Conversations For Transformation:
Essays Inspired By The Ideas Of Werner Erhard
Conversations For Transformation
Essays By Laurence Platt
Inspired By The Ideas Of Werner Erhard
And More
Last Train To The Suburbs
Somewhere At 39,000 Feet Over The Atlantic Ocean
March 15, 2011
"You can't go home again."
... Thomas Wolfe
"We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring
will be to arrive where we started and
know the place for the
first time."
... Thomas Stearns "TS" Eliot, Four Quartets #4: Little
Gidding, circa 1942
This essay,
Last Train To The Suburbs,
is the companion piece to
I am indebted to John Fowles who inspired this conversation.
I could get a cab or a bus. Instead I decide to take the train. Still
energized by the events of the day, a day of grand accomplishments, a
day of mounting successes, I set off walking toward the station. The
first bolt of lightening flashes the darkening street into clear
relief. Then, as thunder rolls, the deluge begins. I know I'm going to
get soaked but I don't mind. I button my coat and turn up my collar,
making no effort to avoid the inevitable. Soon
rain
is coursing through my hair and down my neck. But it's more of an
acknowledgement than an inconvenience really. So I let it
be,
celebrating
it,
celebratingwith it.
Splashing through unavoidable puddles (my socks are now also sodden), I
realize I'm keenly
anticipating
going home. I'm looking forward to seeing my family and old friends
again. There's been so much I've accumulated to share with them, so
much brilliance and beauty which is now imbued in my day to day life.
It's not that it must be shared - it doesn't have to be.
It'll also be fine if it stays simply as the status quo. I could
share the cake or I could eat it myself. Either way is
fine with me. Really it is. But if it's going to be shared
at all, then sharing it with my family and old friends is a great
start.
Around the next corner I see the train station. But wait ... it's in
total darkness. All the lights are out. It's looking very closed for
the night.
Matter of factly, I look at the timetable displayed in a glass frame by
the waiting room. There are no more trains until the morning. I've
missed the last train to the suburbs. "Oh well ..." I say
- to no one in particular. That's really the full extent of my
reaction.
The storm is passing. A peal of fading thunder rolls away in the
distance. Standing here alone on the deserted platform, I turn my face
upwards. The
driving rain
has slowed to a light drizzle. I open my mouth, drinking in its tiny
fresh droplets. "Mmm ... water from Heaven" I muse. The
clouds are starting to open. Through the gaps I can once again see the
night sky. Myriads of bright
stars
decorate the firmament, seeming more in focus now that the air is
scrubbed clean.
There's no one else around. There's no one sitting in the waiting room.
There's no one working in the ticket office. There are no faces looking
through any of the windows. There are no porters. There's no one
anywhere watching me. This whole place is completely
empty.
Then, in one epiphanous moment, I realize this whole place
is always empty. Not this whole place like
this railway station - that's too limiting a
context
for what I'm
present
to. I mean this whole place like all of Life itself. It's all
completely empty - and this is a completely marvelous moment. I stand
stock still, being with the occasion, not resisting getting wet,
savoring its poignancy.