations as much as accomplishments. Every generation has been called upon to widen the circle of liberty a little farther than it was before.
That work is unfinished.
Perhaps it always will be.
I take another sip of coffee. The flute continues to sing softly through the cottage. The morning light grows a little brighter beyond the window.
Today I will spend time with friends who have become family. We will embrace. We will laugh. We will share stories and a good meal. In a world that can feel fractured, such moments are quiet acts of hope. They remind us that community is still possible, kindness is still possible, love is still possible.
And so, while I cannot celebrate this anniversary in the way I once did, neither can I surrender to despair.
Instead, I choose to hope.
I hope that this nation may yet become more just than it is today.
I hope that liberty will continue to live in the hearts of ordinary people.
I hope that compassion will prove stronger than fear.
And I hope that one day America will again become—not because it claims to be, but because it chooses to be—a beacon of light whose brightest strength is found in its unwavering commitment to the dignity of every human being.
Perhaps that hope, quietly held and faithfully lived, is the most patriotic prayer I can offer this Fourth of July.
~Wylddane
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