There is a certain heaviness one feels from traveling nonstop for several days. It is a heavy weariness that knocks me out into a full day’s sleep afterwards despite 3 cups of coffee and, yes, a chocolate parfait.
Now there is only the night after and the softness one becomes after slumber. I am neither awake nor asleep, just settling into the darkness I wake up to, re-nestling myself into the body I bear.
Traveling between the city and the mountains, I get sucked into multiple parallel realities — one, where life is a complex web of relationships and histories; the other, where life is a constant struggle between man and nature.
In both I have acquired a certain sense of balance and self, one needing the other in order to achieve harmony, or at least something close to it.
“We are each a river with a particular abiding character, but we show radically different aspects of our self according to the territory through which we travel.” — David Whyte
Is it possible to resurrect different facets of our selves as we go back and forth from the mountains and the cities we call home? This shifting between the tides of our selves, falling and rising as we traverse through cemented streets and rough roads, is it not self-imposed as we consensually allow the outer world to shape our inner selves?
More than the toll on my body, it is the breadth with which my selves are stretched that tires me and inspires me at the same time. It is perhaps divine intervention that I am able to look into myself(selves) at this juncture in my life, when I am most ready to meet or be reintroduced to them. The good, the bad, the ugly versions of myself all rising and falling together as the bus moves from paved road to mud and gravel.