Dear Priya, your accidental encounters with fellow train passengers have been exquisitely fortunate . Perhaps this is telling you, and we readers, that the world is a benevolent place. But we don’t really know if it is. Do we? I’d say, ‘take the money and run’ meaning—accept life’s magnanimity and revel in it, bc if karma does indeed exist, you have done worthwhile works and lived well in past lives. I salute you.
Jeanine, thank you. It’s comforting to think it’s all benevolence, but you’re right, we don’t know. Such moments demand an immediate taking stock of life!
Traveling alone activates your inner strength. Challenges confront you and decisions must be made quickly. You rely on instinct, street smarts and parental teachings. Mistakes are made. You will overcome them. I never liked eating alone, sat at a table in a corner, too filled with anxiety and coffee. Eventually someone sat with me . Talked and a new ‘friend’ I found had many of same interests. Time passed quicker. My next bus was arriving. My shyness subsided and I ended up taking much more than I should. The travel companion felt like I did. A universal empathy. That’s the lesson learned.
Richard, traveling alone does require strength and teaches you resourcefulness. I like that it also serves as an opening for new friendships. And with practice, comes discernment! Thank you as always for reading!
Your description of the train station from your window as a child is so beautifully written. And the terror on the train reads like a bad dream from which you awoke. I enjoyed reading this, but it sounds like you think it’s not enough? So maybe there’s more? Which would be great. Or maybe it is enough.
You picked up on something I wrestled with. Halfway through the piece, I wondered why this incident has stayed with me. Obviously, it was scary when it happened, but there was something else. It might’ve been just shock, but there was a part of me that went into this silent watchful mode of ‘let’s see what else is going to happen.’ In such moments, it feels like you brush up against life itself. Thank you for reading! I appreciate your taking the time.
Hi Priya, I love this story, I love your writing, and I love your questions at the end. And I love how you are questioning the act of drawing conclusions for your reader. I agree, I don't like conclusions being drawn for me either, however, I do appreciate when an author shares the truth of their own experience, and also shares the meaning they make from their experience. In that case, in a sense it feels like the meaning they make is being offered on the table, and I get to choose what I may want to pick up, or not. And I love how you have offered the paradox of contrasting feelings, "it was a jittery experience, one where I felt, at the same time, the impersonal, onward movement of life, and the immediate, heartfelt kindness of another human being."
Your story also reminds me of a time where we had just moved out of New York City to a small coastal town in Connecticut called Rowayton, and Jamie and I used to call each other up from work and ask, “the 6:06 or the 6:43?” Referring to the departure time of a train from Grand Central Station, so we could take the sixty-five-minute journey home together.
It's funny - I actually wrote this scene and I just searched for it in the memoir I've serialized here on Substack, but I discovered that I cut the scene from the final draft. I hope you don't mind that I share it here. This scene took place after living and working in NYC where I actually felt safer in a way, because wherever I was, I could just take a taxi home to our apartment in Greenwich Village.
One evening, Jamie had to work late. Riding the Metro North train home by myself, I got lost in a just-published young adult novel I read for my work at Penguin Young Readers Group. The book was called The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman. The uncomfortable nature of the brown vinyl seats didn’t bother me in my spot next to the window — I’d been transported to another time and place through the words I read on the page. My consciousness tuned in to the outside world just enough to hear the word “Rowayton” over the loudspeaker as we pulled into a station. I snapped my book shut, grabbed my bag and coat from the seat next to me, and sprinted for the doors, rushing through them just before they closed. I stood on the platform with surging adrenaline.
“Phew,” I exclaimed audibly as the train pulled away.
But when I looked around, the station did not look familiar. I saw the sign “Darien.” Damn!
The announcement must have said, "Next stop, Rowayton," but I’d been too engrossed in my book to hear the whole thing. My mind had only registered, "Rowayton." Standing on the platform in the dark and cold, not knowing anyone who lived in the area, nor seeing any taxis anywhere, my breathing constricted. A pang of anxiety welled up. I scanned the platform, saw a pay phone, scrambled to find a quarter in my purse, and called Jamie at work.
“I got off the train too early,” I blurted when he picked up. My voice choked as tears pricked my eyes. Overwhelmed and ashamed of my tears about a hiccup in my mode of transportation, it won’t be until later that I will realize it simply showed how much I’d underestimated what a significant change it would be to move out of the city. Also, at that age, I wasn’t great at even recognizing my own vulnerability, let alone handling it.
