Of Trains, Planes, and Reality
Line Piccadilly toward Green Park. At Green Park, switch to Victoria toward Gatwick Airport. My hand reached into my over-filled purse to feel for my passport for the thousandth time; I slipped the little orange and white ticket next to the thick document. Almost on instinct, I repeated the directions in my head. As I pulled my collar bone strap tight on my pack, I squinted down the long, dark tunnel for signs of the tube; there were lights fast approaching. It screeched to a halt; air swirled around our faces. The doors opened with a quick release of pressure, and we stepped in. On impulse, my eyes searched for the Piccadilly line stops, scanning for Green Park. I reached for the cold, metal bar situated in the middle of the car, and the doors closed as the thickly accented British voice announced our departure.
And repeat.
That has been our life for the past month. Catching planes, trains, trams, ferries, and buses; double and triple checking for passports, debit cards, and tickets. Watching signs like a hawk, craning to understand directions in broken English, clarifying communication, clarifying communication, and clarifying communication! ;)
Oh, yes, there was the breathtaking view of a fjord city, the sunset on the ocean, the pretty cup of coffee, but I don't think those were the elements that taught me what God has been trying to hammer in my head for years now: being present--living in the moment. As a disclaimer, I don't think I will ever fully learn this lesson, but I may have a small foothold.
I knew I didn't know enough. I knew we were going to places we'd only heard stories about. I knew we were ignorant and vulnerable. I took on a "trained awareness," I think: looking, watching, taking in details. It's incredible how quickly your mindset changes: you see, hear, and think about a hundred things at once.
And then there is this point at which you must choose not to obsess. You take in one moment at a time and push the plane you need to catch in 3 hours out of your mind. Then, when the time is right, you pull out the details again, catch the train to the airport, triple check for your passport, and find row 9 seat A in the boeing 757.
It seems silly: I saw intricate buildings crafted in the 12th century, yet the buses and trains keep coming to mind. I can still feel the grime from the day we got back to our flat after touring Rome. I guess it sounds unromantic and perhaps a bit stale, but we didn't mind, or notice, to be honest. In the midst of all the hustle and bustle, grime, sweat, and screeching trains, we were taking it all in. We were embracing each moment for what it could offer.
Most days, there was an overwhelming amount of information to hold in our already-scrambled brains. I actually get a sick feeling in my stomach when I think about having to be on platform B waiting for "Piccadilly toward Green Park." I do need a break from it all (I think I actually got my adventure fix--shocker for those who know me well!), but I think the lessons I learned in those loud, crowded, hot places will continue to shape me for a long time. In the discorded mingle of breathtaking mountains and dirty trains, I learned to take life one day--one hour, minute--at a time. By grace we learned to take each moment for the joy it could bring, setting aside the perpetual external chaos for the constant reality of beauty beneath it all.
And repeat.
That has been our life for the past month. Catching planes, trains, trams, ferries, and buses; double and triple checking for passports, debit cards, and tickets. Watching signs like a hawk, craning to understand directions in broken English, clarifying communication, clarifying communication, and clarifying communication! ;)
Oh, yes, there was the breathtaking view of a fjord city, the sunset on the ocean, the pretty cup of coffee, but I don't think those were the elements that taught me what God has been trying to hammer in my head for years now: being present--living in the moment. As a disclaimer, I don't think I will ever fully learn this lesson, but I may have a small foothold.
I knew I didn't know enough. I knew we were going to places we'd only heard stories about. I knew we were ignorant and vulnerable. I took on a "trained awareness," I think: looking, watching, taking in details. It's incredible how quickly your mindset changes: you see, hear, and think about a hundred things at once.
And then there is this point at which you must choose not to obsess. You take in one moment at a time and push the plane you need to catch in 3 hours out of your mind. Then, when the time is right, you pull out the details again, catch the train to the airport, triple check for your passport, and find row 9 seat A in the boeing 757.
It seems silly: I saw intricate buildings crafted in the 12th century, yet the buses and trains keep coming to mind. I can still feel the grime from the day we got back to our flat after touring Rome. I guess it sounds unromantic and perhaps a bit stale, but we didn't mind, or notice, to be honest. In the midst of all the hustle and bustle, grime, sweat, and screeching trains, we were taking it all in. We were embracing each moment for what it could offer.
Most days, there was an overwhelming amount of information to hold in our already-scrambled brains. I actually get a sick feeling in my stomach when I think about having to be on platform B waiting for "Piccadilly toward Green Park." I do need a break from it all (I think I actually got my adventure fix--shocker for those who know me well!), but I think the lessons I learned in those loud, crowded, hot places will continue to shape me for a long time. In the discorded mingle of breathtaking mountains and dirty trains, I learned to take life one day--one hour, minute--at a time. By grace we learned to take each moment for the joy it could bring, setting aside the perpetual external chaos for the constant reality of beauty beneath it all.
Comments
Post a Comment