Transit/Transition
Sometimes it feels good to just walk; to be in motion and not at any particular location. To be on my way to nowhere in particular. There is a certain feeling I sometimes had when traveling in the Before Times: the feeling of being free from… well, perhaps just being free in a certain sense. Being in transit is like a lens that eliminates most of the distracting clutter of responsibilities and focuses on mostly tangible, tempo-spatial concerns: what do I have to do next to get to Baltimore? The only thing to do is to continue moving toward the destination, some of which involves simply waiting, e.g. for the plane to arrive. A singleness of purpose—unhurried and unforced, if you’re lucky. But even for all the hassles and discomforts, there can be moments of refuge from most other demands. You’re simply en route. On the way. In transit.
Sometimes it feels good to just be still very early in the morning. The relative stillness is invigorating. Stretching out in bed confirms my hypothesis: I am comfortable and cozy. Extending my limbs and twisting my spine back and forth give the pleasant sensation of movement and relief from stiffness before settling back into stillness. I want to remain motionless in order to fully absorb the nothing that is happening around me. The noise from the occasional car, distant and transient, draws my attention to the fact that there is no other remarkable activity. It’s quiet—I can tell by the other quiet things I can hear now, before everything begins making noises. Before everything accelerates into the day.
The seasons are also in transition: it is Spring. Any particular day might be cool or warm (but trending warmer), windy or still, sunny or rainy. The birds are awake and singing earlier each day, encouraging the sun to rise earlier and coaxing the days to stretch out longer, too. (Robins in particular, we noted on a walk one evening, seem to be the most productive North American songbird with their extended business hours. They are up very early, carefully eyeing the ground and hunting worms, and they are still flying and singing even as we return home at dusk from an evening walk. I wonder if maybe they take a long lunch each day.)
Spring’s inevitable destination is Summer. It will arrive after displaying a mix of days that preview heat or hint at snow. The plants and trees are steady and reliable indicators of the journey, pointing their shoots and leaves up toward the sun, or at least out toward the world, after being turned inward during Winter. There is subtle, internal, quiet work that takes place in transition, even in simply “waiting” to arrive. It doesn’t require doing so much as it rewards listening.