“Aww sweets, don’t worry. You can just wait for the next train,” he said.
“Oh. Duh!” I laughed at myself through my tears. I found a warm place to wait, and the next train arrived thirty minutes later.
Little did I know at that point though, how my routine of commuting in to the city for a job with a dream boss, would soon change due to events beyond my control.
Camilla, thank you for sharing. As you captured so well, there is an immediate vulnerability of being in a new place at an uncertain time. I’m glad Jamie immediately reassured you. That steadying hand/ words at that moment of need is so precious.
Thank you for reading, Camilla, I appreciate your support and work!
Priya, I so resonate with that desire to draw conclusions from the stories we tell and also to allow readers to draw their own.
I think there’s a metaphor of balance here—between fear and trust. We often reside in this liminal space. In this moment when a fear played out, you trusted not just the kindness of a stranger but also your own discernment and, really, your own ability to navigate because, in truth, we rarely navigate fully of our own accord. Someone else has walked the road, offers a nudge, or takes over when we need it.
No conclusions here either. Just an appreciation of the beauty in ambiguity, in experience without conclusion, in liminality—and of your writing. 🚊💕
Holly, thank you. I am always drawing conclusions to the extent that making meaning is a kind of cure for every experience. This time, as I wrote this, the story itself seemed to push back as if daring me to draw over-arching meaning. What if you don’t actually know what it means, it seemed to ask. As for fear and trust, it was an unconscious choice to trust the lady. I remember a kind of watchfulness then, of a part of me standing back and watching how it would play out.
I loved the way you ended this piece, Priya. I am a sucker for wanting to draw meaning and lessons out of every experience and so for you to just meet the experience as it was and not wrap it up was so refreshing. Beautifully done. :)
That must have been a terrifying yet awakening experience, Priya! I think it's both a moment that shakes one to be more careful but to also be open to help. I once got lost somewhere in Montreal, got panicky, but then oriented myself to look at the buildings and familiar surroundings, which helped me get to where I needed to go downtown.
Dear Priya, your accidental encounters with fellow train passengers have been exquisitely fortunate . Perhaps this is telling you, and we readers, that the world is a benevolent place. But we don’t really know if it is. Do we? I’d say, ‘take the money and run’ meaning—accept life’s magnanimity and revel in it, bc if karma does indeed exist, you have done worthwhile works and lived well in past lives. I salute you.
Jeanine, thank you. It’s comforting to think it’s all benevolence, but you’re right, we don’t know. Such moments demand an immediate taking stock of life!
Traveling alone activates your inner strength. Challenges confront you and decisions must be made quickly. You rely on instinct, street smarts and parental teachings. Mistakes are made. You will overcome them. I never liked eating alone, sat at a table in a corner, too filled with anxiety and coffee. Eventually someone sat with me . Talked and a new ‘friend’ I found had many of same interests. Time passed quicker. My next bus was arriving. My shyness subsided and I ended up taking much more than I should. The travel companion felt like I did. A universal empathy. That’s the lesson learned.
Richard, traveling alone does require strength and teaches you resourcefulness. I like that it also serves as an opening for new friendships. And with practice, comes discernment! Thank you as always for reading!
Beautifully writing. The second half reminded me of a Ruskin Bond story!
Shital, thank you! It’s been awhile since I read Ruskin Bond. I should revisit them!
Your description of the train station from your window as a child is so beautifully written. And the terror on the train reads like a bad dream from which you awoke. I enjoyed reading this, but it sounds like you think it’s not enough? So maybe there’s more? Which would be great. Or maybe it is enough.
You picked up on something I wrestled with. Halfway through the piece, I wondered why this incident has stayed with me. Obviously, it was scary when it happened, but there was something else. It might’ve been just shock, but there was a part of me that went into this silent watchful mode of ‘let’s see what else is going to happen.’ In such moments, it feels like you brush up against life itself. Thank you for reading! I appreciate your taking the time.
Hi Priya, I love this story, I love your writing, and I love your questions at the end. And I love how you are questioning the act of drawing conclusions for your reader. I agree, I don't like conclusions being drawn for me either, however, I do appreciate when an author shares the truth of their own experience, and also shares the meaning they make from their experience. In that case, in a sense it feels like the meaning they make is being offered on the table, and I get to choose what I may want to pick up, or not. And I love how you have offered the paradox of contrasting feelings, "it was a jittery experience, one where I felt, at the same time, the impersonal, onward movement of life, and the immediate, heartfelt kindness of another human being."
