At the station

I look up and suddenly it’s the end of June. I’m on the east coast; it’s hot, and feels like summer should feel, and at the same time, I miss my coastal town. Those cool breezes, the demands for sweatshirts and warm things, give a totally different interpretation of this season.

I haven’t written much because it has been a busy time with work and with travel. As I sit waiting for a train now, I’m struck by the possibilities and unknown in the months ahead. I have a break from work, and very little scheduled, and it feels like a time for reflection and clearing-out. I want to go off of social media and pay attention to important things. I want to read books and write words upon words. I want to cook and clean and make my home a nest of only things I need.

One of the first blog posts I ever wrote here was about being on a train. I remember watching the world go by and diving deep into my introverted thoughts. This kind of travel invites that; I sit and wonder about the world and my place in it.

Lately, though, I’ve realized that perhaps in my life I’ve sat and observed too much, sometimes at the cost of actually getting things done. There’s a way of marrying the two, and my way of doing that is writing. As I consider how to translate my experience of being just one person, alive at this time and in this place, I find that I am also craving action. Perhaps they are the same, played out with fierce dedication.

For now, I’ll wait for my train. I’ll watch others board and disappear, our time of knowing of each other already over. We head to different places. We head to different worlds, in this singular one.