In transit again.

Reflections on the train to Wellington.

In transit again.

I always feel the most me while travelling.

This liminal space between Auckland and Wellington, I am free.

Travel is a chest opener; every muscle stretches, revealing core.

On this train there’s nothing to worry about except who I’m becoming.

This constant re-aligning of myself has me tolerating less, wanting more.

It speeds me up, slows me down, turns me around.

Hungry, then full, then ravenous all over again.

Embodied power and self-affirmation require a self-trust that operates on pure romance sometimes.

Elongated faith that we will find what we are looking for at the next stop.

This nonsense act of trying to intentionally slow down while we keep moving forwards.

And until then, we just write love letters to ourselves on trains across valleys.

….

In transit again.

Raindrops battering against the window, I am called to attend to trees, cows, the behaviours of mine back home that don’t fit me anymore.

My chosen family chat away on this train, and I think, ah, here it is. Bodies are just bookmarks for the soul are here are all of ours.

I want to say, I miss these moments when you are gone, but they know.

The tiny micro-ways people around me echo back parts of myself. All of us here figuring out life together, reflecting on where to next, rather than just calling with the play-by-play of the week.

The not-noticing isn’t painful, it’s the holding on, hoping I can wrap these moments around myself a little longer.

I only want people around me who make me feel home.

I wish I could more quickly let go of the ones who don’t.

I’d loop this train into infinity if I could.

…..

In transit again.

I think we only appreciate this time so whole-heartedly because everything worthwhile is fleeting.

It makes me think, if I am alive here, am I outgrowing my actual home?

Again?

How quickly I move through the world. Are the spaces I find too small, or is it the learning in the new places what propels me forward?

Wise me knows that it doesn’t really matter where I end up, as long as I’m taking up space. Little me asks, will I always be moving?

Sometimes I start to move faster than the train because my body is searching for something. More pleasure? More authenticity? More reciprocity?

Maybe I can meet my needs in the home I already have.

If not, is there something preventative we can take for the heart, when it’s readying itself for an ending?

I used to cry as a child that I was running out of firsts, and now I only want seconds and thirds and fourths. More chances to start again, to fall in love, to embody power, to move cities, to hold my friends, to rewind this landscape.

To look towards lazy mountains and ancient oaks and trust that I’m getting there, wherever there is.

….

In transit again.

I want to ask the people on this train,

do you also re-arrange?

do you love the person who leaves the train?

did you like the one who entered it?

where’d you go sitting in this liminal space?

The next time my feet touch earth, I trust I will have a better sense of which ground doesn’t feel like mine anymore.

And if it doesn’t, where to next?

Photo by Bjorn Snelders on Unsplash

All my love, C x