Your story also reminds me of a time where we had just moved out of New York City to a small coastal town in Connecticut called Rowayton, and Jamie and I used to call each other up from work and ask, “the 6:06 or the 6:43?” Referring to the departure time of a train from Grand Central Station, so we could take the sixty-five-minute journey home together.
It's funny - I actually wrote this scene and I just searched for it in the memoir I've serialized here on Substack, but I discovered that I cut the scene from the final draft. I hope you don't mind that I share it here. This scene took place after living and working in NYC where I actually felt safer in a way, because wherever I was, I could just take a taxi home to our apartment in Greenwich Village.
One evening, Jamie had to work late. Riding the Metro North train home by myself, I got lost in a just-published young adult novel I read for my work at Penguin Young Readers Group. The book was called The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman. The uncomfortable nature of the brown vinyl seats didn’t bother me in my spot next to the window — I’d been transported to another time and place through the words I read on the page. My consciousness tuned in to the outside world just enough to hear the word “Rowayton” over the loudspeaker as we pulled into a station. I snapped my book shut, grabbed my bag and coat from the seat next to me, and sprinted for the doors, rushing through them just before they closed. I stood on the platform with surging adrenaline.
“Phew,” I exclaimed audibly as the train pulled away.
But when I looked around, the station did not look familiar. I saw the sign “Darien.” Damn!
The announcement must have said, "Next stop, Rowayton," but I’d been too engrossed in my book to hear the whole thing. My mind had only registered, "Rowayton." Standing on the platform in the dark and cold, not knowing anyone who lived in the area, nor seeing any taxis anywhere, my breathing constricted. A pang of anxiety welled up. I scanned the platform, saw a pay phone, scrambled to find a quarter in my purse, and called Jamie at work.
“I got off the train too early,” I blurted when he picked up. My voice choked as tears pricked my eyes. Overwhelmed and ashamed of my tears about a hiccup in my mode of transportation, it won’t be until later that I will realize it simply showed how much I’d underestimated what a significant change it would be to move out of the city. Also, at that age, I wasn’t great at even recognizing my own vulnerability, let alone handling it.
“Aww sweets, don’t worry. You can just wait for the next train,” he said.
“Oh. Duh!” I laughed at myself through my tears. I found a warm place to wait, and the next train arrived thirty minutes later.
Little did I know at that point though, how my routine of commuting in to the city for a job with a dream boss, would soon change due to events beyond my control.
Camilla, thank you for sharing. As you captured so well, there is an immediate vulnerability of being in a new place at an uncertain time. I’m glad Jamie immediately reassured you. That steadying hand/ words at that moment of need is so precious.
Thank you for reading, Camilla, I appreciate your support and work!
Likewise Priya, I'm so happy we have connected through our writing❤️🙏🕊️
Loved it Priya! For our next walk discussion
Thanks, Reena! Look forward to it!
Priya, I so resonate with that desire to draw conclusions from the stories we tell and also to allow readers to draw their own.
I think there’s a metaphor of balance here—between fear and trust. We often reside in this liminal space. In this moment when a fear played out, you trusted not just the kindness of a stranger but also your own discernment and, really, your own ability to navigate because, in truth, we rarely navigate fully of our own accord. Someone else has walked the road, offers a nudge, or takes over when we need it.
No conclusions here either. Just an appreciation of the beauty in ambiguity, in experience without conclusion, in liminality—and of your writing. 🚊💕
Holly, thank you. I am always drawing conclusions to the extent that making meaning is a kind of cure for every experience. This time, as I wrote this, the story itself seemed to push back as if daring me to draw over-arching meaning. What if you don’t actually know what it means, it seemed to ask. As for fear and trust, it was an unconscious choice to trust the lady. I remember a kind of watchfulness then, of a part of me standing back and watching how it would play out.
I appreciate your words!
I loved the way you ended this piece, Priya. I am a sucker for wanting to draw meaning and lessons out of every experience and so for you to just meet the experience as it was and not wrap it up was so refreshing. Beautifully done. :)
Meaning maker here too! Thank you, Michael!
That must have been a terrifying yet awakening experience, Priya! I think it's both a moment that shakes one to be more careful but to also be open to help. I once got lost somewhere in Montreal, got panicky, but then oriented myself to look at the buildings and familiar surroundings, which helped me get to where I needed to go downtown.
It’s a scary and disorienting experience! I’m glad you were able to find your way again. Thanks, Nadia, good to have you back!
:-*