Note: Six years ago today, I moved to the D.C. area. Six years!

Each day, I take the Metrobus to work. It is my best commute so far in my professional life, a near straight line to downtown.

I know the drill. Wait for people to come off, say hello and how are you to the bus driver, pay with the SmartCard quickly. If you need to put money on the card, have it out and ready to go. You have to press your card against the meter twice after activation.

Walk to the middle back. The seats up front are for those who need chairs and the mothers with crying children. Or the crying mothers with children.

Say hello to the Cuban, a nice fellow who lives near the Giant grocery store on Park Road. He hums a tune, unless he’s talking to someone about how the government is messed up. Everyone talks about how the government is messed up but from him, it sounds poetic.

People will move their legs from the aisle if you step over. Go to the back, find a seat, check your phone. Usually, it’s nice to listen to music or a podcast. Catch up on the news or check the newsfeed on Facebook once again. The goal is to drown out, not tune in. It’s a sad fact that drowning out is the default measure but you need to save energy for deadline.

Sometimes, the drunks come on board. The majority are nice drunks, happy as they can be in that moment. The worst are the lamenters because their goal is to have me join them in their current downward spiral.

All the change on 14^th Street! Even in the few years I’ve lived in the District, I’ve seen the neighborhood come and go. That new condo is taking over where the old Salvadoran restaurant used to be. I went there once and it was okay. I can see why it’s gone.

The bus passes through Thomas Circle. I exit on L St. Stop for more coffee but I don’t really need it.

Work, then the shift is over.

MacPherson Square is the best place to wait for the bus because it provides options. The line up 16^th Street is faster but more annoying. Besides, the 42 is better. Crazy happens on the 42 often but that’s why I ride it. It’s worth the price of admission. Just sit in the back and be amazed.

Traveling past the bars on Connecticut Avenue, it’s a constant wonder: Why the hell do people subject themselves to these places? I take pride in never clubbing on Connecticut Avenue, except that I remember I did go clubbing once or twice and really, it wasn’t that bad. Kinda fun, actually.

Working late means joining the fellow swing shift workers. We keep the world running. Cooks, dishwashers, waiters, designers. It’s grunt. It’s production.

Get off in Mount Pleasant, stop by 7-11 for water and the extra Clif bar. Man, those Clif bars have become the new Snickers. I haven’t decided whether that’s good or bad but I need all the protein I can get. So back off.

My friends give me a hard time about walking in my neighborhood late at night but that’s the best time to be out. It’s quiet. If anyone messes with me, I go to the middle of the street and stop and dare them to join me. Usually, they don’t care that much and move on.

I’m home. Check my mail, turn on the space heater because winter is still going on and put my stuff down.

Home. That’s the word you’re trying to remember. Home. How did this place, this space become your home?

Who’s idea was it? Yours? God? Neither or both? This is all Malcolm Gladwell’s fault. He was the one who said to blink.

The test, Gladwell says, is simple. Think of your dilemma or situation. Close your eyes and count to five. When you open your eyes, notice the first thing that comes to mind. Try for that.

You take his test. When you opened your eyes, you are on an Alaska Airlines flight, direct to Reagan National. Wearing shorts because it’s too uncomfortable to wear jeans on a plane, you lined up a possible sublet, vague job possibilities and enough cash for three months.

You blink again and you’re standing in front of the White House just after Obama’s election. It was quiet, just you and some kids playing soccer. In about 15 minutes, 3,000 people would fill this space. More will celebrate on U Street and H Street. You text Lys and tell her this is the most incredible moment ever. It was.

Earlier that day, you and Buck stood in a mass of folks, waiting to get in. A sly joke gets you into the Washington Post. Four years later, you’re working election night for them.

Another blink: Twenty-six inches of snow. Snowmeggedon 2010. You’ve never seen this much snow. Huddled in your apartment with episodes of Get Smart and no Internet, you realize this wasn’t the adventure you had in mind. No job, no prospects, just frozen pizza. The storm ends and you join others outside. The city is at peace and strangely, so are you.

You open your eyes to see your friends around you on your 30^th birthday at Westminster Presbyterian’s Jazz Friday. 30. Yeah, you can see why people shit their pants over this age. But for now, you’re happy you made it.

One year later, you’re in a HOLE. Your best friends who threw you the party last year are gone. Many of your friends are gone. The calling is gone, the dreams are gone. You try to close your eyes and pretend like it’s not happening but your eyes and life are wide open. This isn’t fast. This is very, very slow.

Trying to stay awake, you strain to keep your eyes open. It’s 2012. Adrian is still reading. When you started, he was in the second grade and one of the best readers. Man, you lucked out. You blink again: It’s June 2013 and he’s off to junior high. You give him a copy of The Westing Game. That was your favorite book when you were his age. He says it’ll be his favorite book too.

You blink once more and you’re on 14^th and Euclid in the dead of winter 2012, with the instruction that you’re going to run a marathon soon. Marathons, in fact.

You blink to get the sweat out of your eyes. Running in a D.C. summer is a pain in the ass. You stop at Meridian Hill Park. You just ran 20 miles for the first time in your life. This is the spot where you did your first run. That time, you barely made it through one lap around.

Thirty is now 33. According to the calendar of the Middle-Aged Young Adult, this is the last year you can claim your mistakes on being young and stupid. After this, you’re just dumb.

Lately, you’ve been trying to blink extra hard to see the future. Certain things show up: Athens, Capetown. More words. Family, wife, children. …blurry and abstract but very much there.

Otherwise, it’s the same image over and over again.

Open.

That’s it, just open.

But that’s what to come. And sheesh, haven’t you learned your lessons about knowing before leaping, yet? Pay attention. Stop with the sentimental. Work is to be done.

The District is home. Somehow, this foreign spot became my walking, my knowing. I know this place now.

I know where to go and what to do. That knowledge is automatic and routine but every so often, I will remember how painful it was to gain that knowledge. It almost didn’t happen.

All the thoughts about leaving, all the phone calls about staying, all of it. I remember.

I’m not a native and not establishment but I belong through hard elbows, perseverance and semi-dumb luck.

Every walk to get coffee, every time I went to church and every time I’ve longed for Church and Community but it just didn’t happen, I belong.

People like to say you’re either in or you’re out. That’s not true. That dichotomy is false and really a point of insecurity on that people’s parts. The truth is you’re in because you choose to be in and made your case of worthiness in a successful fashion.

Besides, this city was built on the premise that no one could belong here so that everyone belonged. It just worked out for some to build a house along the Potomac to keep their lack of belonging in an influential spot.

It still doesn’t answer the word: Home. No matter. It doesn’t need an answer now. All that matters is that the word isn’t a question or a resignation; it’s a sigh of wonder. And God.