How can you tell if you’ve arrived?

Part 3 of let me count the ways

Dear Reader,

I’m typing this as I sit in an airplane. The afternoon sun coming in through the oval window on my right feels warm, almost hot. Outside my window, the painted metal of the plane’s quivering wing glints in the sunlight. If I squint through the feathery cotton of the white clouds, I can make out pockets of silver-gray water on the ground, occasionally hemmed in by undulating green hills. It feels like a spring day straight out of the end of a fairy tale and I want to press all these details- the vivid scenery, the heat of the sun on my right forearm, and even the combination scent of coffee, orange juice, and air freshener - into the page because I can’t tell you how strange it feels to calmly sit here and compose this letter to you as the plane leaves my home behind.

If you’ve been reading this newsletter for some time, you’ll know I am fascinated with what it means to leave home and go on a journey, and what it means to arrive. I think I started writing about it because I thought that if I could take all the pieces apart and do a detailed study of the anatomy of what it means to go on a journey (physical or otherwise), I might get better at it. And, to an extent, this has worked. For example, I found out that my problem is at the very first step: I’ve trouble leaving home.

I have trouble saying goodbye, especially when traveling alone and long distances. I am the person at the airport who goes in quickly and will resist turning around for a final goodbye wave ... I’ll pass through immigration and security and head to the boarding gate even if I have hours before my flight- and I usually do because I also insist on being at the airport very early. I quickly grab a book from my bag and start reading as though someone will test me on it before they let me board the plan…I know I have to get through the time, and that I would be okay once I got to the arrival part of my journey.

- The Belly of the Whale, Ten Thousand Journeys

I’ve some old reasons for this, but nothing too large and terrible. So, I’ve learned to take care of myself the way I would a child, with gentle firmness (I still have to do what I gotta do), and with crayons and color pencils every time I go on a trip. I’ve learned to ask for what I want and to love without attaching conditions. Inevitably, and as clichéd at it sounds, it has led to learning to love myself and to let myself be loved.

So, today when, for the first time ever, I didn’t feel the yawning abyss of anguish that usually accompanies me into the departure hall, I felt strange. I kept checking for it as though it was a part of my luggage I’d forgotten to bring with me. I went through the goodbyes, did the usual hop, skip, and jump at the security lines, and went to wait for my flight, and through all of it, I was conscious of the new inner quiet. Where did it go, I wondered, as I looked at the magnets in the airport souvenir store. Is this what they mean by coming home to yourself, I asked myself as I filled water into the water bottle. I couldn’t put the feeling into words, because how do you explain that it felt like I could move around inside and there was just more space? Even as I type this, I can feel it, this sensation of being folded back to make more room.

Maybe this is what it means to arrive.

“Whatever it is you're seeking won't come in the form you're expecting.”

―Haruki Murakami

I’d love to hear what you think. What does arrival mean for you?

Best,

Priya

PS. I’ll continue with the dreams posts next week. Thanks!

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