home as a purgatory of remembrance

Here I am sitting in the belly of it: the thick floor to ceiling windows that guard from the outside world line the container. The winds that ruffle the floating plastic across the runway don't hit me, I just watch from within. The windows that allow the sun in to warm my face, my swollen and tear stained cheeks, eyes red. The belly of the beast is an airport that jets us across mountains, too fast past fields of the plants and rocks that can tell us their stories. Productivity, access, interconnectedness. The irony of being able to visit, see, vision and move. Often I think interconnectedness is a good thing. It is, and and it isn't. Rushing too fast past. I thought I learned this lesson on the camino, where, it all hit me as my grandmother was on her deathbed thousands of miles away. The pain of my feet was the pain of the earth necessary to feel. Feeling it heavy as the cars moved too fast avoiding the connection required to really witness a place in all its subtleties, for the sake of unending productivity.

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